Chapter 43

A/N: If you liked drunk Darcy of Netherfield, I give you concussed, knocked-out Darcy. Not really original, but a worthy enough plot device for this ever-growing and frustrating arc of ridiculousness. Do recall from the end of the last chapter how Mr. Darcy and his servant seemed inclined to get into some kind of ruckus come the next morning.

"Oh, Fitzwilliam! Good heavens! Mrs. Kirkland, Mrs. Kirkland come back at once!"

Damn. He turned around to look for the younger Kirkland only to see a swiftly closed door down the corridor behind him. He cannot hide from her all day. Knowing Kirkland's mother would surely catch-up to the son, Darcy allowed a little satisfaction to materialize on his face… until he felt pain above his cheek. His expression became a wince just as Elizabeth came to him from behind the breakfast table with her hands outstretched and her face aghast. He should have known better than to glimpse in the breakfast room to see if she was from her bed yet. He should have hidden just as Kirkland had done and gone straight to his chamber though he had a strange feeling he did not know precisely where it was.

As delicate fingers reached up and caressed his brow, he closed his eyes in pleasure thinking he might gladly take a strike to the face every morning if this was to be his treatment. Well, in truth, he closed only one eye; the other was already fast-swollen shut thanks to Kirkland's upward cut. Darcy should have agreed when Kirkland suggested they use the mufflers, but hindsight, even hindsight from only one properly blinking eye, was always frustratingly clearer… and even if in hindsight things were once clear, they certainly were not now. The world was off-kilter, and everything was doubled.

"Oh, what happened? Does it hurt? Oh, I am sure it does." Elizabeth dropped her fingers and turned away shrieking for the housekeeper again. Her voice reminded him of Mrs. Bennet's from the way she was going on, and he almost laughed thinking how mortified she might be if he told her. However… really… he could ignore her frantic voice for a few more moments, he just wanted her to take her dainty, silky fingertips and place them again upon his face; it was the loveliest taste of pleasure anytime she touched him, especially when with care and attention and of her own will.

He recalled when in Meryton how she once nursed his hand after he had injured it planting George Wickham a well-deserved facer… oh, that bugger must importune every good thought at the most inopportune of times – do not think on that man –

"– william. Fitzwilliam… husband? Sir? Here, please sit down. Oh, Mrs. Kirkland, do you suppose his head, his brain, is injured? He has not said one word." He tracked Elizabeth's face as she fussed over him as he realized he was now seated in a chair.

Kirkland's mother had somehow entered the room and was assessing him from behind each of Elizabeth's left shoulders. "Master Fitzwilliam… come laddie dear, can ye name th' day an' year?"

This should not be such a difficult answer; he finally settled on something reasonable and likely correct, and simply said, "Monday in the year eighteen hundred and ten."

At Elizabeth's gasp, he supposed he was wrong. But he did not truly care. Whatever the year was, it did not matter if he was married to the delectable Elizabeth Bennet – the woman who had intrigued him so that by the end of the first night he met her with her impertinent, delightful, fearless, and beautiful self, he was sure she planted some seed somewhere buried deep within his soul of the wanting which grew every day. He opened his mouth to tell her all this since he was not sure he really ever had, but just as he was deciphering which Elizabeth was the real Elizabeth and which was her twin – for when had she brought a twin sister into their home, he wondered – Mrs. Kirkland's gasp drew his attention away. That good woman's subsequent screech made him want to wince and laugh all at once. Kirkland had it coming now.

"Francis Archibald Kirkland!"

Darcy almost smirked and was about to crow at the thought of Kirkland being scolded by his mother at the ripe age of – well Darcy could not recall their age just now – but the way the twin Elizabeths and now a pair of materialized Mr. Johnsons were staring at him – all with incredulity – he thought it prudent to keep his mouth sealed.

Darcy was glad he had pressed his lips together tightly, otherwise, he might have let off quite the guffaw as Kirkland entered the room just in time to have his mother hit him upon the back of his already throttled head.

Not even wincing from the blow – damn him – Kirkland said, "Mr. Johnson, Darcy is in a bad way. Went unconscious for a good spell."

Darcy did have to scoff at this and object forthwith. Kirkland should know better as a gentleman and a friend as to make him sound inferior before Elizabeth, even if it were true that Darcy was the one who took the hardest blow. Darcy tried to stand in opposition to the claim as to prove he was just fine and strong, and said, or ventured to say without slurred speech, "Say now, Archie, just 'cause you got in one fortunate hit, and it was indeed luck, it does not mean you should be declared the vict –"

"Master Fitzwilliam – " Mr. Johnson's voice could still make him shudder as if he were a disreputable youth. Darcy stilled, pinched his mouth, and returned his derriere to the seat of his chair as best as he could before he lost his balance.

"Fitz, you know damned well I scored more than one point over you; furthermore –"

"Ye dunderheids! I shoods knock ye both in th' head if ye had nae dain it so well yourselves. They shaa be no mair scorin' points if ye know what's good for ye!" Mrs. Kirkland's shameless brogue and glare would have rankled more if the noise of everyone was not beginning to increase the slicing of pain between his ears. It was as if a little butcher were carving up his brains from the inside and directly behind his eye.

"Very well, then! Let us settle this later, peaceably preferably." Elizabeth's low voice soothed on its own as it stopped anyone else from speaking. He admired her as she held her hand up to everyone in a bid for them to cease. Staring on that delicate hand, her form sharpened into a single Elizabeth. And, she, of course, looked quite lovely, so very lovely in her blue velvet dress. As she leaned over to run those coveted fingers again over his face and shoulder, he took careful care to explore the vantage she granted of her fine and delectable person. He had never seen this particular dress and wondered if he owed his current thanks to the dressmaker in London or Lambton – oh yes, she has not been to Pemberley. How he wished to take her there and install her in the mistress's chambers. He could lock her in his rooms for a month, a year, and forever! He had surely had years upon year's worth of imaginings which he would be happy to play out. The fields might burn for all he cared if he could see her take up her place there properly as his wife.

Alas, he supposed they were in Skye – hence Kirkland. He would love Kirkland as a brother if the man did not always insist on besting him so well –"

His bride's fingers were now stroking his jaw, and again his one open eye fell closed. No wonder he had married her. Her touch made him feel things he had never imagined mortal men were meant to feel. He could not resist temptation in his present state thinking of her creamy exposed skin, and it just seemed natural to allow his head to fall forward a little into the décolletage right in front of his face – surely her skin there was even softer than that of the skin of her hands upon his cheek.

Missing his aim entirely, he caught himself with a painful jerk before he fell to the floor. How embarrassing.

"Fitzwilliam? Oh! Please, look at me, my love? Please, please, I pray, open your eyes... or rather open the eye that you can?"

Her touch and her person, so close to his as it was, made him want to try leaning forward and maybe finding his aim this time. Yes, a good nap upon his wife would be just the thing to fix him up, and keeping his eyes closed certainly dulled the pain of his brains being cut into a thousand small pieces within his skull.

"Fitzwilliam… Will… please open your eyes for me? I beg you." He tried not to feel giddy at the desperate sound of her voice.

Finally forcing his one eye open in response to such a concerned, sweet plea, he thought she seemed overly anxious for just a little scratch. Her distress he supposed he could not like, and it would not do. Knowing he likely failed, he tried to give her a winning grin if naught only to calm her.

"Ah, very good. I know it hurts. Keep your good eye open. Now, do you know who I am?"

Of course, of course, he knew who she was! "You… you are my loveliest Lizzy. My dearest Elizabeth. You are my fine-bodied, bloody saucy minx, who loves to try my patience and will likely drive me to bedlam or to my grave in desperation, but I shall like to tell you a great secret of what you do to me that is not at all 'prop–"

Suddenly Elizabeth's finger silenced his lips. He watched the white of her eyes blossom around her pretty irises, and his now keen vision trailed the rosy hue spreading across her skin all the way down to her lovely heaving breasts. He liked very much when he could make her blush.

"Ye would think he is foxed! Oh, Fitz, my apologies. I knew I shood ha'e went for the mufflers and –" Darcy kept his eyes open enough to see Elizabeth hold her hand up to forestall Kirkland from making more of an arse out of himself.

"Mr. Kirkland, am I to understand you and my husband engaged in fighting this morning?"

"Aye, Mrs. Darcy. But, it was a proper contest, I assure you, madam."

Elizabeth turned her survey back to Darcy. Her dark eyes and her furrowed brow were mayhap a little disapproving, but provided she kept her hands on him and soothed his hurts, she could frown until her heart was content. "Fitzwilliam, yes, I am your Elizabeth. Do you recall when we married? It was only the evening before we mentioned the date of our wedding, can you recall it for me?"

"The Second of December in the year Eighteen-Hundred-and-Eleven. The day in which you acquired your castle with a moat."

"Yes. Very good. Now, can you tell me the present day and year?"

The knife sharpening pitch increased again in his head. "I do not think I should like to."

Elizabeth did not look to him again and moved her fingers away. Perhaps he should have answered her, but she began giving instructions to everyone, and he again thought of Mrs. Bennet, and the way Mrs. Bennet took command of Longbourn's drawing room. That matron ordered her daughters and servants about like his cousin ordered his troops. He should have liked to laugh except he thought it not a good time.

"Mr. Darcy, sir?" Darcy did not really feel like entertaining Mr. Johnson with whatever it was the man wanted and so began to allow his head to fall to the side as if to sleep so he might not have to answer. "Master Fitzwilliam!" Darcy fastened to attention and instantly regretted it; he opened his eye to glare thinking a glare was a worthwhile reprimand enough without having to speak – not that he would dare reprimand his father's valet.

"Very good, Mr. Darcy. Now, sit up and keep your eye open. Mrs. Darcy and I will help remove you to the sitting room."

"Just Lizzy; much softer."

"We shall both assist you." Blasted Mr. Johnson did not even give him the courtesy of a warning before he hauled him to his feet. "Mr. Darcy, sir, here, let us walk. Follow your wife now and take her arm. Mr. Kirkland, you come along too. Mrs. Kirkland, if you would be as kind as to fetch Miss Harris as Mrs. Darcy has requested."

A turn down the corridor, a walk through a darkened great room, and Darcy found himself soon slumped on a comfortable sofa with his wife. All the rest of them were talking as some of them came and went, but they could go to Hades for all he cared. His head was now resting on Elizabeth's shoulder, and his hand laid enticingly close to her thigh. And now – he inched his fingers closer – and closer. Huzzah! He would have like to close his eye and perhaps caress his wife's leg in peace, but every so often as they were all discussing him, either Elizabeth or Mr. Johnson would force him to look upon them and attend. It was all so vexing, to say the least. And, if they asked him any more questions he could not answer, he was liable to sack them all – except Lizzy. One cannot sack a wife, he supposed.

Lizzy's maid came – that disapproving young woman whom he was certain disliked him – though he could not care, not really – and then she left again under some instruction. When the dratted maid returned with a small basket, Elizabeth blessedly dismissed them all.

"Thank you." He whispered. "They are an awfully intrusive lot, are they not?"

"Come, now. I do not believe you truly mean that." Her small laugh made him feel as if he could float away to the heavens – just she and he and their cozy, intimate sofa. He was sure he smiled indiscreetly as she adjusted his head to an advantageous position for his line of sight and an easier position for her to apply a cold, wet handkerchief to his brow. "You are not a resentful master. Fitzwilliam, I am not sure how much of the last hour-half you have understood, but you must allow me to tend to your eye now. And, you must prove you can stay awake for the next several hours, otherwise, Mr. Johnson will be riding out for the physician though I am not convinced I should not send him out even now. Do you understand what I am saying?"

"I am not fond of doctors and their nonsense."

"And so, Mr. Johnson has said, and that alone should be the more incentive for you. Under any other circumstance, I would insist you be taken to your chamber, but Mr. Johnson thinks you will have a better time of remaining awake if you are not made too comfortable. However, you must allow me to do something about the swelling and cut across your brow. I have something which is just the thing to tend you. Here, please turn toward me and sit up straight. Can you?"

Darcy was loath to leave the comfort of her body where he leaned and only raised his head when her hands lifted his face for him. Considerately whispering as she helped him hold his head, she said, "I cannot keep you in place and tend to your injury. You shall have to help me, can you?"

"Must I?" If he would have been half-mindful as to hear the whine in his own voice, he would have been humiliated.

His petulance must have been just the thing to garner her sympathy and endear her indulgence as her gentle and compassionate smile overwhelmed him. She cupped his jaw in support. "If you promise to keep awake, you may lie down here instead of sitting while I see to your eye, but just for a moment."

By here, Darcy took it to mean an open invitation to lie down just as he was, and without hesitation, he laid his head in his wife's lap, his feet now hanging off the edge of the one-armed sofa. It seemed in his concussed state, he had no shame, because why should anyone care one iota for how he conducted himself while in privacy with his wife. "This should make it easy, eh?" He made to wink, but with an eye already puffy, purple, and closed, the effect was lost. He nestled in the soft fabric of Elizabeth's skirts.

He felt her go still and was just beginning to feel awkward regret even in his foggy, undisciplined head, and then she began to speak. "Well, yes this will work just fine. But, allow me to move your head just a bit… yes, there, that is, um better, now open your eyes please, the best you can."

She was blushing again, and as he looked over his pink handiwork, her form and expression sharpened in his sight again into his single-facaded, perfect wife.

He grinned up at her despite the hurt radiating from his eye down through his now-taught cheek. "There is only one of you now, my dear – sometimes there are two – and your cheeks are very red."

"Well, try having a grown person lying in your lap, sir."

"Sounds perfectly delightful to me. You are welcome in mine anytime it strikes your fancy." He locked his one good eye into both of hers and suppressed the urge to try again to wink.

"I think I ought to send for the doctor. You were seeing two of me?"

"Only one now, so please, no. It has been months since I have felt this well and happy. Please do not ruin it for me, I would beg you." He could not resist to again burrow the back of his head further into the velvet over the tops of her soft thighs, and the wicked thought settled into his already-warped mind that he would like to lay his head right in this place every night – sans all this fabric and petticoats, of course.

Perhaps the bewitching woman read his thoughts, felt his actions too bold, or simply did not appreciate his words, because before he pondered what he might do with his head just situated so, his oh-so compassionate wife broke away from his gaze and then drew the linen again to his brow, pressing down with much-too-much firmness.

"Bloody Christ in heaven!"

Her other hand, much too brawny for a woman of her size, now restrained him from scrambling away from her as a stinging sensation went through his face.

"We cannot have you perish from infection, now can we? It is whiskey. I would offer you some to drink rather than to just pour it on your head, but I cannot imagine that it is advisable when you are hardly acting like yourself, Mr. Darcy."

"I am perfectly fine." It came out as a hoarse, slurred grumble, and really, he was not fine at all. She again pressed the alcohol-soaked linen to where Kirkland's blow must have broken open his skin. He seethed through his teeth telling himself more than her, "I am perfectly myself, madam."

She did take some pity on him just then and removed the cloth. "Here, lie still. This will feel much better, I promise."

He was still in her lap though now all he could think of was the pain until she smoothed some ointment over his cut and wrapped a linen shroud around his head. "I find it very odd that you were fighting with a servant. I have seen you sometimes fence with a few of the men, but to all-out brawl with a servant, I would have not thought it of you, ever."

"Kirkland is hardly a servant. And, pugilism, in my opinion, is a fine art for any man, not just a gentleman." The pain lancing his face, his eye, and the loud cutting between his ears was sobering, and so he thought to add in defense of his friend, "But, Kirkland is a gentleman by not only manner, but by the same education as I, myself, was granted by my father, and he is of the strongest moral conviction; I will have you know it, madam. He has proven himself as a steady and loyal friend."

"If he is not a servant, then why was he in livery when we arrived?"

"Oh, not much staff here, and his mother wished for us to be properly greeted while he thought it was nothing more than a great joke." Despite its soft resting place and the sting from the whiskey receding, Darcy's mind began to falter after speaking so much.

"But if his mother is the housekeeper, and he owns such an education, then what exactly then is his role here? He must be of an age with you, and I do not suspect you allow the man to reside here leading a life of idleness and apparently… violence."

Darcy waved his hand upward not wishing to speak about Kirkland anymore when one of his fantasies was now coming true if she would only run her hands through his hair and be silent. Turning his head into her soft belly, he shifted on his side and snaked his arm around her waist between her and the sofa.

The feel of her strong exhalations falling against his face, for it seemed to him she finally caught her breath which had delightfully hitched, was calming to his aching head. But finding himself out of patience for more, he removed his arm from behind her, blindly grasped her hand to place it roughly in his hair, and then returned his hold, tight and firm.

Yes, this made his aching head much better.

For a few moments, Elizabeth sat unmoved as her husband situated himself. When he drew her hand upon his head, she almost laughed herself out of her stupor. One of her father's hounds would act much the same when she would go into the pens to play with the dogs. Old Barney, for that is what she called him, would come to lie at her feet and root his head under her hand until she relented and lavished her attention by scratching behind his ears.

Perhaps men and their canines were more alike than she ever thought. Trying to think of Fitzwilliam as a dog in her lap and not the large, handsome, and befogged man he currently was calmed her delightful anxiety and allowed her to smooth back his hair behind his ear with some measure of equanimity.

The poor man; he was hardly coherent and acting more strangely than the time she had seen him far into his cups at Netherfield. She knew he would not wish it, but she picked up the bell on the table and rang. Looking down to see if he grimaced at the sound, she realized he was now peacefully oblivious to the world. If it were not for the tight grip upon her middle, she would have been more concerned than she already was.

As Tabitha came to answer the summons, Elizabeth could not help but appreciate the worry on her maid's face. Her maid had never once not shown Fitzwilliam the respect he was owed, but Elizabeth knew Tabitha viewed her employers' marriage through a disapproving gaze, no, from that first night of their acquaintance at Darcy House in London and though it was not her place, Elizabeth comprehended and even now assumed responsibility for Tabitha's perception of Fitzwilliam's failures to his duty in marriage.

Tabitha had become something of a confidant in the absence of her dear Jane, so she could excuse the maid's feelings towards the man who paid her wages since bias was not a far stretch from the friendship which developed easily between servant and lady. And though she could not reveal all her deep, personal thoughts to Tabitha, she never needed to, and to Elizabeth, this ease of understanding was what often buoyed her spirits when at times she wished to succumb to the lack of intimacy and loneliness her marriage generally was. If anyone understood her precarious connubial feelings, it was Tabitha. Elizabeth never had to pretend before Miss Harris.

But, to see Tabitha wring her hands a little and direct concerning eyes to the man whose head was buried in her lap, Elizabeth could not help appreciate her maid's gracious nature.

"He is worse, ma'am?"

"I think him much the same. We should have sent for help an hour previous."

"Were you at least able to clean the wound?"

"Yes and only barely bandaged it. He put up a fuss and has now fallen asleep. I think we had better send Mr. Johnson out though; he is not himself – too altered for my comfort. How is Mr. Kirkland? Were you able to tend to him?"

Tabitha's cheeks grew fiery, but Elizabeth pretended not to notice. "No, ma'am. His mother insisted to do it herself though she unbraided him through the whole of it and likely still is. I left as soon as I delivered the liniment from your basket and the bandages."

"That is very well. Oh, Tabitha, I am at a loss on what to think of either of the Kirklands – the younger or the older. Mrs. Kirkland is every ideal I have ever had of a Scottish woman that I think I should almost be frightened of her. But despite her behavior to her son, which I suppose he deserved, I do like her very much. She is not near as refined as Mrs. Ellis in London, nor is she as gentle as Mrs. - in Wales, but she is a great deal better than Sir Hanborough's housekeeper!"

"I think most housekeepers are better than that mean, old biddy! No, Mrs. Kirkland seems very kind and cares a great deal for all who live here; I think –"

Before Tabitha could say anything more, Mr. Johnson entered and quietly closed the door behind him. "I see our pugnacious patient has refused to stay awake."

Looking down in her lap where her hand rested in her husband's disheveled hair, she told herself there was no reason to be embarrassed before Mr. Johnson. "Indeed, he did not last long after I used the whiskey on the laceration. It was quite painful for him."

"Well, he got himself in a scrape this time. I will ride on to Portree and fetch the doctor. I am sure he is only a little concussed and shall be just fine, but I think it will ease all of us to have someone else tell him he must stay abed the next few days. Let it be a good doctor for him to contend with when he awakes." Mr. Johnson offered his mistress a rare, indulgent smile. "Mrs. Darcy, you have been good to him, and I am sure your salve for his eye and your tender care will ensure he recovers nicely. I am not truly worried as he has not lost the contents of his stomach yet and generally knows who we all are, and so neither should you be too worried either. We shall only obtain the doctor out an abundance of caution… and we may as well as use the physician's attendance to our advantage in managing him. Madam, you have yet to see him confined to his bed; he can be quite quarrelsome if quarantined so."

With no distaste for the fact his young master's head was laid in his wife's lap, and with no concern for Elizabeth's modesty, Mr. Johnson stepped to his charge to quite delicately and very fatherly take a closer look over his current master. "Pardon me, Mrs. Darcy, but though he truly seems well enough, will you tell me if he is feverish?" Elizabeth shook her head in the negative already constantly checking for any warmth since she had first laid her hands over his bruised face. Mr. Johnson stepped away and looked to both ladies. "Well, even though we shall have the good doctor see to this one and hopefully need do naught more than our dirty work in forcing him to rest for a few days, I do think Mr. Kirkland might actually be in true need of the man."

All three of the conscious people in the room commiserated silently over Mr. Kirkland – two with looks of concern and one with a look of exasperation.

"Ah, ladies, do not worry for Mr. Kirkland. That was poorly worded; he is mostly fine and nothing a little undertaking by the doctor cannot easily remedy."

"I am very glad for that, but Mr. Johnson, how far is Portree? Do you think it wise to ride? Should you not take a carriage?"

"My dear Miss Harris, it is naught but ten miles. Even if the weather turns, I should be glad for the exercise. Should I bring anything back for Mrs. Darcy's or your use while I am in town? I cannot carry much, but if it is something small, allow me to procure it for you."

Elizabeth was quick to answer and could not imagine Mr. Johnson being used as an errand boy at a time like this despite the kindness of the offer. "Thank you, but nothing for me Mr. Johnson. I ask only for your safe journey and return with the physician." Tabitha said likewise and entreated her fellow man to return safely. Elizabeth added, "Mr. Johnson, what should I do with our patient while we wait?"

Mr. Johnson studied his master curled into the side of the sofa with his head nestled upon his wife's lap and his feet hanging from the side. Theodore was reminded of an earlier time, when the good were young and friends were in peak health. He went to move an ottoman to rectify the problem of a sofa too small and could not help think his dear friend's son was finally just where he wished to be. "Mrs. Darcy, if you would be so kind, allow him his comfort. If he does by chance become ill to his stomach, then, by all means, do not allow him to sleep. If he rouses, you can try to keep him awake or not, but as he is dozing now, I do not think much should be done except to keep him still and comfortable until I return with assistance. We have done all we can in cleaning his wound and keeping him alert as much as we could. You have done very well."

Tabitha spoke now while her mistress was again busy studying her convalescent. "Mr. Johnson, as to Mr. Kirkland… I know you said he is not hurt seriously, and we should not worry, but he did not seem so injured as Mr. Darcy…"

"Ahh, well, as Mr. Darcy took his primary injury to his eye; unfortunately, Mr. Kirkland took the brunt of his injury to his ribs, and he is adamant they are not bruised though he still is bellows to mend, quite. That young chap may put his mother and me off, but I doubt he will put off the good doctor from Portree. This man I seek is a big, strapping Scot who makes Mr. Kirkland look as if he is as harmless as a dove."

While Elizabeth could not imagine a man to make even Mr. Kirkland look so small, she was anxious to have him here as quickly as possible. Before she could express her want of Mr. Johnson to be on his way, he noticed and addressed her impatience. "Mrs. Darcy, all will be well. I shall leave forthwith, but please, do not be overly anxious. Your husband and Mr. Kirkland shall be quite right. And, honestly, in my estimation, the lads quite deserve to suffer for their little bout of recklessness. They have been at this since they were no more than boys of eight, and they should know better now a score of a year later. Let them feel the consequence of their idiocy – always troublesome, the pair of them together, when they get to provoking the other. We should be glad this place is made of stone, otherwise, it may have burned to the ground in years' past. Their fathers, would to heavens they should be here to witness such foolish trifling, would see them both mucking out the stalls for a month even now and eight and twenty for putting so much strain upon the ladies of the house. Not that they would not share a good laugh over it as well. Let us just be glad his Fitzwilliam cousins have not gone with us on this trip. The time that happened, the castle walls were in serious danger of crumbling."

Elizabeth looked down at the mostly obscured face of her husband and smiled with a great degree of fondness at noticing a mouth partially hanging open and a dark violet color peeking out from a bandaged eye. She recalled when his proud bearing entered the assembly rooms in Meryton that first night which proved to be so pivotal in paving her future path. Never, ever would she have thought that the most proper, haughty man she had ever had the pleasure of not formally meeting that evening should be so mortal as she had found him to be in these several months. It seemed he could be just as capable of trouble as any youth, just as contrary in nature as anyone suffering the human condition, and just as able to be cut down as any man.

A brief moment flashed behind her eyes of Fitzwilliam standing before the pistol of a fiend upon the road some ten days back, and she placed her free hand protectively over her husband forgetting the other two in the room and clutching the man, her man, closely. Yes, he was mortal, and she should think the heavens that though he had never looked so pitiful, he would be well, and his injury was only the result of his foolishness with Mr. Kirkland.

Regaining herself, she looked up to see Mr. Johnson had quit them while her maid was changing out a bowl of still-cold, melted snow. "Tabitha, have you discovered anything of Mr. Kirkland's role here? Does he act the steward or the butler? I was hoping for an introduction to the staff this morning after breakfast, well… beyond Mrs. Kirkland that is, but everything seems all out of sorts. And, this bout of fighting! What do you make of it? I am vexed as I am perplexed."

"Mrs. Darcy, I cannot call it vexing as it is not my place to do so. But, perplexing, quite." Tabitha shrugged and went on, "Mr. Kirkland acts as the steward from my understanding. But, there is not much staff – I have met cook and two maids this morning and understand there are men who work from the stables and occasionally in the house to do heavy tasks, but I do not think there is much more permanent staff than that, so I must reckon Mr. Kirkland sees to a great deal."

"This is quite different from London, and I am sure it much different than Pemberley – even Effion had more staff and surely it was a smaller place, you think? Not that I mind a less formal household at all – please do not mistake me for being unreasonable. And, I am sure you heard Mr. Johnson's insinuation of the relationship between my husband and Mr. Kirkland. What think you of that?"

"You are forever goading me to speak out of turn, Missus."

"Oh, fie, Tabitha. You know I appreciate when you speak your opinion, and you know you do so with all impunity. If you do not, I shall go mad in want of an honest conversation that I do not have to trip around." Elizabeth watched Tabitha look exaggeratingly to the heap of man in her lap and reassured her. "Oh, come now, he is completely insensible to our conversation. Do not worry about the poor man. Please speak plain, I beg you."

"Very well, I think the castle is perfectly suited just how it is staffed. And, the situation here is quite picturesque. I will gladly haul my own water just to sit and look out my window as I did this morning. As for the relationship insinuated by Mr. Johnson betwixt Mr. Kirkland and Mr. Darcy, I think it a bit strange but commendable. The master seems so often above his company – pray, forgive me, that was said not exactly as meant. It is clear his personal relationships extend to those even in his employ, and how is that not admirable? However, that is not to say I condone greeting each other this morning as though they were some brawling boys in Seven Dials, even if this morning's disturbance shows and intimacy between the men that I cannot help but think refreshing."

"Well, per usual, I must agree on all points. I would gladly haul my own water too if I could but look upon this beauty every day, and it is surprising as it is delightful and especially shaming to continually find evidence that my first opinions of Fitzwilliam's hauteur were so very wrong – and I mean to say my opinions even before I knew you. You would not believe all I thought and said of him when he first came into my neighborhood in Hertfordshire; but, anyhow, as to the fighting this morning, Tabitha, I think it is just as ridiculous. I confess this is not the first time I have seen evidence of Fitzwilliam's penchant for pugilism. And, the first time I saw it, it was not friendly – not at all – and I trust it was justified. But, from what Mr. Johnson says, I do not detect malice in this instance. Despite the evidence, I surely cannot think of Fitzwilliam as violent, but I also cannot help thinking him a bit foolish. It is shocking behavior I would never have thought him capable of so often. I think he must brawl regularly!"

"Oh, ma'am, I continually forget you have not any brothers." Tabitha laughed at some memory. "Mine were constantly at one another's gullets. But their bond was strong as any brothers should have. Foolish yes, but I also think it the way of men. Even in these modern times, they are barbarians ever the same. If you ever have sons, you shall know it." Tabitha spoke to stall whatever was about to come out of her mistress's mouth in protest. "What? You said he is insensible! Aye, though your husband may be the most aloof man there has ever been walking in the path of a pretty woman and though he may act like a barbarian himself from time to time, I think him a fair, gentle, and very respectable employer and man. If he would only stop looking at you as if you were a tasty morsel when he thinks no one is looking and perchance do something about it, then I think even I should like him very much, indeed! He shan't resist you too much longer, look at him! He is quite scandalous just now!"

Elizabeth swallowed her outrageous laughter at her maid's cheek, and she attempted to settle herself as not to disturb the man they were discussing. There had been some renewed conspiring as of the last evening between the pair on how Elizabeth might entice her husband though neither had any expertise on the subject. "You are awful, Tabitha. But, lucky for you, I also think you right. I am slowly discovering the way of men, and I supposed the lot of them, excepting my own dear papa who is as gentle as a kitten, are ruffians with some of them just being better educated into having good manners some of the time when in parlors and at balls and such." Her husband twitched his head a little against her, but looking down on him, Elizabeth thought his breathing steady, and so smiled up at her maid. "Thank you, my dear, for making me laugh. I shall ever thank my stars for you… though you are too good to the likes of me. You deserve more in this life, and when we settle and where ever that should be, I shall make sure you have it. We shall find you a proper, good man and a felicitous situation. You are a jewel. You deserve every happiness; a fine cottage perhaps; ten children maybe?" Elizabeth observed the other woman giving as good as she got. "Very well, perhaps only half so many then."

"Oh no, thank you, my dear Mrs. Darcy. I am happy just as I am, and observing your marriage is enough to sate me of the necessity. I have enough younger brothers and sisters to suffice any maternal feelings - no need for babes of my own. Lord, a half-dozen children! Service is not so bad. My existence before was hardly more than service anyhow. I helped with the cooking, the cleaning, the gardening, and the rearing of the children. After my soldier went off to Spain and did not return to me, I knew this was someday my fate, and it is I who am fortunate to be in your service. This life could have gone for me otherwise very badly; I am very grateful to you, and of course, to Mr. Darcy as well, and especially for Mrs. Ellis in London for giving me the chance to prove worthy."

Elizabeth looked to Tabitha with sympathy. Miss Tabitha Harris was a tall, formed woman not so much older than Elizabeth herself. Her outlook on life was something of a strange mixture of stark reality, education which spoke of an impoverished gentility, and a directness to rival Elizabeth's. Since the man she was waiting on to marry was never to return to English soil, she had gone into service after the death of her father, a curate in Kent. There were several young Harris children, and Elizabeth knew all the income received upon her first pay was sent home to a cousin who looked after the younger siblings.

The prettyish woman in a serviceable grey gown with a stark white apron was a selfless person who looked at the world as it was. She had tempered Elizabeth's flights into nonsense on more than one occasion even if she had not prevailed the fateful night of their first acquaintance. It was absolutely just and right that Elizabeth wanted her maid, whom she now considered more of a friend and a kindred soul, to find a path in life that would bring more joy. Unfortunately, but keeping with society's modus operandi, the only way out of service without fancying starvation or sin would be to find a suitable husband.

"Now, throw out whatever matrimonial machinations you have in your head for me, Mrs. Darcy, and tell me what I can bring you for your comfort. Surely having your husband clutching you so cannot be so easy." Tabitha gave her mistress a sidelong glance full of triumph.

"You are a wretch. But, no, I need nothing just now. I find myself quite content. If it takes someone beating upon his head to gain a little affection, then I shall not squander the occasion."

Tabitha just smiled at her mistress whom she had begun to truly love just as she might one of her younger sisters. But, just as she thought of those sweet girls she left behind in Kent whom she missed so much and thought of as silly and naive at times, she thought her mistress even more so of the latter and completely blind to the love which was at the moment resting just below her bosom. What Tabitha would give to have had the chance with the boy she had loved as a girl before he left her forever. No, if she were as fortunate as her mistress to be smiled upon by mutual affection, she would not waste such security of the heart.

Tabitha shook herself as she closed the door behind her. She was no longer that daft girl who was so certain her handsome beau-turned-soldier would come back to her to live in bliss forever and ever. The verity of life was harsh requiring good sense and graceful acceptance of blessings where they could be found. Other than that, what could she know of marriage and love? From her recent close and personal observations, it seemed a fitful endeavor of intense absurdity and at times painful to observe. Even so, she also knew this: though she respected the pair and had a fond affection for at least one of them, both Mr. and Mrs. Darcy were both the greatest of fools – the pair of them, and neither would be satisfied until they put their pride aside and admitted such, and then satisfied they would be in the kind of affinity which was surely more far-reaching than what Tabitha Harris herself knew, more far-reaching than what the cold, Spanish soil could bury and hide, and then they would be blessed in a love uncommon to the common person. It was a shame any and all could see the truth of it but they.

But, thinking of how she just left them clinging together, one in giving warm care and the other taking it, there was hope for her dear mistress just yet.

A/N:

Reviewer Colleen S - You mentioned you think you read parts of this story on another website in your review - which thank you for your kind words - but, I do not have this story posted anywhere else. If you see it, please PM me! I do have a few one-shots on that website you mentioned, but they are quite different I think.

Reviewer Another Lizzie - I at times think they are pretty dim as well. :) But, I keep going back to the original story, and I think they were pretty dim there as well... perhaps not as much as they are here, but they were never initially forward with one another unless in arrogance (him and not sensible at all) or in selfishness (her and mostly sensible yet still not really forward). Yet, he still could not find it within his poor, once-rejected heart to declare himself again until he had basically the promise of her acceptance (if by an avowal to never disavowal). And so, we are not there yet. Still, a good point I did give some thought to. :)

To the rest of you, you have my gratitude for reading this seeming unending mess, which I assure you is making its intended progress.