Note to confused readers: I completely understand, and ALL feedback is very much welcome and appreciated. I also understand if you lose patience and quit the story entirely. It's a story I've had in my head for over a year, and I'm basically pouring out my ideas, trying to form from them a cohesive narrative. Based on your responses, I am re-editing constantly, and intend to work out the kinks before publishing. But in the meantime, do not hesitate to respond critically (just please keep it civil). Anyone who has read my Progression series and is still confused, please let me know.

And thanks as always for reading!

- Jodi L. Covey

Chapter 16

Ben Darcy had never taken his role as successor more seriously than when tasked to look after his younger siblings throughout the crisis that lay waste to their gardens and nearly claimed their cousin. He would not soon forget Father's command given with his back turned and voice choked with grief, nor his own compound of emotions in the time spent comforting those with the luxury to weep. Each day he assured them a plan was in motion and poised to succeed, and each night returned no news of little George. On the first day, when hope was plentiful, Ben had promised himself that they should never quarrel again, and should henceforth remain in a common state of goodwill and solidarity. On the second, when hope was waning, between Janie's anger with God and Malcolm's vexing abundance of faith, Ben then decided that George should be whipped soundly for causing such turmoil. And on the third, when hope was all but gone, when all three of them had fallen into silent despair, Ben vowed to give George, if alive, a sound thrashing of his own.

It was Mrs. White who had awakened them on the fourth morning with the report that Mr. Wickham had been found and was back home at last, indisposed but speedily recovering. The good news elicited a mixed reaction. While Janie and Malcolm bounced upon their beds in celebration, Ben buried his head beneath the covers and gave himself leave to cry, and from thence were his plans to take a riding crop to the boy discarded.

Though their fears were alleviated, curiosity lingered, not to be satisfied until Father appeared that evening to supply a bit more detail; that George was found and returned by a good man in very bad health, and as a gesture of benevolence and gratitude this man was therefore to remain at Pemberley as their guest, with all the others (save for Uncle Matty and Aunt Kitty) arranged to depart on the morrow. Papa went on to say that George had suffered great trauma but minimal injury, and that his wellbeing, present and future, should be their one and only concern with regards to the whole ordeal. As Papa was a reasonable man, this seemed to Ben and Malcolm a most reasonable position, while their impertinent sister raised dispute in her bid for a richer narrative, well knowing Papa's inclination to bend to her will. Ben was thus impelled to take charge once again, this time to upbraid her for, as usual, the insufferable offense of impertinence. This served to muzzle the girl, but not before she drew a promise from Papa to reveal more in good time.

Another two days passed before they were permitted to pay George a brief visit on their way to dinner, and with the firm reminder that this was a time for appreciation, not explanation. They each swore their compliance, and Mrs. White ushered them into the bedroom Ben hoped he could move back into ere long, his love for the nursery confined to nothing deeper than nostalgia; for he was a child no longer, practically a grown man, and should require his very own quarters just as soon as George grew out of his fears, both of sleeping alone and of the dark.

No sooner had Ben indulged this very agreeable notion, than he absolutely started at the sight of a room that burned a bright gold with its scattering of candles and oil lamps. Even odder was that no one else seemed to notice as Ben made a count in his head, twelve lights in all, which could not just go ignored.

"Good heavens," cried he, "Is this our room, or Pemberley Chapel on Christmas Eve?"

"Mind your manners, Master Ben," whispered the nanny.

"I think it's lovely," said Malcolm, his opinion seconded by Janie as they advanced to the chair set near George's bed, where their smiling mother sat with a book in her lap.

Said Ben, with a glance at the cover, "Robinson Crusoe again?"

"You know it is his favorite." After handing the book over to George, she met the three of them with a warm greeting and a kiss to their cheek. "Just a few minutes, darlings, and then you are to come down for dinner. You are to meet our new guest this evening, and so what is the rule?"

"Our best behavior," chimed the three of them, which earned Mamma's praise before she went away, leaving Mrs. White to observe them from afar as they moved to their cousin's bedside. George tossed the book aside. "I don't love it so much as I used to, but don't tell Aunt Lizzy."

Ben noted that George, half-covered and clad in his nightshirt, appeared not the picture of ill health per his expectations. Of a truth, he looked remarkably well, albeit a trifle pale, his uncombed hair flopped over his forehead and cheeks of a heightened color, likely due to the added warmth of ten superfluous lights. It was a compliment to his constitution, that he should look so well after three days of hardship; and Ben was just about to make this observation when little Malcolm then shouted "George!" and sprang upon the bed to throw his arms around him with unfettered exuberance. Janie was quick to join in the excitement as she clapped her hands together and gushed to their cousin how glad she was to see him, moving to present him with a rather skillful drawing she had made of him. He blushed at the gift, his face a blend of embarrassment and flattery, a reaction Ben took as one more sign (their garden maze brawl another) that George was coming to regard Janie much in the same way he himself regarded Dorothea Bingley. Ben knew his prospect to be the more prudent one, and predicted he might one day be compelled to persuade his cousin not to pursue it; for surely having Janie for a wife could improve no man's wellbeing, let alone George's.

In the next minute, Janie and Malcolm proceeded to joke and laugh as children do, and George obliged their good humor with an inflated version of his own, clearly forcing himself to express that which he did not feel. Ben, ever averse to pretense, could not but observe this display with rising disapproval. As the first born and therefore most conscientious, he would hold himself in reserve, giving the situation the dignity, but most importantly the gravity it deserved. George had not been on holiday after all, and it seemed terribly silly, if not suspect, to act as if things were even better than before he went missing.

Still, Ben Darcy was nothing if not a gentleman, and with due courtesy he welcomed George home, extending his respect to a bow and a handshake (as he could not quite decide the more fitting gesture), only to be teased by Janie for being stodgy. Ben ignored her impudence and changed the subject to that of the flickering flames sprinkled throughout the room, earning himself a sharp rebuke from both his sister and the nanny, who then gave them a two-minute warning. Left with nothing more of interest to talk about, Ben spent the time quietly, and with a heaviness of heart, till Mrs. White declared it time to bid their cousin goodnight.

As they made to leave, Malcolm gave George one last embrace and a kiss to his cheek, thanking God for bringing him back home.

"Oh, but it was not God," George whispered furtively. "It was my guardian angel."

Malcolm's brow shot up in amazement, a stark contrast to the confounded stares of his elder siblings. An exchange of whispers followed:

"Angel!" cried Malcolm. "Like the reverend talks about in church, the ones who guide and protect us!"

Ben hushed the eight-year-old with, "Nonsense! There is no such thing," while Janie took a gentler approach.

"Take him not so literally, lamb chop," said she, then to George, "Do you speak of the man Papa told us about, the ailing man who brought you home to us?"

George nodded. "Mr. Blackbeard. You are to meet him soon. And do not be fooled by his sickly appearance. I can say no more, but you had better be good like you promised Aunt Lizzy, for he punishes the wicked. Severely.

Ben remained dubious. "His name is Blackbeard—like the pirate?"

"Not his actual name, of course," replied George, "but close enough to the real thing. Edward Teach was fierce, but fair. Just like my guardian angel."

"Stop calling him that," Ben chided.

"But he is!" George insisted. "He may take a different name, or even a different form. Either way, behave yourselves. Or beware."

"You are serious," said Janie, looking a bit frightened.

"Even if guardian angels were real," Ben argued, "yours sounds not of the purity or forgiveness a true angel is made of."

"Perhaps he is of the fallen," Janie countered, "like Lucifer. Or perhaps a rebel angel of heaven as described in the Book of Revelations."

"And as he deems your conduct agreeable," George added, "so shall it be rewarded."

"Enough!" Ben demanded. "This is absurd!"

"I'll be good, George," swore Malcolm.

Said Janie, "You are always good."

"Children!" snapped Mrs. White, suddenly standing over them. "What are you talking of? Come along at once!"

She turned them away from the bed and towards the exit with the order get themselves to the drawing-room, where their parents and George's "angel" awaited them. Ben glanced back at his cousin on his wait out, reckoning the boy's constitution may not be so sturdy after all.

Elizabeth slowly paced the drawing-room while Darcy stared pensively into the blazing fireplace, the latter torn over the manner in which the impending introduction should be made, the former over the meeting itself. She had not laid eyes on Thornhaugh since the night he collapsed in her arms, far less tendered a proper welcome, opting rather to reflect on the possible consequences (both in this world and the next) of funding the disposal of a man's murdered corpse. Had Matthew an inkling of her inner turmoil, he might never have administered the draughts which left her in a feverish fog of guilt and fear, full of nightmares and Dante's visions of Hell, herself cast into the biblical lake of fire burning with brimstone.

Her mettle had been pushed to its limit in the subsequent handling of their new guest who, by now, had replaced almost all the others, their respective roles complete with George's return. Only Dr. Fitzwilliam, and only by necessity, was granted the privileged knowledge of his identity in the hours after Thornhaugh was thrown over the shoulder of their largest laborer and stowed away through a secret entrance, the servants entirely complicit in her urgent course of action. She felt the corrosion of her character with every order dispensed to her fiercely devoted staff, with her eventual return to the foyer sans explanation, with Jane's trusting countenance demanding only the assurance of her safety, with Kitty's unquestioning faith in her judgement, and with Marina's pledge of commitment to the friend she loved so well. So large a collection of so steadfast an allegiance brought an added rush of exhilaration, a most disquieting surge of delight in her power and control over others, a power used historically for evil, and so rarely for good. As to which of the two categories her actions fell, there was no clear answer, no uncompromising edict to either assuage or intensify her uncertainties. There was only William, to whom she confessed the whole truth soon after the dispensing of an acceptable narrative to the returning band of searchers.

She had almost hoped for him to condemn her actions as wicked, to definitively declare that she had done wrong, that Thornhaugh must be cast out immediately, and that a penance must then be served for the preservation of her virtue, their marriage, and their family. Such was the Mr. Darcy she fell in love with, the excellent man of high ideals, higher scruples and unyielding integrity, the man who avoided danger, who abhorred indecency, who had suffered his own crisis of conscience and served his own penance for the reward of her affection, and her hand.

But this Mr. Darcy, her husband of twelve years, father of her children, her lover, partner, and closest confidante, would not meet her tacit demands for condemnation. Rather, he looked into her watery eyes, took her into his arms and held tight as ever, reaffirming his ardent love for her, and admitting he surely would have acted no differently under the circumstances. This sentiment upheld through the night, and was repeated with fervor on the morning after his billiard-room conversation with Thornhaugh. As he related the exchange, William declared to her his one regret, that of being denied the pleasure of murdering Cullen himself, voiced so passionately as to leave her with little doubt, and far less remorse.

He had stayed with her in bed all day, holding her, reassuring her, and upon their emergence from a long and deep slumber, loving her well into the afternoon, when they were delivered the happy news in a note from Matthew, that their nephew's sufferings were, as originally diagnosed, relatively mild and markedly eased. Relieved as they were, the couple still felt the extreme heaviness of his presence under their roof, for even a dying Thornhaugh was a very real threat to their family's serenity. The man possessed an unfathomable talent for subversion, for defying all convention with as much enviable courage as contemptible mischief, and the couple had no wish to throw themselves, far less their children, into such upheaval.

And yet, because of him, a villain was dead and their nephew alive. By that virtue the Darcys could not but feel themselves beholden, a benefit he happily and instantly took to milking for all it was worth. On the man's behalf, Miss Baxter delivered to them a rather long list of requests (from the essential to the excessive), each readily fulfilled but the last and least agreeable one: "Dinner with the Darcy family." And while this might seem to the reader both simple and harmless, Pemberley's master and mistress would have preferred almost any other wish – money, properties, the estate itself – over an evening in Lord Thornhaugh's company.

Nonetheless, it too was granted after a long conversation with Matthew and Kitty, the latter most recently inducted into their small circle by association as the former kept no secrets from his wife. Their trepidation with regards to the matter was, oddly enough, at a level nowhere near that of their hosts. There was no accounting for their being so at ease when Matthew held the distinction as the one close relation to have actually witnessed Thornhaugh's deadly dive into the Thames so many years ago, an event buried so deep in the past that its sudden resurfacing with the news of his survival should have been earth-shattering. Instead, the doctor and his wife looked on this development almost as if it was expected, offering not one opinion or another about it, and asking no further details with regards to Thornhaugh's part in the boy's rescue. With that subject abandoned, the Darcys were glad to move on to the next one, that of his symptoms which Matthew pre-diagnosed as consumption, an ailment as volatile as the man himself.

"He could die in a week, a month, or five years hence," said he, "depending on its advancement. Remedies are scarce, and, from my experience, virtually ineffective. A change of climate, dietary alternatives, herbal concoctions—all benign, serving only to prolong the inevitable. This is always difficult to accept, and I imagine he would have sought a second opinion, a third, a fourth; but, however much time and money was spent searching for some miracle cure, I should call a terrible waste."

Darcy sulked at the sheer hopelessness infusing his cousin's speech. "I am surprised indeed to hear this from you, Matthew."

The censure induced a timid, albeit heartfelt response from Kitty: "As a doctor's wife, I have come to learn that truth cares not a whit for our hope, sir. Hope is everlasting, but real, actual progress is the work of lifetimes, and Matty has just barely begun! The strides he has helped to make cover not a tenth of the maladies we hope—ages from now—to finally be rid of. Lord Thornhaugh, I daresay, flies no higher above that truth than anyone else."

"He's defied death many times," Darcy stubbornly rejoined. "He can do it again."

"There is no defying this ailment," Matthew stressed, "and but a remote chance of impeding its progress. My respected colleagues would have bore it into him from the very start, would have sent him off to a desert coast with the prescription that he enjoy the time he has left, and would not have used his desperation to their own selfish ends. But there are far less reputablephysicians—a bloody mercenary lot of quacks and buffoons—who would have undoubtedly put him through hell, and for as long as the money lasted. I have seen too many examples of rich and arrogant patients convinced they can buy off the grim reaper, and of the doctors who exploit them. Were he foolish enough to submit to these charlatans, I should be unsurprised if they squeezed from him every penny on—not the hope—but the promise that he could be cured through their poisonous methods of dangerous, painful, and costly experimentation."

"We had assumed he gambled himself into insolvency," said Elizabeth, trading a rueful glance with her husband.

"And he very well might have," said Matthew. "I shall gain a better understanding of his condition and circumstances when I meet with him tomorrow, and shall do all I can for as long as he allows."

Darcy thanked him earnestly and from the heart. "Whatever he needs, Matthew…whatever its cost…"

"I know, Cousin. In the meanwhile, my prescription for you, Mr. and Mrs. Darcy, is benevolence. Do not shrink from this dinner request, nor his company in general. Let him know your children; let him see their smiles, hear their voices, their laughter, their music. It could only do him good."

"But what of their own good, Matthew?" asked Elizabeth nervously, to which her husband subjoined:

"Surely you see our side of things, Cousin, the dangers of exposing them to the sordid world he represents. We should rather not have their innocence corrupted if it can be avoided."

Matthew waved him off. "You give him too much credit, and yourselves too little. It is your example—not his—they shall follow into maturity, that shall sustain them through life. I've no doubt he will have an effect on them, perchance an unpleasant one, but children are resilient, the poorest among them exposed daily to the evils that man should never have been exposed to, and yet freely adopted. It might well do your children good to see a glimpse of that world, Darcy, to have the smallest sampling of what we had not an inkling of in our youth. What an advantage they shall have! what knowledge!"

Elizabeth raised a dubious eyebrow. "Such a broadness of mind from the man who sent his own children off with the Bingleys."

"That was my doing," said Kitty, then with a willful glance at her husband, "and I don't regret it."

"As you see," said Matthew, "my wife holds a very different opinion on the subject, but my position stands firm. Do what you think is best, but take this to heart: Lord Thornhaugh, were it even his aim to corrupt your children, possesses not a fraction of the power and influence you hold. He knows this as well as you do."

"And should laugh at our disquiet," admitted Darcy on further reflection.

"I am almost prepared to give him that satisfaction," said Elizabeth. After a few more moments of contemplation, the couple said in unison: "Almost."

And thus it was settled, the Fitzwilliams electing to retire early that evening for Matthew's study of the latest materials relating to his new patient's symptoms; for, despite a bleak prognosis, the doctor was hopeful, and always of delivering better results than that of his peers and predecessors.