To make things clear, I guess - Darcy is attracted to Caroline, but in the way you find a gorgeous person in front of you in line at Starbucks attractive. Darcy loves Elizabeth, a deep, unyielding passion, in a way that he doesn't about Caroline.

"Is it quite necessary to leave this early in the morning?" Caroline yawns slightly, shivering in the early morning mist.

"Not unless you want to arrive at Pemberley in two months." Fitzwilliam Darcy replies stiffly. Upon noticing his wife shaking in the chill, he steps closer to her, wrapping an arm around and pulling her into his chest. It is not a gesture of affection, but more of necessity; it would not do for his new bride to freeze to death just weeks after their wedding.

When the carriage pulls up to whisk them away, he notices her nose wrinkle in distaste as a servant boy with dirty hands helps her into the carriage after helping a footman with their luggage.

Normally when he was traveling with Caroline, they sat across from each other, as propriety demanded. Now, he hesitantly takes the seat next to her, and the cabin feels thirty times warmer now, with her pressed right against him; this is the closest contact they've ever had.

"Do you have an aversion to servant boys, Mrs. Darcy?" He inquires as the carriage lurches into motion.

"Only to dirt." She huffs under her breath, inspecting herself for any traces of the stuff.

"Well, any dirt is bound to wash away now." He comments, as thunder claps in the distance and a steady sheet of rain begins to fall, greying the world outside.

She makes a small noise of discontent before pulling one of the thick wool blankets over her. "Too early." She repeats with a yawn before closing her eyes quietly.

He had hoped that Caroline would stay awake to provide him with some form of distraction, but obviously that was not the case. The warmth of the cabin, (of her), the steady rumble carriage, the sound of the rain, are enough for him to slip into sleep soon, too.

When she wakes up, the rain is still pounding away outside, but the clouds seem lighter, the sun fighting to break through. She keeps her eyes closed, snuggling deeper into the blanket. She's almost asleep again, sound fading into nothing, when she takes notice of the smell of the side of the carriage her face is buried against. It smells like old leather, pine; like ancient luxury, but also comfort.

She smiles lazily at the warm scent, turning closer into it when her eyes flick open in alarm because the cabin has no business smelling like that. She looks up - indeed, not the cabin, but rather Mr. Darcy, who's looking down at her in vague amusement, book in his hand.

"I'm so sorry, Mr. Darcy." She sits up straighter, blushing furiously.

"You are tired. I did not want to wake you." He drawls, turning the page of his book. He felt rather exhausted, too; he had indeed slept well next to her, in the cocoon of the carriage, but the thought of that kind of intimacy with Caroline Bingley still worried him, so he busied himself with his book. "It is a long journey, and I would hope you would be most comfortable."

She eyes him carefully, not quite understanding the meaning of his words. In truth, neither does he.

After a long moment, she hesitantly relaxes in her seat, letting herself rest against his shoulder. At first it feels too awkward, too intimate, but as the minutes tick by it feels more and more comfortable - That tired warmth is threatening to overtake her again, but she can't pathetically fall asleep against him, not again.

"What are you reading, Fitzwilliam?" She whispers, somehow her voice too loud for the cabin.

"Milton, by William Blake." He replies, glancing down at her.

"What's it about?" She questions, looking up to meet his surprised eyes.

"The adventures of deceased author John Milton and William Blake himself." He informs her, but finds her studying the page before her. When he goes to turn the page, she makes a small sound of alarm and catches his hand, stopping him.

He nearly laughs at her actions, before carefully putting his arm around her so she can see the book more easily. She nods in approval, letting him turn the page.

It's odd, reading with Caroline, but he does not find it entirely unpleasant. Half of his time is spent discreetly watching her; her brows draw in focus, pulling her lower lip between her teeth when she comes to the more harrowing parts. He finds it fascinating how only during reading does emotion so easily flit across her face.

Eventually, she falls quietly into sleep; reclining into his side, head rested on his chest. When his eyes begin to grow heavy, he finds that his hand seeks out hers unconsciously, fingers linking in hers and solidifying the cozy privacy of the cabin.

The consummation does not take place on the journey to Pemberley - though he does notice that she has indeed been generally agreeable, and it is a curious change he rather enjoys.

They still sleep relatively apart, but at least they face each other; they often fall asleep talking - about acquaintances in London, about Pemberley, about the war with France, even about books.

(She is fall more knowledgeable than he originally perceived, though she does admit most of her reading did come from a desire to once please him).

"I am rather fond of Robert Burns, actually. He has this poem - well, really more of a song - called "A Red, Red, Rose". Have you heard of it?"

He shakes his head, a soft grin playing at his lips. "Tell me."

She sings quietly, a wispy, beautiful voice he can't get out of his head. "My love is like a red, red rose, that's newly sprung in June. Oh my love is like a melody, so sweetly sung in tune..."

"Fitzwilliam..."

In his dreams, she always refers to him by his Christian name; never 'Mr. Darcy'. She's laughing in this one; a good natured laugh that reaches her fine eyes. She spins playfully out of his reach, running away from him, hair flying behind her. They're at Pemberley, he realizes; by the lake, the sun rising in the east.

"Fitzwilliam..."

There it is again - the voice of an angel. She was disappearing, urging him to follow, but it was all fading to black. He had to follow her, had to call after her -

"Elizabeth..."

There's a soft hand on his shoulder. "Fitzwilliam..."

"Elizabeth..." He murmurs again, opening his eyes in confusion.

But no, not Elizabeth Bennet - Caroline, his wife, peering down at him.

"We've arrived at Pemberley." She says icily, hand retreating to her side quickly, and he freezes. There is no way she could have heard. But the brief, intense flash of pain in her eyes, then the way her face turns to indifferent, unyielding stone, tells him otherwise.

"Caroline," He begins, but he doesn't quite know what to say.

"Don't." She whispers harshly, turning away from him. "Please, don't."

When they greet Georgiana at the entrance to Pemberley, Caroline still embraces her warmly.

"But you do not look well, sister. Are you feeling okay?" Georgiana inquires thoughtfully, taking Caroline's hands in concern.

"It has just been a long journey, darling." Caroline replies distantly, heading inside quietly.

"Caroline, wait -" He follows her anxiously up the stairs.

She shuts the door to their room firmly in his face.