author's note: here's chapter 7, a tad more angst ahead, but nothing too unbearable, i think:) thanks to everyone reading and commenting, and big big thanks to my betas matt and gayle for making it better. all remaining mistakes are mine, obviously.

Day 7

Tuesday, October 27th 2009

Elizabeth sat on the Tube, her eyes on the blackened walls of the tunnel whooshing by outside the windows of the train. On her lap sat a hastily packed bag, and in the side pocket of the bag was a map of London with an X drawn on it. On another day, she might have been amused by her little treasure hunt. Today, she only felt like an idiot. How had she let the situation get this far? And just as they'd been getting over the strain caused by his meeting her family, too. It was her fault, all of it. She had known the truth. She should have forced her mother and Lydia to listen.

The train came to a halt. Russell Square. A young couple came on and sat across the aisle from her, blocking her view of the window. The boy bent closer to the girl, as if to whisper something, but kissed her instead. The girl started to giggle, blushing furiously, and Elizabeth turned her head away. As if on its own volition, her hand reached to the pocket where the map lay, her eyes closing. How many days had it been since he'd last kissed her?

In Covent Garden, just as Elizabeth had begun to wish that she'd taken a cab instead of riding on the underground, the couple got off the train, and she breathed a sigh of relief. She was really in no mood to watch other people cuddling. Closing her eyes again, she counted the stops left, trying to remember Georgiana's directions. The X on her map did not mark a treasure, but rather an inconspicuous street in Kensington. And on that street was a house, a red brick house with white pillars on both sides of the door. The Darcy house. And hopefully, in that house Will would be waiting. Her Will.

She felt a cold shiver run down her spine as she remembered the events that had led to the mess she was currently in. First, there had been the family dinner from hell. Will hadn't called her that day after the dinner, and when she'd tried to call him, he hadn't answered. She had been worried sick, first blaming her mother for driving him away; and then, later, herself for not trying to put a stop to it. The next day, she'd been at work, alone and miserable, thinking about him. What if he had really started to rethink their relationship? After all, what else could be expected after such an awful encounter with her family? That he would rejoice in the horrid manner in which they'd treated him? That he would congratulate himself on the hope of connecting himself to such people?

She had been just about to start closing for the evening, when she had seen him. He had stood outside the shop window, his palm pressed against the glass, his eyes on her. When she had looked back at him, he had given her a small, hesitant smile. It had been enough. Heedless of what the people around them might think, she had run out of the shop and flung herself in his arms.

"I'm sorry I didn't call," he'd whispered, his lips in her hair, clutching her against his body.

"Don't be."

"I- - I was upset. Your mother… I, the way she was, I couldn't believe it. And - - and then, the things they said about Georgie. I couldn't…."

"It's okay, I understand. My mother… I'm so sorry. I should have done something to stop her."

After that, things had started to get back to normal. Well, almost normal. In the following weeks, they had spent time together the same as they always had. But, while most things had been talked about in the same open manner they'd always talked about everything, there was one subject that had hung unspoken between them – Georgiana. Elizabeth had been able to tell that there was something there, some story behind why he'd been so mortally offended by the comments her mother and Lydia had made about his sister. But he hadn't seemed inclined to talk about it, and she hadn't wanted to pressure him. On more than one occasion he had started, then changed his mind, and then started again. But it had not been until a few nights before Lydia had gone missing that he'd finally told her the whole, sordid tale. And it had been sad, indeed.

:-:

Will sat on a bench in Hyde Park, staring into the distance, the coffee in the styrofoam cup in his hand long gone cold. How had he made such a mess of things? He might not have liked the Bennets, at least not the mother and the youngest daughters, but they were still Bell's family. And no family should have to go through what they'd gone through, and all because he had been too proud to open his mouth and tell her sooner. It was his fault, all of it. He should have told her sooner. Or, better yet, he should have had that bastard Wickham thrown in jail the first time around.

Sighing, he leaned back and turned his eyes towards the sky. Bell had told him of her mother and sisters, but he had still been shocked by their behaviour. He'd been angry with Mrs. Bennet for the way she had belittled her second eldest daughter and her achievements, and for the fact that she had done absolutely nothing to check the behaviour of her two youngest daughters. The crude, mercenary way she'd enquired after his financial status had appalled him, and her praise of George Wickham had made him shudder.

But he had been mad at Bell, too, for the way she had just sat there, listening to her mother's tirades instead of standing up to her. Only much later had he realized that the way she had reacted did not much differ from the way he himself had always acted with his father. How many times had he sat through dinners, listening to his father's scolding without uttering a word? Who was he to blame her if she did the same thing?

When Bell and Jane had started to talk about Georgiana, he'd felt a small moment of pride and happiness. He was proud of Georgiana, truly proud of how far she had come, how she had managed regain her confidence after what had happened. Happy that his sister had made such friends as Bell and her older sister. And then, Lydia Bennet had opened her mouth and it had all gone sour. He hadn't known what exactly it was that Wickham had told Bell's family, and he did not wish to know. That he had talked about Georgiana at all had been enough to set his blood boiling. His sister might have made some mistakes, but she certainly did not deserve to have the lowest points of her life turned into dinner table gossip by the likes of Fanny Bennet.

It had taken him two days to get over his horror of Bell's family. For two days, he had acted like an idiot, letting his mind fill with disturbing images of what their future would be like if he stayed with her. Mrs. Bennet on their wedding day, telling Bell that she looked tolerable, though she could never make as beautiful a bride as her sister. Lydia and Kitty Bennet visiting them, trying to hit on his friends. Poor Georgiana, being forced to listen to them droning on about dear Wickham. Mrs. Bennet, holding their first baby, offering advice on how to rear their children, and criticizing their parenting skills at every turn. And then, he had understood the gist of it – even at that moment, he'd been thinking of marrying her and having kids with her, as if it was a given. Would he really let one crazy mother make any difference in those plans? No. He had felt ashamed of even thinking about it.

In retrospect, he wished that he had stayed that night of the dinner, instead of rushing out of the house in a fit of anger. Stayed despite his distaste, and explained to them the truth of the matter. Made them understand that George Wickham, despite his charming appearance, was a dangerous man. Or at least, definitely not the kind of man people should let anywhere near their impressionable teenage daughters. Perhaps then, all that had happened later could have been avoided. Perhaps then, Bell would have answered his calls.

The ring of his mobile startled Will back to the present moment. In his rush to dig the phone out of his pocket, he almost dropped the cold coffee he was holding. His heart soared at the thought that it would be Bell calling him, asking him to come back, telling him that she did not blame him for what had happened to her sister.

No such luck.

"Anne? Hello... no, it's okay. I'm in London, actually… really? I… yeah, sure, why not. Actually, I think I really need someone to talk to…."

:-:

This is a Piccadilly Line service to Heathrow Terminal 5, next stop Gloucester Road.

The shrill female voice on the tannoy jolted Elizabeth from her thoughts. Her heart started to beat faster when she got off the train and headed towards the elevators that would take her up to ground level. A five minute walk, Georgiana had said. A five minute walk, and she would see him.

At the entrance of the station, she stopped to dig out her map. Across the street, sitting on the stairs of a 24 hour Tesco, she saw a woman wrapped in a dirty blanket, a battered paper cup standing on the street in front of her. Just as she was about to look away, the woman lifted her eyes and looked straight at her. It was then that Elizabeth realized that it was not a woman, really, but a girl of no more than nineteen at most. Elizabeth shuddered as an unexpected thought entered her head: was this what could have become of Lydia if Will had never found her?

Lydia had been found missing on a Sunday morning a little more than a week earlier. Elizabeth had asked Will to her flat that day, planning on spending the day cooking, and surprising him with dinner. Cooking was not her strong suit, but with everything that had happened, she had wanted to do something out of the ordinary, something he would hopefully find romantic. If she kept it simple, she'd thought, and asked for a few pointers from Jane, she could surely pull off a decent meal. It could be the start of a new tradition – Sunday dinners for just the two of them.

Elizabeth had not gone back to her mother's house since the horrible dinner with Will and her family, not for a Sunday dinner nor for any other reason. She had called her mother once, hoping against reason to make her understand how very rude she had been to Will and to herself, and to once again try to convince her that George Wickham was bad news. But it had been to no avail – Fanny Bennet had refused to see anything much wrong with her behaviour, and had defended her dear George to the point of nausea. Finally, Elizabeth had hung up, determined. As long as her mother remained unrepentant, she would have nothing to do with her.

And so, when Fanny Bennet had called her second eldest daughter on the morning Lydia was discovered missing, she had not answered. When the phone had first rung, and Elizabeth had seen that it was her mother, she'd turned her head away and headed back to the kitchen. She had thought it highly unlikely that her mother would have called to apologize, and that anything else she might have to say could be saved for later. When she'd heard the message her mother had left (Lizzy! You obstinate, headstrong girl, pick up the phone at once! You caused this mess, and I want you to fix it immediately!), she had gone and unplugged the answering machine. After the fifth call, she had unplugged the entire phone, determined not to let her mother ruin her plans for a romantic dinner with Will. She had ruined enough already. Whatever it was that she wanted to say, Elizabeth had thought, it could wait for one more day.

Later, Elizabeth had wished that she had picked up. A half an hour before Will had been supposed to arrive, the doorbell had rung and she'd opened the door to find a teary Jane behind it. Lydia, Jane had told her, had run away from home. With George Wickham.

When Elizabeth reached the street marked by the X on her map, she stopped in her tracks. Shit. Some directions she'd had. Had Georgiana never noticed that every other house on the street was built of red bricks and had white pillars guarding the front door? Trying to remember the number Georgiana had mentioned, chiding herself for not writing it down in her rush to get going, she started walking down the street, stopping to ogle at the front of every house that fit the description.

Finally, she espied a tiny plaque on the front door of one of the houses. Darcy. She walked up the stairs leading to the door and tried to ignore the unsteady beat of her heart. Should she have just called, after all? What if he didn't want to see her? Georgiana had been sure that he did, but what if she'd been wrong? After all, it had been a week, and he hadn't called her once.

Elizabeth almost lost her courage when she thought of his words when she had last seen him. He had arrived at her flat to find her crying, and had fussed over her endearingly, offering her a glass of wine, wrapping his arms around her and cradling her against his chest to calm her down. But when she had finally managed to tell him what was wrong, his whole demeanour had changed. He had paced about the room, cursing. When she'd told about the letter Lydia had left – such a selfish and frivolous piece of writing, that she had hardly believed her ears when Jane had told her about it – he had stopped pacing, and had given her a long, strange look.

"And what's been done to recover her? Has your mother called the police?"

"Yes… but she's only been gone since last night, and since she left voluntarily, finding her is not exactly their highest priority. The officers had told mum that she'd most likely show up on her own in a couple of days when she runs out of money. But you know Wickham, you know what he's like! Lydia is a reckless, foolish thing, but she's still just a little girl. I can't even bear to think of what might happen to her!"

He had said nothing, only shaking his head. When she had tried to explain to him how horrible she felt just thinking that she might have prevented the whole thing from happening, he had barely seemed to be listening, his brow contracted, his air gloomy. Elizabeth had taken in his appearance and thought that she'd understood what had been in his mind. He'd had enough. He'd had her family insult him and defend the man who had almost cost him his sister. And now, her sister had abandoned her family, and thrown herself at the mercy of that self same man. Surely, he'd had enough.

What he had said next had only worked to confirm her fears.

"I- - shit, I'm so sorry Bell." His voice had been so strained that she had barely recognized it. "You have no idea how sorry I am. I - - I will go straight away. Goodbye."

She had sat there, flabbergasted, thinking that he had left her. Only after Lydia had arrived home, safe and with an extraordinary tale to tell, had she realized that there might have been another meaning to his words entirely.

Taking a deep breath, she reached for the doorbell. On the other side of the door, the chime of the bell echoed, and she waited for the sound of approaching footfalls and the door opening. But they never came.

:-:

"And you really think that she blames you for what happened? Sounds a bit harsh, if you ask me."

Will sighed, shaking his head. "You don't get it, Anne. I blame me. You should have seen the look on her face; she was so scared. And I could have prevented it, if only I'd swallowed my pride and tried to explain to her mother and sister what Wickham was really like. If I'd at least told her sooner, so she could have tried to warn them."

Anne Bergstein huffed, as she'd done several times already in the course of the conversation.

"Seriously, Will, listen to yourself! It's not your fault. This sister of hers sounds like a real piece of work, to say nothing of the mother. You're hardly responsible for their actions, especially after the way they treated you. If anything, they ought to be thankful."

He waved his hand, annoyed. She was clearly missing the point. "I know I'm not responsible for them. But I- - I feel responsible for Bell's happiness. Who knows what could have happened to her sister if I hadn't found her in time. I feel like I've failed her, Anne."

"What a load of crap! Have you ever even asked her how she feels about all this, or have you just decided for her?"

"It's pretty obvious how she feels," he replied, defensively, "considering that she's not answering my calls. I've left her four messages in the past week. Four. She hasn't answered one of them."

For a moment, Anne only looked at him with an unreadable expression. And then, in an unexpectedly stern voice, she said, "Then she's dumber than I thought."

Will thought to protest, but then decided it was useless. It was obvious that he couldn't make Anne understand. Maybe it had been a mistake to tell her anything at all. But he had so desperately needed someone to talk with, that when she had called to let him know she was in London, he had jumped at the opportunity.

Later, as they walked towards his home, she started on the topic again.

"Who is this Wickham guy anyway, to have you all cowering in terror? Nothing happened to your Bell's sister, right? At worst, she got a little lesson she hopefully won't be forgetting any time soon."

A little lesson, indeed, Will thought, remembering the pitiful state he had found Lydia Bennet in. How fortunate that Wickham still kept the same company he'd kept all those years ago. It had not taken Will many days to discover the whereabouts of Amanda Younge, and after that, finding Lydia had been easy enough.

"No, nothing much happened, thank God. But the poor girl had been scared shitless. Wickham had taken her mobile and whatever little money she'd had, and left her at this seedy flat in some less than friendly company."

Anne was unrelenting. "Well, if you ask me, it sounds like she had it coming. What was she thinking, running off with a man over ten years her senior? Surely seventeen is old enough to know better?"

Will said nothing. Anne was a good friend, but he was not about to tell her what had happened with Georgiana. How he'd received a letter one day, several years ago, much like the one Lydia Bennet had left her family. How he and Richard had looked for her for ten days, until finally finding her in another filthy flat, physically unharmed but stoned out of her mind. How his heart had broken when Georgiana had screamed and kicked when he'd carried her out of there, claiming that she wanted to stay with George. No one knew except Richard and him. And now, Bell.

Had Georgiana been old enough to know better? Perhaps, but Will could still not quite blame her for what had happened. Georgiana had been fifteen when their mother died. With an aloof father and an adult brother who loved her but no longer lived at home, she had been left alone at a time when she had most needed guidance and help. So was it any wonder that when George Wickham, Will's childhood friend who'd at that time been working for their father, had shown even the tiniest interest towards her, she had thought that it was love and grabbed onto it like a lifeline. That she'd gone as far as to help him steal from their father's company? That she had sneaked out of Pemberley one night, planning to never return.

Will had never told their father of all that had happened. Georgiana's disappearance had been enough of a wake-up call for the old man, and when she had returned to Pemberley, he had at least tried to make her feel more loved. Will had not wanted to find out what his reaction might have been if he had discovered that his own daughter had stolen from him, and then run away with the small-time thief and occasional drug user that he'd always treated so well. To the police Will had only told that Richard and he had found Georgiana wandering around the streets of London. He had desperately wanted to tell them about Wickham, but hadn't wanted to add to Georgiana's miseries by subjecting her to a scandal. She had been miserable enough when she had understood the extent of Wickham's deceit; that he had only used her to get his hands on their father's money, and wreak a little havoc while he was at it.

"Did you call the police?" Anne asked, startling Will out of his thoughts.

"No…" he replied, until remembering that they were talking about Lydia, not his sister. "I mean, yes. I have every hope that they were waiting for Wickham when he returned to the flat. No doubt there were drugs to be found at that place, maybe other incriminating things, too."

Maybe this time, George Wickham would actually have to pay for what he'd done.

:-:

Elizabeth had been sitting on the stairs of the house for almost two hours, trying to decide what to do, when she suddenly heard a familiar voice coming from a little way down the street. Will. She was about to jump up, when she realized that he wasn't alone. There was another voice, a lilting female voice that she didn't recognize. And she was… laughing?

"Come on, Romeo," the strange voice said. "You have to admit that you've been a bit too dramatic about this whole thing. Repeat after me: Nothing happened. I am not to blame."

Nothing happened? What did she mean, nothing happened? Elizabeth strained to hear Will's answer.

"You really think so?"

"Yeah. You're taking way too much responsibility for this."

What the bloody hell were they talking about?

"Maybe you're right. But Bell…."

"….won't blame you for this. Unless she's a complete idiot, of course, in which case you'll be better off without her and her crazy family."

This time, Elizabeth did jump up, just in time to see Will stop in front of the house with the mystery woman. She had her hand in the crook of his arm, and was leaning slightly against him when she spoke. Bloody hussy.

Will froze when he noticed her standing on the front stairs.

"Bell?"

She looked back at him, suddenly uncomfortable in the extreme. What if he hadn't wanted her to come, after all?

"Hi," she said, hesitantly. Her eyes flicked to the strange woman still in possession of his arm. Will seemed to notice this, and disentangled his hand.

"Bell, this is Anne… Anne Bergstein. My friend." Did she imagine it, or did he put extra stress on the word friend? The woman reached her hand toward her, smiling, and she reluctantly shook it.

"Nice to meet you, Elizabeth, I've heard so much about you." She had a firm grip and an appraising gaze, and Elizabeth wondered what exactly Will had told this woman about her. Anne Bergstein. Wasn't she supposed to be in Austria?

"Oh, um, yes," she mumbled. "Nice to meet you, too."

"Anne is visiting London with friends," Will explained, his voice oddly tight. "Her mother has a house in Knightsbridge."

"Oh." So at least she wasn't staying with Will.

For a moment, no one said anything, and Elizabeth's eyes drifted back to Will. He was wearing a pair of jeans and a charcoal jacket, the collar turned up to protect him against the chill, his hair tousled by the cold October wind. So handsome. God, she had missed him. When her eyes met his, she swallowed. He was staring straight at her.

Finally, Anne Bergstein cleared her throat to break the tension, and turned to Will.

"Right, I'd best get going then. Harrods awaits. I'll talk to you later, Will. It really was nice to meet you, Elizabeth."

With that, she was gone, and Will and Elizabeth were left standing alone in an uncomfortable silence.

"You… you want to go in?" he said, finally, gesturing towards the door. She only nodded, following him as he hurried up the stairs and unlocked the door. Once inside, she had no idea how to begin. For something to do, she pretended to look around the large hall.

"This is… uh, you have a very nice house."

He shrugged, his eyes still on her. "It's Georgiana's, really, these days."

"Oh." She couldn't look at him. What was she supposed to say? Maybe she could start with something mundane? "And, um, how have you been?" Definitely not that.

"Bell…" she felt her throat tighten when he said her name. "Why are you here?"

It was not an unkind question. He seemed genuinely perplexed.

"I- - I wanted to… I mean, Lydia got home yesterday."

"Yes."

"And she told us what had happened. That you… that you had gone to… that place. That you had helped her."

"Yes."

She swallowed again. Why didn't he say anything else?

"And so, you know, I wanted to thank you… for what you've done. For my family."

"Bell," he sighed, looking oddly disappointed. He hadn't wanted her to thank him? "Please, don't. Your family owes me nothing."

Of course. He had been kind enough to help them, but still wanted nothing to do with them. With her. Her shoulders slumped, and she could feel the hot tears burning in the corners of her eyes. Don't start crying. Don't bloody start crying. She was startled when he stepped closer and reached his hand to touch her cheek.

"Please, Bell," he whispered, his voice unexpectedly thick. "Surely… surely you must know that I thought only of you?"

Her heart as good as stopped. Of her? "But, I thought…" she mumbled, trying to make sense of his words. "You… you went away so suddenly, and then I didn't hear from you for so many days… I thought you'd had enough of me and my crazy family."

It took a moment for her words to register, and when they did, he looked at her, incredulous.

"Wait a minute… You thought I left you?"

She wrung her hands, not knowing what to think of the agitated tone of his voice. "You didn't call, and I thought that… that this had been too much for you."

"But," he sputtered, "I did call you! I left you a whole pile of messages! Didn't you get them?" He flushed a little, remembering the desperate pleas of his last message. Maybe it was good if she hadn't heard it.

"No," she said, a little defensively. After Lydia's disappearance, she had spent a lot of time at her mother's house, taking turns with Jane to make sure that the house didn't fall down under her constant wailing. But every time she had returned to her home, she had run to the answering machine to see if there were any new messages. There had been none. Not one message in the whole damn week. Not one message…. Shit! Her eyes widened, as she realized what must have happened. True, she hadn't had any messages from him. But then, she hadn't had any messages from anyone. Oh shit, shit, shit! The same thing had happened to her the previous spring, when she had plugged her answering machine back in after unplugging it during a thunderstorm. The bloody malfunctioning piece of garbage had stopped saving the messages, and it had taken her five days to notice it.

"Oh, crap," she said, more to herself than to him. "I think I really need to give that mobile a try."

He looked at her, stupefied. So she really hadn't got his messages? It seemed that Anne Bergstein had been right, after all. He was an idiot.

"So you're not mad at me?"

She looked at him, surprised by his question. "Mad at you? You saved my dimwit of a sister from the clutches of that… that bastard, despite what it must have cost you to go through that whole experience again. Why would I be mad at you?"

For a moment, he didn't know what to say. When she put it like that, it really did sound quite irrational.

"But… don't you think that if I'd told you sooner of what had happened with Georgiana, this whole thing could have been prevented?"

He watched as her brow knit together, until suddenly, she looked at him, a look of comprehension in her eyes.

"Oh… so that's what you and Anne were talking about?"

He swallowed as she stepped closer, lifting her hands to rest on his chest.

"I don't blame you for what happened, Will," she whispered. "How could I? Who knows if I could ever have convinced Mother and Lydia about Wickham's true character, even if you'd told me the whole story months ago? Don't forget that there was already a load of facts speaking against him, and they still chose to believe his lies. You can hardly be blamed for their stupidity. No. What you did for me, for my family, after the way they'd treated you… no one's ever done anything like that for me before."

"No?" he breathed.

"No. You're the kindest, most selfless person I've ever met, Will Darcy. The very best of men. And I love you."

He wondered if it was entirely manly to feel such flutters in his chest as he did when she reached to take his face between her hands, and he felt her lips brush against his. But the thought was soon discarded when she sucked his lower lip between her teeth in a demanding way, and his body responded in a decidedly manly fashion. "I've missed you," he murmured, gathering her in his arms, and pressing her as close to his body as he possibly could. "I've missed you so fucking much."

:-:

A short while later, Will Darcy found himself facing a dilemma. He had the woman he loved pinned against a wall at the bottom of the stairs that led to the first floor. To his bedroom. She breathed heavily as his lips traveled down her neck, settling on the hollow at the base of it that he so much adored. His hands impatiently tugging the hem of her shirt upwards, hers fumbling with the buckle of his belt, he wondered if it was humanly possible to be any more turned on.

And then, something occurred to him.

"Bell?" he asked, pausing his ministrations, lifting his face toward hers.

"What?" she panted, miffed that he had stopped.

"Well, I was just thinking, what about the new deal?"

She blinked, unable to believe her ears. Was he serious?

"Please, Will!" she cried, impatient to have his lips back on her skin again. "To hell with the new deal!"