A/N: Firstly, let me just say quickly that ODC stands for Our Dear Couple and to the best of my knowledge is used exclusively in reference to Pride and Prejudice. Sorry, I should have said when I posted it, it's definitely more than a little obscure.

To EngLitLover, and also to a few other people who have asked why Elizabeth and Darcy aren't already engaged/married: a hasty, sudden marriage would suggest more impropriety than a long, open courtship. Rushed marriages usually meant that the family or lady had reason to fear disgrace or abandonment. Hint: a surprising amount of healthy babies were born 'premature', about six months after their parents were wedded. As this is not an issue for E/D, there is nothing to be gained by becoming engaged immediately, and in fact it would throw suspicion on their conduct.

~Eleanor


Caroline Bingley was in no mood to think charitably of her brother when he returned to Netherfield that day. Having declared her disinterest in visiting with the Bennets, she had been irked to discover that Charles was perfectly happy to visit them without her. Worse, he had successfully managed to enlist both Mr Darcy and the Colonel to join him.

'Surely you cannot all mean to go?' she had said in astonishment when the three assembled in the entrance hall to don their outerwear.

Charles said that they did and Miss Bingley turned her incredulous gaze on Mr Darcy.

'I am sure Mr Darcy cannot wish to accompany you.'

'You are mistaken, Miss Bingley,' Darcy had said as he adjusted his gloves so they did not bunch at his cuffs.

'Indeed!' Miss Bingley said, her brows raised. 'I had not thought you to be so eager for the company of the Misses Bennet, Mr Darcy – though the second eldest does have such fine eyes.'

Darcy stiffened. Bingley turned to him with an expression that was equal parts amusement and surprise but showed no intention of coming to his aid. It was the Colonel rescued him, interjecting with his usual good charm,

'I confess, madam, I asked my cousin to spare time for the visit. I have heard a great deal about the Bennets and wished particularly to make their acquaintance. You must know too well my cousin's unfailing courtesy and habit of solicitousness to think that he could refuse such a request.'

Miss Bingley could not contest the Colonel's declaration without giving serious insult to the person whom she wished least to offend, and was thereby forced to concede, but it was with no particular grace that she released the gentlemen to their outing and swept away to the music room.

She was excessively distressed by the Colonel's words, though she had by no means accepted their truthfulness; she thought it very likely that he was excusing one of his companions – but which one? Her brother was the most likely culprit, but that conclusion did not satisfy her. Charles had the most obvious motivation, to be sure, but he had not taken credit for the idea when she questioned the gentlemen and it was unlike him to disguise his intentions; he was open in everything, and almost irritatingly so in the case of Jane Bennet. And yet Darcy would surely have no desire to visit more often than was necessitated by the bonds of courtesy. It did not make sense.

Perhaps the Colonel had been in earnest then in expressing his desire to make the acquaintance of the Bennets, she mused. But that raised more questions than it answered: why should the Colonel wish to make the acquaintance of that family in particular? He must have heard something of them, but she could not imagine what he might have heard which so intrigued him. It would not have surprised her if Charles had written in the praise of the eldest, but her brother, shocking correspondent that he was, certainly had not written the Colonel since their arrival in Hertfordshire, and even if he had it would hardly have been enough to prompt the Colonel's unexpected visit. And there was another point of suspicion; why had the Colonel come at all? He had been with his regiment, and not expected to get leave until Easter; to have gone to the trouble of leaving now, he must have felt the need to be urgent.

The same vexing questions and leading resolutions followed one another in circles until she stopped quite still in the centre of the music room.

Mr Darcy had once remarked that a lady's imagination was very rapid, but in this instance he was wrong; Caroline Bingley's imagination in that instant defied lightning to travel at such a speed through her muddled thoughts towards so unpleasant a conclusion.

Mr Darcy had formed a serious attachment to that insufferable girl.

It was impossible – every part of her rebelled against the very notion – but like any dreadful thing, the idea fixed itself in her mind until she could no more persuade herself of its falseness than she could quash the horror that swelled in her breast at the prospect of Mr Darcy marrying that hoyden.

It was some minutes later that Miss Bingley recalled her senses well enough to think rationally about the problem. Something must be done to prevent it, of that she was certain. She had not the slightest idea how such a thing might be accomplished though and her discomposure was still too great to think of a feasible solution at the present time. Therefore, distressed and mystified anew by the fixation apparently inspired by that harpy Elizabeth Bennet and her ridiculous sisters – excepting of course her dear Jane, whose only fault must be her unfortunate relations – she settled herself at the pianoforte and, audaciously neglecting to observe the piano marking printed clearly beneath the first note, proceeded repeatedly to butcher Rondo alla Turca. It was only when Louisa descended on the music room in vexation that she tired of Mozart and allowed herself to be persuaded to play something lighter; but it was not long after that that she tired of music altogether and was reduced to pacing the length of the room, smacking a rolled up piece of sheet music against her palm and snapping at Louisa whenever she spoke.

By the time the gentlemen returned, Miss Bingley's irritation had risen roughly in proportion to her state of restlessness until she needed only the slightest inducement to unleash it. The inducement came in the form of one of her brother's very first remarks upon the gentlemen's joining her and Louisa in the music room. After making the usual vague enquiries as to her enjoyment of the morning – which she answered without a word of the truth as she rang for tea – Charles described the gentlemen's own visit, apparently under the mistaken impression that she wanted to hear it.

'You will be glad to hear that Miss Elizabeth is recovering well, sister,' said Charles, looking about the room as though he had never before seen the flocked paper hangings she had so carefully selected upon their being installed in Netherfield. 'The rest of the family is quite well, and they enquired after you and Louisa, of course. I conveyed your apologies, and they quite understood,' – she doubted it – 'but they would have been very pleased to see you. Indeed, it was a very pleasant visit; you should have enjoyed it, I am sure, but I have invited the Bennets to dinner on Saturday so you shall have the opportunity to see them then.'

This information he dropped very casually while the tea was being brought in, as if by feigning its unimportance she might be inclined to forgive him the issuing of an invitation without consulting her first. Caroline felt a slight twitch about her left eye as she struggled to keep her countenance.

'You have invited the Bennets to dinner, Charles?' she repeated, preparing her sister's tea – lemon, no sugar – and handing it to the waiting footman.

'Yes, and—'

'How do you take your tea, Colonel?' she interrupted. Adding milk at his request, she continued, 'This Saturday, brother?'

'Yes, I thought—'

'Five days hence?' she said, not requiring instruction to prepare Mr Darcy's tea – black, with sugar.

'Well, yes—' said Bingley, watching his sister deliberately pass over the sugar tongs as she fixed his tea.

'I see,' she said, skewering him with a gimlet-eyed stare as she handed the footman his plain black tea, daring him to object. He did not.

'I thought—'

'Charles,' Caroline said with a saccharine smile, quite missing the alarm in the eyes of her guests as she dismissed the footman with a wave. 'Charles, dear, I believe you said you would show me where I might find the second volume of my book this morning. I cannot seem to locate it.'

Bingley was taken aback.

'Indeed?' replied her brother with genuine confusion. 'What book is that? I am sure Darcy would know better than I—'

'Charles, Mr Darcy is a guest in our house; would you have him play the footman?'

Her eye twitched again as she fixed Charles with a look so sweet he could not fail to discern its meaning. He wilted slightly and rose to follow her from the room.

Not two minutes had passed before the remaining occupants of the room heard a muffled shriek and the faint double thunk of an object colliding with the wall and falling. They sat in silence, each examining his or her part of the room with unprecedented interest. Darcy sipped his tea. This was a very unattractive room really. The wall hangings were garish and overwhelming; the cream ground work was interrupted by brassy gold borders designed to look like ornate curtain rods, from which swathes of violently purple fabric were depicted hanging artfully. He wondered how he had never observed it before.

Eventually he noticed the Colonel attempting to catch his eye. He raised one brow in enquiry and Fitzwilliam inclined his head slightly towards the door with a questioning look. Darcy shook his head minutely.

Another minute passed without apparent incident and Darcy began to wonder if perhaps silence was not more worrying than the sounds of an argument. He had just begun to regret his decision to keep well away from it when he heard footsteps in the hall and the pair reappeared, neither looking much the worse for wear, thankfully.

'Louisa, come,' said Caroline. 'The morning is not yet at an end; we must call at Lucas Lodge.'

Louisa had not the slightest idea of her sister's motives but, having no intention of remaining in ignorance, rose and followed her from the room immediately. The gentlemen sat silently in the residual awkwardness, adhering to their tea, before Bingley broke the tension his sisters had left in their wake.

'She has gone to invite the Lucases join us on Saturday. I am to invite the officers tomorrow; Colonel Forster and some others,' he said by way of explanation. Darcy could not conceal his surprise and his cousin met his eye with a baffled frown. Bingley gave a Gallic shrug and by unspoken mutual agreement the subject was dropped.[1]


Elizabeth, having retired very early and risen later than was her wont, was feeling rather better come Tuesday morning. It was to the relief of all that her mood improved with her health. Her mother, in particular, was well served by the restitution of her daughter's good temperament, for it resulted in Elizabeth's magnanimous agreement to take up her work in the récamier and not the bergère, and even to accept the arrangement of a blanket across her lap. [2] If her tractability had little to do with her mother's insistence and a great deal to do with her father's concern, reluctantly expressed by a beseeching look over breakfast, it mattered not to either lady. Mrs Bennet was satisfied, and Elizabeth was content to play the repentant invalid for one more day in the knowledge that, as the gentlemen of Netherfield had already called yesterday and the Bennets had not yet repaid the call, there could be no further threat of humiliation from that quarter; the rest of their callers could be no one but their old friends, most of whom had seen Elizabeth in many more embarrassing positions than the one she currently occupied.

She was proved almost instantly wrong.

No sooner than she and her mother and Jane had all settled in the sitting room – Mary could not be persuaded to leave off her music practice for such irrelevant visitors as they might expect to receive that day – than the sounds of a squabble erupted above them and Mrs Bennet was summoned upstairs by the habitually distressed Hill to quell the disagreement. This she did with neither grace nor objectivity, delivering a ruling which left nobody satisfied except Lydia, who flounced downstairs with all the insouciance of the perpetually vindicated. Kitty put up a strenuous objection, to which Mrs Bennet gave no consequence at all, and the pair separated with a great deal of resentment on either side.

Two doors on the upper floor slammed in quick succession. In the scant moment of stillness that followed, Lizzy caught Jane's eye. The former raised a brow, the latter tilted her head in silent reproach, and then Kitty's wails rang out from above stairs.

'Well,' said Lydia as she appeared in the doorway. 'Kitty is a frightful bore, is she not? I cannot think what has upset her so.'

'Can you not?' said Lizzy, exchanging a glance with Jane. The corner of Jane's mouth quirked slightly and she gave Lizzy a pointed look before rising gracefully and quitting the room in search of Kitty.

'Really, Lydia, there is no cause to be so unkind,' Lizzy began reprovingly.

'La! It is not unkind; she does not look well in that gown, I do not see why I should not have it,' Lydia said obdurately as she crossed the room and settled herself against the side of the centre window, perching cheerfully on the deep, cushioned sill. Ignoring her sister's further remonstrations, she peered out of the window in search of visitors, then glanced over at the bracket clock on the mantelpiece, frowning.

Lizzy's eyes narrowed in suspicion and she broke off.

'Are you expecting someone, Lydia?'

Lydia seemed surprised to have been observed, despite having been in full view of her sister.

'Why, Mr Wickham of course, and Denny if he can get away.'

'Mr Wickham is coming?' said Elizabeth, alarmed; regardless of her feelings towards that gentleman, her vanity was sufficiently developed as to be mortified by the prospect of his seeing her in such a state, blanketed and reclining downstairs. 'When? Whatever for?'

'Oh to see you, I expect; he said he would call this morning,' said Lydia carelessly as she peeped through the window again before turning back to her sister. 'Do not look at me like that! It is quite right that he should call to see if you are well; he is our friend, Lizzy—'

Elizabeth's surprise at being admonished by Lydia of all people did not hinder the speed of her response, or of the rapid turn of mind which Lydia's words inspired; embarrassment gave way almost immediately to suspicion, and suspicion to a quick and unforgiving allocation of fault.

'Why should he need to see if I am well?' asked Elizabeth with determined calm. Lydia did not respond. 'He was not even in the county when I was injured; how should Mr Wickham know that I have been unwell? Lydia—'

'Oh, I imagine that he must have heard it from Mr Denny or one of the others when he returned,' Lydia suggested guilelessly. It was just as well that Lydia's nature did not ordinarily tend towards secrecy, for she was no liar at all.

'Indeed,' said Elizabeth with a pleasantness she did not feel. 'And how might Mr Denny have heard of the incident?'

'I did not say it must have been Mr Denny; it could have been one of the other militiamen—'

'One of the other militiamen? By your account, Lydia, Mr Wickham might have heard this from any person in the militia, and you know not which one,' said Elizabeth, 'which raises the question of how the rest of the militia might have become acquainted with the story. Have you an explanation for that, Lydia?'

Lydia turned her wide-eyed gaze on Lizzy; Elizabeth ignored it.

'Lydia, you will tell me immediately how our friends came to know about my accident or I shall tell Father you have exceeded your pin money again and borrowed from mine.'

Lydia had no recourse but to reveal everything.

'Kitty and I went to my Aunt Phillips' last night after dinner for a card party,' said she, 'and Colonel Forster was there, and Wickham and Denny too, and they asked after you for they thought you would be there—'

'Am I to believe that our aunt would willingly propagate a story that poses so much danger to my reputation?'

'You seem very willing to believe that I have done so—and I your sister!' said Lydia indignantly.

'Perhaps if you made the slightest attempt to exculpate yourself—'

'I told you they heard it at Mrs Phillips'—'

'But Mrs Phillips has no cause to know, or to tell anyone if she did know.'

'Well there you are wrong, Lizzy. Aunt Phillips knows everything, and why should she not?'

Elizabeth felt a growing sense of alarm; every question seemed to reveal another suspect.

'How could she know? Does she know of Mr Darcy's involvement?'

'Why, of course; she called here on Friday, Lizzy, when you were still asleep—'

'And you told her,' said Elizabeth, her eyes narrowed.

'I did not!' Lydia squawked, finally forsaking whatever loyalties had kept her quiet thus far. 'Mama insisted that she should be the one to tell her.'

Any sense of triumph Elizabeth might have felt at having finally extricated the truth from Lydia was trumped by a greater disturbance to her sensibilities.

'Mama? Mama told Mrs Phillips,' Lizzy repeated, mortified. 'And Mrs Phillips told our friends? Does the whole of Meryton know?'

Lydia decided that she need not specify that Mrs Phillips had – in deference to Mrs Bennet's claims upon her silence – only said that Lizzy had been injured in very unusual circumstances while in the company of a certain gentleman with whom they were all acquainted, and that Lydia herself had been responsible for enlightening them further. She nodded. Lizzy's lips thinned and, standing, she swept out of the room like Persephone marching into the world below, blanket trailing behind her and a wintery chill in her wake.


The argument that followed was beneath the dignity of both of the women involved. Mr Bennet emerged from his book room for a scant minute, meaning to tell Kitty and Lydia that no dress, however pretty, could possibly be worthy of such a quarrel, and was most surprised to see the pair in the entryway, helping each other into spencers and bonnets, the latter rather more hastily than the former.

'What on earth is going on?' Mr Bennet said, looking between his two youngest girls and the staircase, from which the aggravated sentiments of the duellists still rang out.

'Kitty and I want to go for a walk,' Lydia announced with hurried exuberance. Kitty, Mr Bennet noted, did not look remotely pleased with the prospect of a walk, and he wondered for a moment how Lydia had persuaded her to come; he was quite sure they had been quarrelling not half an hour ago.

'I see,' said Mr Bennet, eyeing his daughters, the one vaguely mulish and the other decidedly guilty. He was not inclined to prevent their excursion, despite the calamity that had recently befallen one of his daughters on just such an outing, reasoning that Kitty's recalcitrance would serve well enough, and likely better than a caution, to dissuade Lydia from walking with any speed or for any great distance.

An undignified shriek drew his attention upwards, and he had just turned towards the stairs, intent on the restoration of quiet, when three things happened at once: the first was that he suddenly recalled that the usual culprits were halfway out of the door, and making almost no noise at all; the second was that he realised that Jane and Mary must be excluded from the subsequent list of suspects out of acknowledgement of their respective characters, and therefore, that it could be no one but his wife and Lizzy arguing; and the third was that a door slammed above him and the sound of footsteps came imminently in the direction of the staircase.

Naturally, Mr Bennet decided that the best course of action was a prompt and silent retreat to the safety of his book room.


[1] Gallic shrug: Gallic meaning relating to or characteristic of the French. A Gallic shrug is the universally recognised combination of gestures: the raising of the open hands to say 'I don't know', combined with the raising of the shoulders in an exaggeration of the first part of a shrug, the tilting of the head to one side or the other, and the pushing out of the lower lip in a moue, which is a cross between a pout and a grimace.

[2] Work: sewing. Bergère: an enclosed French armchair, very popular during the Regency.