Thank you for reading so far! And a special thanks to so many people who have left great comments about where my manuscript needs further cleanup! Your rock, and I will absolutely be working your suggestions into the finished draft. As always, this is an unedited first draft. Thank you for bearing with my errors. It will be professionally edited before publication.

Now, onto Chapter 14, which was a real kick to write :D

Chapter 14

Since returning from the well, Elizabeth, Rose, Mrs. Darcy, Mr. Darcy, and Col. Fitzwilliam had spent a lot of time together. Most nights, they ate informally and retired to the parlor for games.

Rose was delighted to show off her card playing skills.

That night, Mrs. Darcy suggested a poetry game. "What about, rhymes with flower?" she suggested.

"Rose!" Rose leaped up from her chair, waving an arm with a dramatic flourish. "Rhymes with Rose!"

Elizabeth smiled. "If the poem rhymes with Rose, then Rose should the judge."

"Yes! I shall!"

After some debate, they agreed each player had to construct a poem of at least eight lines, all rhyming with Rose." "

They set a time of twenty minutes, and the four players wrote. Rose, overwhelmed with curiosity, peered over the shoulders of each of the combatants.

Col. Fitzwilliam ignored her; Mr. Darcy glowered; Mrs. Darcy whispered something to the child who giggled and, pointing at one line of text, murmured a response in her mother's ear.

Elizabeth said, "It is not fair if one of us gets help from the judge while the rest are left only to the limits of our own imagination."

Mrs. Darcy chuckled and shook her head. "I fear even with the help of Lord Byron, I would still make a hash of this. I have no faculty for rhyme."

"Rose, if you are to help my aunt, then you must lend me your eyes as well," Richard said.

Rose, delighted, dashed over to her uncle. She looked over the words and wrinkled her nose. "No battles?"

"Had you asked me to rhyme with storm or duel or something suitably warlike, perhaps. But I would not so your good name with unsavory turns of phrase, Rosie."

"Never call me Rosie!"

"But the color of your cheeks is quite Rosy. Rosy Posey, my dearest niece."

"I am your only niece!"

"There is Miss Ann."

"She is old." Rose sniffed. "And sallow."

"One ought not insult our own family."

"It is not an insult if it is true."

Elizabeth said, "It is an insult if said solely at another's expense, Miss Rose. Would it please you to have others speak so of you?"

"I am not sallow. Nor mean."

"Not mean?" Elizabeth stared at her.

Rose averted her gaze. "I will not call her sallow then."

"You are the sweetest young lady," Elizabeth said, ruffling Rose's hair, which had, through the evening, become a halo of blond curls.

Thirty minutes later, Rose looked up from the clock and called time.

"One minute," Mrs. Darcy said.

"It is time."

Mrs. Darcy sighed. "You are a harsh taskmaster, dear child."

Rose said, "Shall we read?"

Mrs. Darcy said, "You begin, Miss Bennet."

Elizabeth began her poem:

"This morning I 'woke from a quiet repose,

I first rubb'd my eyes & I next blew my nose.

Rose chortled. "You do blow your nose in the morning."

"Not every morning."

"Hmmph."

Elizabeth continued:

With my Stockings & Shoes I then cover'd my toes

And proceeded to put on the rest of my Cloathes.

This was finish'd in less than an hour I suppose;

I emply'd myself next in repairing my hose—"

"No you did not!" Rose interjected. "We had breakfast and took a walk."

Elizabeth laughed. "But that is not the point of the poem. Walk does not rhyme with Rose."

"Then you ought to have chosen another subject."

"So you despise it."

"I liked the part where you blew your nose."

"It was not wholly a loss then. Shall I continue?"

"Do you blow your nose again?"

"No, I cannot use the same word twice. Those are the rules."

"Go on, then."

"By your leave." Elizabeth's lips quirked as she looked down at her paper and read again:

'Twas a work of necessity, not what I chose;

Of my sock I'd much rather have knit twenty Rows.–

"Is it the same word if it is spelled differently?"

"No," Elizabeth said. "It is a homonym."

"Well..."

"I have only a few more lines."

"Please, Miss Bennet," Col. Fitzwilliam said. "It is lovely. Very detailed."

An odd compliment, but Col. Fitzwilliam had been prone to such this past week. Had Elizabeth been at an assembly or garden party, she might have assumed some flirtatious intention on the colonel's part. But a man in his position with only a military commission would wish to court with a woman with a large allotment, which Elizabeth, with her 5,000 pounds was not.

"Thank you," Elizabeth said.

The colonel smiled, his gaze locking with hers for an uncomfortably long period. Col. Fitzwilliam had been persistent these past days in engaging Elizabeth in conversation at every appropriate opportunity.

And Mr. Darcy was staring again.

Elizabeth wished she knew what to make of it. For three nights after the well incident, she had gone to the library, hoping against hope to speak with Mr. Darcy. But Mr. Darcy did not visit. On the second night, Elizabeth had shared a glass of sherry with Mrs. Darcy, and on the third, she'd had a brief, awkward conversation with Col. Fitzwilliam. He had stood at parade attention, staring at a shelf just behind Elizabeth's left shoulder while responding stiffly to her greetings.

Elizabeth when had asked about the highwaymen, the colonel said, "Do not concern yourself, Fitzwilliam and I have the situation in hand." He had taken a breath and added. "I intend to return, within the year, to Spain."

Elizabeth, uncertain how to respond, had declared him brave and said she would keep him in her prayers.

"I cannot express my gratitude for your kindness."

Thankfully, the conversation had ended at that point. Elizabeth found the colonel to be a dashing sort, amicable and well-mannered, just the sort Lydia would pinch her cheeks for and fluttering her lashes for. Yet his gaze did not stir Elizabeth to any passion, and while she was concerned for his safety on the front, it was the concern of one acquaintance for another.

"Continue with your poem, Miss Bennet," Mr. Darcy said with a scowl.

Elizabeth shook confusion from her mind and finished the verse:

To the gardens, each morn, past where the stream flows,

As we walk, flesh grows warmer and blood freer flows

And now I believe I must come to a close,

For I find I grow stupid e'en while I compose;

If I write any longer my verse will be prose.

Col. Fitzwilliam clapped vigorously, and the others followed with less enthusiasm.

Elizabeth shook her head and laughed. "You are all too kind."

Rose bit down on the tip of her thumb, her gaze towards the ceiling. "It was not so terrible, Miss Bennet," she said. "Though you are a better teacher than a poet, I think. I enjoyed the ending."

"Thank you," Elizabeth said with a chuckle. "I believe you have the right of it. I was quite at sea."

"Next time, write a poem about being lost at sea," Rose advised. "Now, let us hear Mama's."

Mrs. Darcy chuckled. "I fear I may not do as well enough to impress you, my sweet."

"Yours is very fine. I read it."

"Shhh."

Mrs. Darcy flipped her paper over:

Never before did I quarrel with a Rose

Till now that I am told some lines to compose,

Of which I shall have little idea Go knows!–

"I wrote that part," Rose said.

"You were not supposed to tell us, dearest," Mrs. Darcy laughed. "Otherwise they would claim I had favor with the judge."

"Which you certainly have," Col. Fitzwilliam said. "If she declares you the winner, Mrs. Darcy, we cannot say it was a fair contest."

Elizabeth said, "I thought the last line was well done."

Col. Fitzwilliam smiled at her, "Now you are attempting to curry favor with the judge."

"Am I succeeding?"

"Yes," Rose declared.

Col. Fitzwilliam said, "I believe you would find favor in anyone's judgment."

Mr. Darcy said. "No one can find favor in the eyes of all."

"My, Fitz, if this is how you go about flattering a lady, I must wonder at the future of your estate."

"I do not engage in false flattery."

Elizabeth leaned back in her chair. False flattery. First, he professed to care for her, then he professed any kind word about her to be a falsehood. Or perhaps he did not believe that anyone could be wholly worthy of approbation. More the fool he.

"My sister Jane," Elizabeth said. "Mr. Darcy may be in the right about me. It is clear I have earned disapprobation from more than one person, but my eldest sister, she sees the best in all around her, and they reflect her kind regard five-fold."

"Mama, will you please finish your poem?"

"Must I?" Mrs. Darcy wiped her fingers dramatically over her forehead.

Rose laughed. "Yes! Mama, you must!"

"Then I shall," Mrs. Darcy said with a laugh.

But since that the Task is assign'd me by those

To whom Love, Affection & Gratitude owes

A ready compliance, I feign would dispose

And call befriend me the Muse who bestows

The gift of Poetry both on Friends & Foes...

"And that is all. Eight lines"

Rose stood up and clapped. "Brava!"

"Is there an ending?" Col. Fitzwilliam asked, pointing at the paper, where a few more lines were written and crossed out.

Mrs. Darcy looked down. "I started: 'May I sink into a refreshing doze, And lie my head on my welcome pillows,' but the game called for eight lines, and..." She shook her head. "I am no poetess."

"It was lovely, Mama. With allusions to the Greek."

"Were there?" Mrs. Darcy raised an eyebrow.

"Muses are Greek."

"You are right. Perhaps Richard or Fitzwilliam should like to go next."

Mr. Darcy said, "Richard, please."

"If you insist," Col. Fitzwilliam, who had folded his paper into quarters, opened it and read:

Love is very like a Rose;

Through the heart its sweet breeze blows,

Col. Fitzwilliam looked up from his poem and fixed his gaze upon Elizabeth. Was this a declaration?

Elizabeth's heart thumped. Her palms grew damp and her skin cool. Col. Fitzwilliam was dashing and amiable, the latter of which she could not say of his cousin, Mr. Darcy. Elizabeth found Colonel Fitzwilliam pleasant, brave, and handsome, but held him in no higher regard than any other man she had met who could claim those qualities.

A man's sure aims, it does depose

And so with joy: the Bosom glows,

Apart from embarrassment, which was growing more acute with each word the colonel spoke, no part of Elizabeth glowed at his presence. She did not think of him when he was absent. She did not anticipate his presence or wonder at his next words.

Why may we not as well suppose

When the heart has full repose,

Mr. Darcy had insinuated himself into her mind with his odd moments of near approbation: "I trust you." "I care." And in the library, "You are an… unusual young lady, Miss Bennet." Unusual. It was faint praise, and yet his touch had made her heart pound. Had it glowed?

No! Falling in love with Mr. Darcy, a man who – she stole a glance -was even now glowering at her as though she had poked him repeatedly in the arm with a pin while stomping on both of his feet, was an exercise in idiocy. If she offered him her heart, he would crush it. He likely wouldn't even notice what he had done.

'Tis Mutual Love the gift bestows,

Helpmate, family, hearth and home.

Rose wrinkled her nose. "It was..." Her brows furrowed, and she rubbed her index finger over her forehead. "Was it a love poem? The last line did not rhyme."

"Rose!" Mrs. Darcy snapped her fan open.

Col. Fitzwilliam folded the paper and lowered his gaze. "I am not a man of words, but of action."

Mrs. Darcy said, "I thought the poem sweet."

"And you, Miss Bennet?" Col. Fitzwilliam asked. "I hope my lack in poetic form did not gain your disapprobation."

Though still embarrassed, Elizabeth resolved she would not be cruel to the colonel. She might not love him, but she had no wish to cause him shame or heartbreak. She said, "I believe any woman who received such sentiments would find them heartfelt. No matter how well they rhymed."

Col. Fitzwilliam looked up, eyes shining. He smiled. "My deepest gratitude, Miss Bennet."

Mr. Darcy stood. "Excuse me," he said, bowing.

"Fitzwilliam!" Mrs. Darcy cocked her head. "What is the matter?"

"My deepest apologies. I fear – – I had felt poorly, earlier, and – –. I concede." He crumbled the paper on which he had written his poem. "My deepest apologies."

Mr. Darcy looked ill. He was sweating, his face was flushed, and his hands shook. His cravat, usually impeccably tied, had been loosened about the neck. His hair was also disheveled as though he had been scrubbing his fingers through it as he worked.

Elizabeth, too involved with her own poem to pay mind to the others as they worked, wondered what had brought on his illness. It must have overcome him while he was writing.

Elizabeth stood. "Is there anything you need – –?" She felt like a fool as soon as she said the words. Mr. Darcy, wealthy with a house full of servants to meet his every need would not require any help from Elizabeth.

It only highlighted the relative distances in their stations. While Elizabeth had grown up with a cook, housekeeper, and a single made for herself and her four sisters, when one grew ill, they all took turns with Mama to care for each other. If Mrs. Bennet's book of home remedies did not conquer the cold, they sent for the apothecary.

Mr. Darcy had grown up with much greater circumstances. He did not need her help, and yet, her heart reached out to him.

"No," Mr. Darcy turned on his heel, and only stopping to drop his crumpled poem into the wastebasket, left.

Col. Fitzwilliam looked grim.

"He was not ill before," Rose complained. "What of the contest?"

"Perhaps he was not showing his illness," Elizabeth said. "So as not to disappoint you."

"Hmm...," Rose mused.

Col. Fitzwilliam said, "I also concede. ""

"Very well." Rose let out a long sigh, " Mama, you are the winner. I am sorry, Miss Bennet. Yours was almost as good."

Elizabeth forced a smile. She was uncertain what happened, but she felt responsible. What had made Mr. Darcy ill? And the Col.'s reaction had been odd too.

Rose and her mother hugged.

Mrs. Darcy noted the late hour and said she was soon to bed. After straightening up the parlor, Elizabeth and Rose started for the door. Rose stopped beside the wastebasket and reached inside, pulling out the crumbled poem Mr. Darcy had discarded.

"He does not wish us to read that," Elizabeth said, but she gave the admonishment with little heat. She also was curious about what Mr. Darcy had written.

"He did not forbid us." Rose said, "You do not have to read it, but I should like to see if my brother would have won, had he had stayed."

Rose pushed the crumbled paper up into her sleeve and grasped Elizabeth hand.

XYXYXYX

Thank you for reading! These poems are actually lifted and somewhat modified from a poetry game that Jane Austen played with her family, also to rhyme with rose (though not the person.) When I saw this, I couldn't resist adding it!

Next chapter coming soon!

V