Elizabeth and Darcy walked together, each overwhelmed by the same curious, contradictory feelings — familiarity and estrangement, ease and anxiety, comfort and misery. Kitty, thankfully, had escaped to Lucas Lodge, her general curiosity unable to compete with her fear of Darcy.

The silence was not altogether awkward. It was a beautiful day, the autumn sunshine illuminating the red-gold leaves all about them, and after everything that had happened, Elizabeth felt almost peaceful, even content. For weeks she had longed for the smallest scrap of news, strained to catch the unspoken sound of his name, been left bereft of that much, let alone anything more. To walk beside him, to feel alarm at his thinness, to notice the glints of red in his dark hair, it was beyond not only expectation but hope.

At first, she had not really believed herself in love with Darcy. She felt a certain affection, of course, admiration and respect and esteem, but so much of it was caught up in his feelings that she knew neither what to think or feel. Yet he had always been capable of commanding her attention, far more than any other person she had ever known. She had felt it even when she disliked him, always aware of him, his presence filling her mind so that every thought, somehow, led back to him. That, though, it was — she did not know what it was, but she knew it was not love, not anything like it.

Then, at Pemberley and Lambton, it was as if she only began to fit the pieces together, to bring that peculiar intimacy with his ways to her newer knowledge of him, pulling it all together to form a single coherent picture. It was still vague, she did not — she knew him, and yet she did not. She realised, when he left her in the parlour, that she would have liked the chance to know him better, that she could have loved him, that she grieved to see him leave, that it had comforted her to have him near in that first dreadful moment. Still, she did not think that love, either.

Yet it must have been, for when she next examined her feelings, she found that her cautious approval had somehow given way to a quiet, fierce passion. She had not seen him in that time, spoken to him, so much as heard his name, yet she had fallen in love with this complex, headstrong, infuriating man, while separated by several counties. It was, she supposed, a natural progression of their perverse and unpredictable courtship. Her feelings had rushed heedlessly ahead, and her rational mind could comprehend them only when he seemed irrevocably lost to her.

Elizabeth cast a quick, sideways glance at him. She had truly despaired of ever again setting eyes on him, until she heard that Bingley had returned to Netherfield. Then they were at Longbourn, Bingley talking away, Mrs Bennet beaming, and Darcy reverting back to the icily correct reserve of the winter before. Elizabeth could scarcely believe that, only a few weeks before, she had longed only to hear something of him, anything, and thought she could be content with that. It was not even enough to be in the same room; she was furious at the other young ladies for preventing him from seating himself near her, at the guests for wanting coffee, at her mother for consigning him to another whist table, and at herself for being so silly! She was really persuaded that events were hastening towards the same vexatious conclusions of December and April and August.

Yet now, with the announcement of Jane and Bingley's engagement, she knew otherwise — knew it inevitable that she and Darcy should be often together, as they were at this very moment.

Elizabeth gathered her courage, for before anything else, this must be said. 'Mr Darcy,' she began, her voice, his name, falling awkwardly into the silence.

He turned to her, looking quizzical, and she rushed ahead:

'I am a very selfish creature; and for the sake of giving relief to my own feelings, care not how much I may be wounding yours. I can no longer help thanking you for your unexampled kindness to my poor sister. Ever since I have known of it, I have been most anxious — ' her voice broke, a little — 'to acknowledge to you how gratefully I feel it. Were it known to the rest of my family, I should not have merely my own gratitude to express.'

Darcy's usual impenetrable composure failed him at this. 'I am sorry, exceedingly sorry,' he exclaimed, 'that you have ever been informed of what may, in a mistaken light, have given you uneasiness.'

Elizabeth blinked. She had felt many things upon receiving intelligence of his part in the affair, but uneasiness was certainly not among them.

'I did not think Mrs Gardiner was so little to be trusted,' he added. She flinched.

'You must not blame my aunt,' she cried, remembering the fond approval with which Mrs Gardiner had written of him. 'Lydia's thoughtlessness first betrayed to me that you had been concerned in the matter; and, of course, I could not rest till I knew the particulars.' She could see his emotion quiet at this, so she forged ahead, her voice trembling: 'Let me thank you again and again, in the name of all my family, for that generous compassion which induced you to take so much trouble, and bear so many mortifications, for the sake of discovering them.'

She knew, without an understanding of why or how, that that part of it, the necessary dealings in bribery and corruption, had been infinitely more painful for him than his meetings with the Gardiners, with Lydia, even with Wickham himself.

Darcy turned a little away, his fair skin reddening — though whether at past or present embarrassments, she could not have said. 'Miss Bennet, I . . . you are very kind, Miss Bennet, but no gratitude is necessary on your family's behalf, or your own. I sought only — ' he hesitated, then cleared his throat — 'I sought to correct my own error, to remedy an evil which my pride, my reserve, had brought about.'

From Mrs Gardiner's letter, she knew already of his sense of culpability in the affair, and she did not doubt the information from either source. His scrupulous, liberal character provided all the necessary explanation, and if he felt some remaining partiality for her — well, it could only add force to the other inducements which led him on. Peculiarly, she felt neither slighted nor disappointed, as she might have at some earlier juncture, but instead indignant that anyone should blame him for Wickham's perfidy, even himself. Were his debts in Lambton also your error, sir? she longed to ask, his attempt on your sister? His other misdeeds? How is any of this your fault? Why are you his keeper?

Her eyes blazed as they lifted to meet his, though she spoke in a tolerably disengaged tone. 'I hope, Mr Darcy, that you will forgive me if I continue to blame my wayward brother-in-law for his own want of principle and vicious conduct.'

Darcy's mouth twitched. 'I am sure you do not require forgiveness for such reasonable feelings,' he said, clasping his hands behind his back. After a moment of silence, he went on, 'Pardon me, but may I enquire if my aunt has recently called on you?'

Elizabeth blinked. 'Lady Catherine?'

'I have no other aunts.'

'Oh, I . . . no, she has not.' Still bewildered, she asked, 'Did she intend to call on me? Is there a reason that she should do so?'

'None whatsoever,' he said, with a look of relief, and frowned at Bingley, who was walking some distance ahead, to all appearances about to embrace a very willing Jane.

Their scandalised voices rang out in unison.

'Bingley!'

'Jane!'

The conversation soon shifted to more neutral topics — the weather, and places they had seen, and the health of their assorted relations. Cordiality and friendliness, it seemed, were a far greater challenge than veiled barbs and cold reserve.

Then, with an abrupt vivid clarity, Elizabeth remembered the Netherfield ball, and she turned to him with a bright smile. 'What think you of books?'

Darcy tilted his head. 'Do you speak of all books, or of specific titles?'

'Oh, particular ones, to be certain. Miss Bingley, you recall, informed us of your general fondness for them — and the size of your library — last year at Netherfield.'

'Yes,' he said, 'I remember. I did not know that you did.'

Elizabeth chose not to inform him that she remembered every conversation in which his existence was so much as alluded to, but amused herself by imagining his likely reaction if she had. Instead she remarked, 'I suppose you never read novels.'

'You would be incorrect. I — prefer to ascertain that my sister's reading material is suitable.'

Elizabeth suppressed a smile. 'Oh? And what was the last novel you found suitable for your sister?'

'Self-Control, by Mrs Brunton.'

'Oh, I read that last year. What did you think of it?'

'I do not know whether Laura's passage down the American river is not the most natural, possible, everyday thing she does.'

'It seems I was mistaken, Mr Darcy,' cried Elizabeth, laughing, 'for plainly we have read some of the same books with the same feelings.'

Darcy smiled. 'I am delighted to hear it.'

The following day, Bingley proposed a walk to Oakham Mount, waxing enthusiastic over a view he had never seen. Nobody was deceived, but all looked on him with a sort of affectionate indulgence and assented to the plan. Therefore his friend and prospective sister once again found themselves free to wander at their leisure, and spared the society so little pleasing to both.

For a few awkward moments, neither could think of anything to say. They could only trail behind Jane and Bingley, their usual brisk strides slowing as they created a discreet distance between themselves and the engaged pair.

Finally, Darcy continued her practice of replacing past conversations with more promising versions. 'Bingley seems very fortunate in his choice of a wife.'

Elizabeth beamed. 'Jane insists all the good fortune is her own,' she said, 'but I must agree with you.'

'Miss Bennet, I believe, shares Bingley's modesty to an extraordinary degree.'

'They share many qualities to an extraordinary degree, though certainly not all.'

'That is fortunate,' said Darcy, a shadow flitting across his face as he glanced at his friend.

Elizabeth shifted. The realisation that often she had not the slightest idea what was passing in his mind was an uncomfortable one. 'Perhaps some small differences of disposition and genius are for the better,' she finally offered.

'It is possible to be too similar,' he agreed; 'to share and exacerbate one another's weaknesses, rather than elevating the characters of both parties. Such is not the case with Bingley and Miss Bennet, of course; your sister strikes me as very steadfast, very firm where she feels herself to be right.'

'That is an excellent description of Jane,' Elizabeth said, struck by the truth of it, and gave him a warm look. 'Truly, though, I cannot understand a desire for perfect accord in every thought and quality. I should find it quite tiresome, I am sure.'

He turned startled eyes to her, unable to miss the open friendliness in her face. A sudden brilliant smile shattered the solemnity of his expression, and he said almost lightly, 'Yes, I daresay you would.'

They shifted to lighter, more trivial topics, matters of such supreme insignificance that Bingley and Jane managed to steal several embraces without being observed, let alone reprimanded. Some hours passed without notice, at least on Elizabeth's and Darcy's parts — they felt they could have wandered together for hours more, despite their friends' exhaustion, and returned to Longbourn with a considerable degree of reluctance.

Later that evening, Elizabeth sat at her window, heart and head full as she unfolded a worn and creased letter. They had talked and talked, of nothing and everything, of all but that which they most longed to say. The contrast between her open frankness and his stately reserve had never signified less; the longer their erratic, incoherent conversation went on, the better she understood his oblique replies — not springing, as she had once believed, from indifference or disapproval, but rather from that singular sense of intimacy, even affinity, between them. Despite everything that remained unsaid and unspeakable, only they two knew all that had occurred, keeping each other's secrets even when he or she thought never to again meet. More ever, they had almost always spoken in that way, never saying exactly what was meant, yet expecting to be understood all the same. Only at Hunsford had they been really forthright.

She glanced down at it. The words she had tried to overlook, at the time, seemed now imprinted on her mind — not the plain recital of events, but the flashes of bitterness, hauteur, regret, charity. In recent weeks, she had found herself turning again and again to the evidence that once, at least, he had loved her, as much as any man could, with that rational passionate feeling which seemed so peculiar to him and his nature.

If your abhorrence of me should make my assertions valueless -- Elizabeth shut her eyes. She would not take it back, not everything, but -- women who tormented respectable men she had always believed unworthy of anything better than contempt. She had not thought him respectable, or she would never have spoken as she had, no matter how tactlessly he talked of what she already knew. As matters now stood, she could not imagine wishing pain on him, she could not imagine feeling anything less than fury at anyone who did.

She opened her eyes, let them drop to the gracious, resigned benediction at the end, his name written in the painstaking hand she would always recognise, now. It was always a comfort — and today, he had been — not merely pleasant, but — more. She really felt that she had reason to hope, as she had scarcely ever allowed herself to hope before.

'Lizzy?'

'Jane!' She stared at her sister's strained, guilty face. 'Why, Jane, whatever is the matter?'

'I am so sorry, I was so preoccupied with my own happiness that I did not think of you. I must beg your forgiveness, Lizzy. I truly did not mean to be so selfish! I only did not think.'

Elizabeth blinked. 'I beg your pardon?'

'Please do not be angry with me, Lizzy,' Jane went on, penitence exuding from every word. 'I shall keep it from happening again, I promise.'

'Jane, what are you speaking of? What I am to forgive you for?'

'I left you alone with him for hours! Yesterday and today. I did not realise — well, I thought Kitty would stay, but today, I knew you would have to endure his company for all that time and — '

'You are speaking of Mr Darcy, Jane?' Elizabeth said, hiding a smile.

'Of course I am! And I know how much you dislike him — '

Elizabeth drew herself upright. 'You know nothing of the sort,' she said firmly. 'Oh, I know I once did, but that is a very long time ago. I do not at all dislike him, now.'

'But Lizzy,' Jane protested, 'I thought you hated him! You said — and in Kent — and I have never seen you so grave and reserved, as you have been since he returned to the country. I do not understand.'

'I hardly do myself, but I assure you that I certainly do not hate him — indeed, I have long been ashamed of feeling any dislike that could be so called. I did not understand him until . . . well, I did not understand him very well, and now I do, and you must believe that I presently hold him in the highest admiration and esteem.' She gave her sister a sly smile. 'Why, if you and Bingley require it, I could spend hours in his company with no pain whatsoever.'

Jane's face lit up. 'Oh Lizzy, are you certain you do not mind? I have always had an esteem for him, and particularly since — well, he is Bingley's most particular friend, so you are certain to be much thrown together. I would not have you made unhappy.'

'Unhappy? Jane, I can scarcely imagine anything which would make me less so. He is very clever and amuses me a great deal.'

'Oh, I am glad to hear that. Bingley thought something of the sort, you know. He said you seemed quite friendly at Pemberley, but I thought he must have misunderstood.'

Elizabeth flushed. 'Oh! that. No, he — he did not misunderstand. Mr Darcy was very pleasant, very charming, in his way, and I — I suppose I was less determined to be displeased.'

Jane, of course, immediately denied even the possibility of anything such feeling on the part of her beloved sister, but she seemed quite delighted at this development, and not at all suspicious. Soon Darcy had been abandoned and they talked only of Bingley and his endless amiable qualities.

A similar conversation took place at Netherfield, wherein Darcy neither laughed nor smirked in the face of very great temptation. The matter thus settled, Bingley and Jane thought no more of it, and all four walked out almost every day.

Elizabeth half-expected some sort of demand for an explanation, but it never materialised. She and Darcy had clearly been appointed chaperones, their mutual dislike so well-established that no one considered what the charge must entail. They could spend hours together, their intense attention to one another broken only by occasional rebukes to Bingley and Jane, and nobody, not even her father, thought anything of it.

So their season of courtship passed, unobserved, in plain sight. Darcy and Elizabeth talked, of books and philosophy and relations, and later, of more personal matters, eager for any knowledge of each other. They had fallen in love with essentials, with a flash of intelligence and spirit, but knew little more. Darcy heard of her dog, and Elizabeth his cat — each of the solitary, intractable, overindulged children they had been, she climbing trees and he lost in books, both running half-wild over their father's estates.

Every day, the wedding drew closer, and though their acquaintance had ripened into friendship, neither had quite the temerity to risk it, just yet, on anything more. This was enough for the present; they were young, beautiful and brilliant, with their lives before them, and they had all the time in the world.