Author's Note: I posted this story on the Derbyshire Writers' Guild site in 2004 and had forgotten about it until a clearout of my files recently: I thought I might try its luck here. At one point, we diverge from the magnificent book to a scene following on from the best-ever adaptation, the 1995 BBC version. Apologies in advance to the purists.

PART ONE

August 1811

"Mrs Reynolds!"

The housekeeper of proud Pemberley turned sharply at the sound of his voice from the stairs. "Yes, Mr Darcy?" she enquired, folding her hands at the girdle of her sober grey gown.

Leaning against the banister her young master was, she reflected, the perfect model of relaxed authority. Only one who knew him so well as she would discern the endearingly nervous twiddling of the signet ring on his little finger as he peeked at her from beneath unreasonably lush black lashes.

"I should be grateful for a few moments of your time, Mrs Reynolds." Darcy raised his voice just enough to ensure it would carry to his guests, assembled in the Blue Drawing Room. "Would you be so kind as to come to my study in - ten minutes?"

The old lady dropped a resigned curtsy. "Very good, Sir."

Thus it was that at the appointed time Anna Reynolds found herself tapping respectfully at the closed door of the Master's study. The deep, pleasant voice of the gentleman bade her enter and, as she did so, starting to make her reverence, Mr Darcy stood, shaking his dark head.

"No formality, dear Reynolds. Please, sit down," he said, drawing out a chair with his own hand while his coaxing tone confirmed all the lady's suspicions as to the nature of this interview. Perched on the edge of a well-padded leather chair, she studied him, the young man she had grown to love dearly through her two-and-twenty years' service to his family. It was folly, even when he had been but a wide-eyed scamp of four, to imagine any one could deceive Master Fitzwilliam Darcy.

Darcy leaned forward in his seat, elbows on the desk, chin rested on his steepled fingers. "Mrs Reynolds, something troubles you," he stated in a tone that brooked no argument.

"I am well, Sir."

"I am sure you are in excellent health; indeed, if I suspected otherwise for an instant, you should be consulting now with Doctor Jones and not myself. However: you and I have been familiar these many years. We are neither of us, I trust, deficient in our wits. I have been aware all evening that something has disturbed you. Come: what has you distracted? For when Mr Bingley requested tea and was presented with coffee, I knew it must be a matter most serious."

"Oh, Sir! How am I ever to resist when he must coax in that boyish way of his? she wondered, her lips pressed together against the agitated flow of her words. "'Tis naught, Mr Darcy, only Reynolds being a foolish old dame."

"Mrs Reynolds." She watched one finely marked black brow make a slow ascent of his forehead and knew he would not rest until he had her confession, for that was the manner of The Master, accustomed to having his will. "You may deny the obvious all you choose, but you do not persuade me. Come, you know my stubborn temper well enough to be sure I will keep us here all night, if I must! Pray, spare us both much discomfort, and tell me what may be done to relieve your unhappiness."

His stubborn temper, aye she was familiarly acquainted with that, having watched him grow from mischievous scapegrace - when his father was not at home to condemn conduct unbecoming in the future Master of Pemberley - to this grave, responsible young man, lord of a great honour, yet ever with time to attend the foibles of those for whom he cared. No less well did she know his clear judgement; and his affectionate heart.

Mr Darcy gazed steadily into the eyes of his beloved housekeeper and sighed. "Enough of this dramatising, Mrs Reynolds, tell me! Has one of the footmen been discovered drunk in the orangery? Has one of my guests offended - ah!"

The lady dropped her chin. "I am an old fool to be put so out of spirits by a chance remark overheard from a corridor!" she muttered.

Darcy rose, rounding his desk in four long strides to lift her, delicate as if she were a Duchess, to her feet. "Foolish or no, you remain my dearest Reynolds, and this remark has caused you pain," he said, fixing the big brown eyes she could not resist on hers. I first looked into them on my very first morning here, she reflected, when Old Mr Darcy brought forward his heir for my reverence. Those eyes had possessed a power even then, which had only grown with their owner's maturing. Expelling a sigh, she submitted herself to the inevitable.

"As I brought fresh water top the ladies' rooms, Sir, I heard the younger - Miss Bingley, Sir - declare to her sister that when I am mistress of Pemberley, Louisa, that insolent wretch Reynolds will be the first to go!"

Darcy regarded her solemnly for a moment. Then, quite unexpectedly, he threw back his handsome head and let fall a sharp, short bark of laughter.

"Great God, the harridan goes too far! But my dear Mrs Reynolds, do you think your master quite insane? Caroline Bingley will become Mistress of Pemberley over my dead body!"

He watched the creases smooth from her careworn face - worn, he never forgot, by years of diligent service to his father and himself - and lightly lifted both her hands to his lips. "Come, do you imagine she receives encouragement from me for her pretensions? That over-dressed, over-rouged female with the voice of an enraged fishwife and the manners of the haute ton at its worst? Am I so hopeless a case, do you think, that the best I might aspire to in a wife is a Miss Bingley?"

"Oh, Sir, no! I know you could never make an offer to such a creature, and yet - well, it gave me a proper turn, to hear her boast of how she'll bring order to this house and instil some proper discipline into our good people..."

He gave her a quick, fierce hug. "My very dear Reynolds, be assured by me: Caroline Bingley's dreams will never be realised. Indeed, should you even imagine you see me inclining toward my poor friend's long-faced sister, I must insist you despatch me to the Windsor Bedlam direct, for I'm sure it shall mean I've gone madder than His Majesty himself!"

She returned his embrace with a shy one of her own. "I am sorry, Sir, I should never have troubled you with such a trifling affair. You are, as ever, too shrewd to be deceived by me."

"My excellent Mrs Reynolds is more valuable to me than ten thousand Miss Bingleys! Why, were she not so tied to her unfortunate brother, I should never have her nearer the house than Mr Wiggans' gatehouse lodge! Now, that will be all, thank you. The family will shift for itself this evening; take your leisure and enjoy it."

Chuckling, she quit his study with a final curtsy, marvelling again at the wisdom of so young a master.

Mr Darcy too chuckled as he sank back into his comfortable chair, hands linked behind his head. The insolence of his best friend's sister, tolerable only for the pleasure of Bingley's company, became more outrageous with each visit she made to the house she fondly hoped, one day, to rule.

Fitzwilliam Darcy, though she would never conceive of it, was wearily familiar with her stamp of womanhood. From his earliest youth he had cultivated the ability to recognise the fortune-huntress, the shrill society dame with sights set on ten thousand a year and a mighty Derbyshire estate. There had been moments, as the years had progressed, during which he despaired of ever finding a woman able to love him and not merely his fortunate position in the world.

"Well, Miss Bingley, you may make all the plans you choose," he announced, helping himself to a glass of the finest port; a small glass only, for he was considered quite the novelty in wider society for the moderacy of his alcoholic consumption. "For Pemberley will never bow to you as mistress. Ugh! As much chance of George Wickham making an honest man as of my ever wedding you!"