***RATING CHANGE!*** This chapter is more explicit than previous chapters. Please be aware.

An Odd Notion of Kindness
Chapter 10

Elizabeth had been given two weeks to choose between spending her summer in Town or traveling to Derbyshire. Though there was a certain gravity in making a choice of that magnitude, it was deceptively simple. Should she stay in London, Elizabeth would be closer to her own family. The Gardiners stayed in Town year-round. To visit her mother and sisters was only half a day's journey. It was comforting to think she had so many loved ones near. Any doubts she had about herself and her own choices could be stifled by the thought of her family, well-cared for and comfortable. Should she go to Derbyshire, however, the distance between herself and her family would be much greater. It would take news two days to travel that far north. If Lydia's confinement was a difficult one, it would be four, perhaps five, days before Elizabeth could return to her side. That consideration alone stopped Elizabeth from immediately declaring a preference for Derbyshire.

She was not built for solitude. Though her family was close in body, calling upon them with any frequency was out of the question. Lydia had been rescued from the life Darcy had found her in. She did not need the poor example of her elder sister tempting her back into it. The Gardiners' charity was being taxed enough by Lydia's being under their roof for the time being. Another wayward niece could not be welcome.

When Parliament ended its session, the rest of the gentry who wintered in Town would retreat to their country estates. What few friends she had made through Darcy's connections, like the Atkinsons, would leave in June. Without patrons, the amusements would close. She would have nothing to do but wander about her own house and no one to talk to until Darcy's return, which could be as late as January.

Though she carried true concern for Lydia's upcoming reckoning, Elizabeth felt it would be for the best if she went on to Derbyshire. Darcy's moods had been inscrutable these past weeks. She entertained some anxiety that his affections might not survive a prolonged separation. Elizabeth felt going home to Pemberley would be good for Darcy's spirits. When they met there last summer, he had been happier and more at ease than she had ever seen him before. It had been a pleasure to spend time with that young man. Additionally, she longed for the open fields and clean air of the country. Her visit last year had been so brief. There was still much to be admired in the wild Derbyshire landscape.

Elizabeth's resolution to travel to the country had little impact on Darcy's dour moods. She had hoped such information would please him, but he remained steadfast in his determination to be satisfied by nothing.

For the first week following his announcement of a month long visit to what he vaguely termed family, Darcy made himself absent from her parlor and her bed. When he resumed his visits, the calls were uniformly unpleasant. His conversation was dominated by awkward pauses and concise deliverance of news. For her part, Elizabeth tried mightily to tease him out of his ill humor. Darcy betrayed no interest in her company. Increasingly, she thought of herself as his obligation, an idea that rankled her. She redoubled her efforts to tease and please him, tried to make him remember why he had chosen her and why he should appreciate her.

On one occasion, the last visit before his departure, Elizabeth tried to anticipate Darcy's destination: "You will be visiting Lady Catherine, I presume," she said.

They were taking tea in her sitting room. Ever since he first declared his intentions of visiting family, Elizabeth had been pondering his destination. The timing of it did not coincide with what she knew of his habits. From conversations with Colonel Fitzwilliam the previous spring, Elizabeth had understood Lady Catherine's nephews to visit her once a year, at Easter. Darcy's plans, as he had given, had him at Pemberley for Easter. Perhaps she was giving Colonel Fitzwilliam's words more weight than he had intended. Lady Catherine hoped Darcy would marry her daughter. If only for the sake of the match, she should demand he visit with greater frequency than once per year.

"You must tell Miss de Bourgh you are resolved never to marry," Elizabeth suggested. Her manner and tone of voice were light and teasing, but a corner of her heart was serious. Whatever her ladyship thought of a marriage, Miss de Bourgh deserved Darcy's honesty. If she, like the mother, thought Darcy's addresses more likely with each passing day, he needed to let her down.

"When you do it," Elizabeth further insisted, "take care to be dreadful."

Darcy said nothing, but he raised his eyebrows. Even that was a stronger reaction to her teasing than he was lately in the habit of giving.

"You do not wish for her to regret you," Elizabeth explained. "The sting of disappointment will be keenly felt if she desires the prize." The happy lack of disappointment in losing an unworthy object must be felt by him, in relation to herself. Though she could not discern Darcy's intentions for his own future, Elizabeth was not blind to the ample opportunities his former friendship with Mr. Gardiner had given him to renew a proposal of marriage to her. Instead, he had chosen to offer the position of his mistress, thus making her an even more unsuitable candidate for his wife than she had been at Hunsford. She had made herself, through her intemperate words, impossible to regret.

"I am sure that is excellent advice in some cases," Darcy said, "but in this one, a poor choice. Anne is my cousin. I shall have occasion to be in company with her all of our lives. I should not like to have so many inevitable meetings colored by an unpleasant episode."

"The occasion may be unpleasant," Elizabeth replied, "but I am to understand that it does not follow that all future meetings must be equally so. Disappointment turns righteous when the object desired turns out to not be so valuable." She had a petty, small-minded cousin of her own to remind her of that.

Darcy considered the doubtful wisdom of Mr. Collins as he sipped tea.

He had an especially thoughtful manner of drinking, she thought. She could see his mind working. "Family," he pronounced, "should always retain its value, regardless of whether we approve of our relations or not."

"Do you approve of Miss de Bourgh?" Elizabeth wondered aloud. Anne de Bourgh, by Elizabeth's estimation, was rude, selfish and perpetually cross. However, she must admit, she knew little of the girl. Darcy would be in a better way of knowing her good qualities. "Or," Elizabeth added, "is it that you wish her to approve of you?"

"It hardly signifies to me if I have her approval," Darcy replied easily enough. "My only interest in this score is to avoid the unpleasant scenes that must arise when one treats family in an infamous manner." Then, he shrugged. "But it is no matter; I am to visit my uncle."

"The Earl?" She immediately regretted letting the question slip from her lips. To her own ears, Elizabeth thought she sounded intimidated, when the truth was she had simply never heard of any uncles besides his mother's brother. She supposed it possible Lady Anne could have multiple brothers; old Mr. Darcy was not known to her as an only child.

But Darcy affirmed her initial assumption. "The very same. I am looking forward to the visit. It has been some time since I have been in his part of the country."

Back at her ease, Elizabeth said, "I recall Colonel Fitzwilliam once telling me that you are nearly silent at Rosings Park, yet lively enough in other places. Is your uncle's seat a place of liveliness or silence?"

Though it was a teasing question, he answered it with all sincerity: "My uncle's position in life demands deference and respect, Miss Bennet. Rather than lively or silent, I would prefer to think of myself as paying due respect to any persons' whose house I may be in."

"Then you understand why I must ask," Elizabeth laughed, "what position in life is most correctly observed through lively conversation?"

He smiled, wanly. "Yours, I would hope. Or, have I proven myself a dull companion?"

Intricate characters were the most interesting to study. He had that claim. As long as Elizabeth had to strive to understand his every look and gesture, had to constantly adjust her mental sketch of him to accommodate new information, he could not be dull. "Are you so desirous of a compliment, sir," she asked, "that you would so boldly ask for one?"

"I cannot judge that answer as an affirmative or negative of my original question," he replied.

"Rest assured, sir," Elizabeth replied, "you are far from dull. A less dull companion, I could not have asked for."

"There is that, at least," he said.

Such a pronouncement was puzzling to Elizabeth. She was of a mind to ask what he meant by it when Darcy set down his tea cup and stood. He took her hands and pulled her to her feet. There was a look in his eye that she knew very well. They both knew his visits were compelled by his lust. Sometimes, his desire occupied the back of his mind, where it sat quietly without being acted upon. Other times, he had made demands almost as soon as he entered the house. For the past fortnight, they had been locked in an unspoken duel where he pretended his desire did not exist, and she tried to flame it. Finally, she had done something to overthrow the pretense. That look in his eye told her he needed the pleasure she offered.

He cast his eye about the room, and coming to a decision, asked Elizabeth to grasp the arm rails of the settee. Expecting to be lead to the bed, or pressed against the wall, she found this to be a strange request. Fulfilling it required Elizabeth to bend slightly at the waist and hold that unusual posture. Hearing the rustle of fabric that was the fall of his breeches dropping, Elizabeth realised his intention to possess her where she stood.

One of his hands covered hers on the settee. The other, Elizabeth suspected, was stroking his rude appendage. She could hear his mounting urgency in his ragged breathing, in the labored way he spoke when he directed her to pull up her skirts and open her legs wider. Elizabeth flushed, her stockinged legs and bare derriere on display.

She should be awaiting him with keen anticipation. Instead, Elizabeth found herself feeling none of the intimacy that such acts should inspire.

"Darcy," Elizabeth said, shifting her hips away from his, "I cannot do this." She dropped her skirts, smoothing them about her legs.

His hand retreated first, then he stepped back. Elizabeth waited for the sound of rustling fabric that indicted he had fastened his breeches before she turned around.

He bowed somewhat stiffly. "I see, then I shall importune you no further."

Elizabeth resisted the urge to roll her eyes. She tried so hard to bridge the space between them, yet he was prepared to retreat at the first words of dissent he heard. "I do not mean to say that your attention is unwelcome, sir. I simply find myself not prepared for for what you are currently desiring."

"I understand perfectly well," he said. The barrier between them was so strong it was almost tangible. "It has, of course, been my hope that you would grow accustomed to my demands on your person, find it easier to bear, if not something you could enjoy."

"I did, and it has," she answered honestly. Just as he owed complete honesty to Miss de Bourgh, Elizabeth owed her honesty to Darcy. "In the past several weeks, I have felt something between us change. I know you cannot be unaware. It is my hope that leaving Town and being at our leisure in the country will provide us the opportunity to repair it."

Darcy strode to the fireplace place and back again, large steps, full of nervous energy. "It shall be my hope, as well," he said.

The visit concluded soon after that, on both sides equally uncomfortable. There was little else to be done but for Elizabeth to bid him adieu and a pleasant journey.

The phrase "absence makes the heart grow fonder" was an old adage since long before there was Elizabeth Bennet making observations about beloved sayings. This particular proverb, she had often found true. As a girl, her travels from Hertfordshire always seemed to be accompanied by an increase in her mother's affection. As a more cynical woman of London, it seemed to her that her tolerance for Lydia's vulgarity and ignorance was so great because of the length of her sister's truancy.

The state of Darcy's heart, she had feared to contemplate during her journey. Their parting had not been a promising one. Proverbial wisdom implied he would be pleased to see her. Yet, she could not deny that a month was time enough for him to reevaluate their relationship without the distraction of her pretty lips and prettier breasts. Distance was enough for his intellectual distaste to overpower his instinctual desire. She may be greeted by a man determined to cut their connection, or she may be greeted by the amiable man she met last summer.

As her carriage rolled up the drive of her little cottage at Kympton, Darcy was there to greet her. His eyes shined with pleasure as he handed her down. Her gloved hand, he brought to his lips, kissed her every knuckle, then held her palm to his chest.

"Miss Bennet," he rumbled, "you are very welcome to Kympton."

"Thank you, sir," she said sweetly.

"Come," he said, "let me give you a tour of the house. You will find it to be nothing compared to the house in Town, but I never found you to be entirely at your ease in Mayfair. I suspect you will appreciate the cottage's rustic qualities." He motioned for her manservant, Matthew, to bring her trunks inside. Robinson would get to the unpacking.

It was a smaller cottage than the one he had found for Mrs. Bennet and the girls, but having only one occupant aside from servants, that was only natural. It was a house designed to be lived in, rather than to please the aesthetics of a gentlemen, with a regular floorplan and sturdy roof. Darcy warned her the staircase would be dark after sunset and apologized for the lack of a bookroom. ("The library at Pemberley," he added, "is of course at your disposal. I shall be happy to deliver any title you wish.")

He would bring what she wished. Kympton was not like London. In Town, mistresses were expected. Every man they encountered was a wealthy gentleman who had one of his own or wished for one. Small communities in the country were less forgiving. The life she had led quite openly in Town was now a secret. She brought some of her servants from Town with her. The truth of the situation was not hidden from them, of course, but with vigilance, no one outside of the designated circle would have cause to suspect anything untoward.

The tour concluded with a trip up the narrow stairwell to her bedchamber, where Darcy exercised his increased fondness for her person. He enveloped her in his arms, kissing her with a hunger that made her gasp. Indeed, Darcy was fonder of her lips than ever before. He could not be satisfied with kisses alone. He bit her lips, suckled them. He bruised them in his desire.

At her back, his hands were industrious, loosening the layers of garments that kept her breasts hidden from sight. Her breathing quickened as he cupped her soft flesh, his fingers plucking at her nipples until they protruded, puckered and deeply pink. And then his mouth, his starved mouth, descended upon them. His lips, his tongue, his teeth. Her own need made her whimper.

Darcy gathered her skirts himself, pushing them up around her waist. Her thighs were eager to part for him now, but his hands stilled her. He stroked her with a slow, delicate, dedicated reverence before guiding Elizabeth back onto the bed, finally allowing her to wrap her legs around his waist.

He clasped her wrists above her head as he worshipped her, the burning kisses on her throat muffling the sounds of his pleasure. Her arms held aloft by his powerful hands, Elizabeth had no way of muffling her own sounds. In her ecstasy, she groaned and cried until she could do so no more, and was undone by him.

Afterwards, they made for a ludicrous picture, booted feet hanging off the bed. Darcy had spared her having to tug his tall boots down his legs, opting instead of the indignity of his breeches fallen and tangled around his knees. Elizabeth was no better, with her skirts in a pile around her waist and her bodice askew. She should have laughed at them, but her sweat-soaked, sated self was too exhausted to do anything but lie cradled in his arms. She could scarcely recall why she ever feared losing him.

Held fast against his body, Elizabeth could feel Darcy's speech as clearly as she could hear it. "I neglected to ask you," he said with contrite tones, "how you amused yourself in Town after I left."

"I did notice some preoccupation on your part," Elizabeth answered, cheekily. "I shall forgive it, as there was very little amusement to be had in Town without you." She could not help herself. She stroked his face.

"You called on Miss Lydia, I hope," Darcy suggested.

"Twice, I did," she answered. If there was ever a subject to dissolve her joy, it was this. "She has not much altered in spirit. My aunt has done the calculations and suspects her day of reckoning will be but a month hence."

"The plan to call the child a foundling," he wondered, "is that still what Miss Lydia intends for it?"

"Oh, yes. My mother will be the principal caregiver, I believe," Elizabeth said. "It will be good for her. There is much useful employment to be found on Mr. Cleese's land, but my mother eschews it all."

"She is a gentleman's widow," Darcy said, as though it were some excuse for laziness.

"She was a gossip, sir. People will talk anywhere, but there is very little news of interest among farmers and cottagers. Certainly not enough to entertain my mother. A child will give her something useful to do, and what good luck, it will be Lydia's child." Her equal in beauty and high spirits, Lydia had always been Mrs. Bennet's dearest daughter.

"Your mother welcomed the news of Miss Lydia's being found, then?"

"Yes," Elizabeth said, incredulous. "Of course. All of my family did. One need not approve of a person's actions to welcome their safe return."

"I am glad of it," he answered.

Elizabeth pressed her cheek into the soft cotton of his shirt and was content to say no more. If he was glad, she had no desire to ruin it with more news. Mary disapproved, of course, and would no longer even visit her mother and sisters at their cottage. Kitty was a more determined flirt than ever before. Jane's spirits appeared to be rising - the tone of her letters were growing steadily more cheerful, but what a thing to take solace in!

"Your aunt and uncle," Darcy prompted, "how did you find them?"

"They were very kind when I saw them," she answered. "I fear they are overburdened."

"You have a loyal family. There is very little you would not do for one another."

She laughed. "Such praise, Mr. Darcy?"

"Indeed. I was very sorry to give over your uncle's friendship."

"Perhaps if you loiter in Cheapside," Elizabeth suggested merrily, "you may find another like him."

"Men like your uncle are rare, I believe. Certainly, I had never had a friend such as him before."

"I should imagine not," Elizabeth replied. "I would have been please just to hear you speak of him highly. To have you regret him so deeply is an honor I could not have asked for."

"Most of my friends," Darcy said thoughtfully, adding " — and I include myself in this — are idle. I could not ask for a better education, and yet, I have no particular use for any of my knowledge. My lands are overseen by a steward, my investments by a solicitor. I consider myself worldly, yet what experience in the world have I truly got? Society, ballrooms. Mr. Gardiner is sensible and trustworthy. He never looked to me for guidance. I am entirely ignorant of the knowledge he needs to navigate his life."

Elizabeth found the energy to laugh, and did so. "And you enjoyed being superfluous?"

He chuckled. "I suppose I did."

Rising onto her elbows, Elizabeth looked him over. "I never would have thought it of you. I supposed you loved to be of use."

"Like my aunt," he said drolly. "There is some truth to that. You must own, however, how refreshing it can be when one is used to one attitude, and encounters another."

Conversation had roused her. Awake enough for modesty, Elizabeth adjusted her bodice to cover her breasts. Darcy hooked a finger into her gown and exposed them again. His eyes fixed on her nipples. A small droplet of pale yellow liquid collected at the apex of one of them. Darcy caught it on his thumb.

"Too vigorous," he wondered, "was I?"

"You have been everything I hoped you would be," Elizabeth admitted. "When you were last in Town," - at this, he colored - "I had come to fear first that you saw me as an obligation, then that you were interested only in your own pleasure. This welcome has laid such fears to rest."

"I am heartily ashamed of my behavior on that occasion," he confessed. "Much of my behavior, I cannot think of without abhorrence, but that day was perhaps the worst. Allow me to beg your forgiveness."

"Certainly," she sang, "you may beg my forgiveness. And I, one day, when I am feeling magnanimous, may even forgive you."

"Miss Bennet," Darcy began, warily.

But she said, "Hush," and silenced him with a kiss. "I am teasing."

"And I am in earnest," he replied. "I have…" Darcy faltered, then began again: "I have, throughout our acquaintance, failed to treat you with the respect that is your due. I am not satisfied with my behavior on that score, and I would ask of your justice that you allow my most sincere repentance some honest consideration."

"I believe," Elizabeth said, "that we have already determined that the proper means of observing my station in life is through lively conversation. If that is to be our means of measurement, you are correct, sir. You have, in certain places and at certain times, been dour, inscrutable and difficult. It could be argued that you have not payed me the proper deference at all.

"But you have chosen your companion well, sir, for she is not one to agonize over past wounds when the present provides more pleasant contemplations."

"I thank you, Miss Bennet," he answered, voice thick.

She kissed him again and, feeling herself very magnanimous indeed, took his hands and covered her breasts with his palms. He fondled her gently, coaxing more liquid to bead at the rosy tips of her nipples. She sighed when he licked it off, wrinkled her nose when he caught it on his thumb and held it to her lips.

When she grew tired of this game, Elizabeth prompted him, "You must tell me about your trip."

Darcy shrugged. "Yourself not being acquainted with any of the principals," he replied, "stories can be of little interest."

She caught his fingers where they still played with her chest. "I am well acquainted with you," Elizabeth reminded him. "I think your stories will have much to inspire my interest. You must share one, at least."

Darcy considered for a moment, then asked, "Tell me, are you familiar with the Ospedale della Pietà?"

Elizabeth, whose education in the modern languages was incomplete, ventured, "Italian?"

Darcy affirmed it, then explained, "It was once an orphanage for abandoned girls, but has since become a renowned music school located in, as you said, Italy. It has boasted of the finest violin virtuosos for many years now. Through his connections, my uncle was able to secure a performance during his house party. Never before have I heard musicians of such caliber."

"Indeed," Elizabeth said, amused, "you are more accustomed to my meager playing of the piano-forte."

"Your playing gives me great pleasure," Darcy said, "but to hear the violin compositions of Antonio Vivaldi, played by students of his own school - though he has of course been dead many years, God rest his soul - was an altogether different experience, moving in a way all of its own. I have not the skill with words to describe it."

"Then I wonder, sir," Elizabeth said, "that this is the tale you chose to relate."

"The music is such a thing of beauty that it alone makes the listener wish to relate it," Darcy said, "however impossible one might find doing it justice. More to the point, I wish to relate it to you because their playing put you in my mind rather forcefully."

"The condition in life of the musicians," Elizabeth surmised.

"Yes," he answered. "Many of them, if not all, were of illegitimate birth or some other unfortunate circumstance. Yet, they created such beauty. Their skill at their craft unparalleled."

"Tell me," she said, "were you thinking of our daughters and what beautiful creatures they may be?"

"It gave me much to think on," Darcy replied.

A country girl happiest keeping country hours, Elizabeth was soon in the habit of rising early and exploring the rugged landscape of Darcy's neighborhood. Not so careless a guardian as her father had been, Darcy expected her rambles through the countryside to be attended by a servant. Robinson made for good conversation and had an excellent eye for spotting wild flowers, though she could not name any of them. Matthew was more adventurous, willing to follow her on long walks that traversed unknown fields. To Elizabeth's eternal frustration, Darcy kept city hours even in the country. He was late to rise and late to retire. To watch him, one would think there was enjoyment to be had in burning candles alone.

She was hardly surprised the morning he came to call, and she was still abed.

"Miss Bennet!" Darcy cried, bursting into her bedchamber, "Matthew says you are ill."

"Indisposed," she corrected softly.

This calmed him somewhat. "Is there anything I can get for your relief?"

Elizabeth considered. "I thank you, no."

Chastized, Darcy supposed, "You must be wishing my absence. I shall leave you."

"No!" she bid. "No." With a sigh, Elizabeth sat up. "It is certain to be better if we say all there is to be said as early as possible."

There had been signs, of course. Like most young ladies, she knew there was a connection between her courses and her ability to bear children, though she did not quite understand how it was. When her courses came down, her womb was empty. If they did not come down, perhaps it was not. Darcy's ardor had never been troubled by her courses. He had never had any opportunity to encounter them.

Two weeks ago, on her first day in Derbyshire, her breasts had leaked.

This morning, she awoke to feel it fluttering inside of her. A child, quickened. Her courses, she could explain away. Their steady rhythm could be upset by so many things. Anxieties, illness, a change in diet. The quickening, she could not explain away.

"I am increasing."

Counting backwards, Elizabeth could see that he must have planted this child at the very beginning. Before she came to appreciate her own appetite for what he did. Before everything had become a topsy-turvy muddle. Before Lydia. Before her aunt's observation that a child would make her own situation more stable.

Darcy paled. "You are certain?" he asked. "Absolutely certain?"

"It has quickened." She smiled at his incredulous expression. "You can have no cause for such shock. You have known this would occur. It was not so long ago that you were expressing your hope for such children."

He stalked to the window, his back turned to her.

"Darcy," Elizabeth bid, "I would not have you ignore me by pretending the view is so striking."

"Do not misunderstand me," he said sharply, turning to face her. "While I understood it to be expected that our union should bear fruit, I did not hope for such. I do not hope for illegitimate children. The lives of such children do not necessarily have to be categorized by scandal and shame - that was my great revelation."

"I expect the amount of scandal and shame such a child as ours will face will depend largely on his parents. What do you intend to do to promote him?"

Darcy was silent for a long time. Then, he said, "Pray for daughters."

As always, the combined efforts of JRTT and SMAW were very necessary in bringing you this chapter. Their questions, demands for clarification and grammatical corrections were extremely useful!