William felt that the chill which had seized hold of him with Ryan's appearance wasn't going to dissipate easily. Lizabeth said she thought his cousin was 'aggressive,' which was true. But Ryan's anger had been almost maniacal when he stared at her. Willaim had worried for a moment that his cousin would explode; his temper bursting into speech and fists. It had happened before, though not for many years.

Ryan Fitzwilliam had been wounded in the fall of 2010 in a counter-insurgent mission in Kandahar. His recovery had been slow, and he had remained angry about the loss of his limbs, often using words and whatever body parts that worked to express his pain and displeasure about the horrors of war. But Ryan seemed to have overcome his losses in recent years, and worked to become an advocate for other vets. William explained this to Lizabeth after they left the hotel.

"I can't imagine," was all she could say when he finished his truncated summary.

"I've often wanted to tell his story, both the highs and the lows. But he always puts me off." William slapped his steering wheel. "I thought it might be good for others to see what he has done, though I fear Ryan doesn't think he's done much at all. Or he feels less than himself. Am I making sense?"

"Yes. You are. I get you both. He doesn't feel like Ryan anymore, the Ryan of before, so he's angry. And you want to show that the Ryan of now is still the cousin you value."

"I thought you said you were inexperienced?" William couldn't help but say. He was in the turn lane onto River Road now that they had crossed the river. Once upon a time, most of the land south of that divider had been Fitzwilliam property, part of the family's estate before his grandfather had broken it up. William turned to smile at Lizabeth.

"I'm a smart cookie," she joked. "And I understand how sometimes we are reluctant to change, or maybe we like who we were before. Sometimes we're forced to change, and we don't like the new person." There was something different about her voice that made him glance at her even though he was driving again. The scene with her mother the previous evening had been quite nerve-racking and dramatic.

Such an encounter had to have affected her even if she had joked the rest of the evening that it had been a long time coming, and she didn't regret it. That didn't mean it wasn't difficult. Most of the fights William had with his parents had been on a smaller scale, so the recovery had been more straightforward. He smiled, thinking that he had been there to help; he'd never been in such a position with a friend or lover before.

"And this next place? This is the last remaining land from your family's original estate?" Lizabeth asked.

"Yes. It was once a land grant, even before California became a state, thousands of acres. I think there's about thirty left, and a house. It was all once called Pemberley. Supposedly my great-great-grandmother got the name from a book, but there's a run-down, dilapidated house that Anne, Ryan, and I jointly own," William explained.

"You're not fooling me. I can tell from your voice that adore it," she accused with amusement in her voice. "Why doesn't anyone live there?"

"Anne lives with Catherine. It doesn't have accommodations for Ryan. I'm in L.A."

"Why not rent it?" she asked.

"We have an estate manager for the upkeep, but I fear its amenities wouldn't appeal. Too old-fashioned."

"Why not use it for filming?" Lizabeth asked next.

"Too run down," he said as he stopped at another light.

"But maybe that's what is missing from your script. It's already run down," she said. "You've talked about your storyline and its being one about the loss of property. But why not show it?"

He hadn't considered that. For the beginning season, he and Caroline had the idea of showing all the glamor and richness of the 1920s before ugliness claimed the family. But maybe they needed to begin with the cracks already showing?

The light turned, and William drove through the intersection and pulled near the iron gates of his family's ancestral home. There was no intercom or automated system for opening them. He hadn't alerted Mr. Parks that he was coming, so the way was barred. He got out to unlock and open the gates before getting back into the car and driving on.

"It's lovely," she commented. The driveway was lined with hundred-year-old trees. It curved just as the cover of the trees gave way and revealed the house.

Pemberley House was built in the late Victorian Queen Anne style with three stories, a round turret, and a huge wrap-around porch. The bottom floor was made entirely of stone, though the upper floors were clapboard. Its color scheme was neutral, and it hadn't been done-over in an elaborate three or four-way color scheme of contrasting colors as many restored houses were painted. The three cousins could barely afford its upkeep, let alone a fancy paint job. At least William had been able to persuade his cousins to put money into the maintenance.

He let himself in with a key, waiting for Lizabeth to proceed him before he switched on the lights. The entranceway had beautifully stained wood, but he was pleased when he heard her gasp as she stepped inside to gaze at the staircase. It always impressed with its striking entwined balustrades. The stained glass window on the half-landing twinkled at them (even if darkened with dust). There was no furniture, no curtains or decorations, but the bones of the place still showed how beautiful the house was.

"You own this house?" Lizabeth cried.

"Part of it. I share it with my cousins, as I explained."

"Where does that door lead?" she asked. Four steps rose from the hall before the stairs turned and hugged the wall running up towards that stained glass window on the half-landing. But at the top of the fourth step was a small landing where a door beckoned. It had dull glass in its frame.

"The study, come and look," William invited, walking past her, and up the steps. He opened the door. Lizabeth followed him. The study's ceilings were shorter, eight feet, not the ten feet elsewhere, but the room was cozy and intimate with bay windows and the floral wallpaper of a long-ago era, which added and didn't detract from its charm.

"Wow! It's not exactly what I think of as a study with shelves for books and dark paneling," she said.

"Tastes change over the years. I believe my great-grandfather used it as a study since it was at the heart of the house, but then my grandfather used another room for his, more in keeping with your imagination. My grandmother may have used it as a parlor. I don't know for sure, but I remember the room when I visited," he explained.

It was a beautiful room and yet sad being devoid of furniture. Their words echoed off the walls and the dull glass. It was a reminder that no one lived there, but William could recall the room filled with furniture and feelings. He remembered how his mother had often sat there when they had visited (though he had been eager to see his cousins and play).

The sound of a text notification startled both of them as they stared around the room, lost in thought. Lizabeth pulled the phone out of her back pocket. She made a noise. "My aunt," she said, looking from the phone screen over to him. "I usually have dinner with them on Sundays. Let me text her that I'm not coming."

William appreciated that she was bolder now and didn't even ask his advice about what to do or whether they would be spending the rest of the day together. She texted a few words and then tucked the phone in her pocket. He invited her to see some of the better rooms. "The kitchen is terrible and hasn't been updated since the 1960s. I won't show you that, but come." He held out his hand, which she took; her other hand came out to stop him. Lizabeth's arms wound around his waist as she stood on tiptoes to kiss him. She was growing bold.

His hand was under her shirt when her phone rang, which quieted the activity of their interest and lips. Lizabeth sighed and pulled away from his embrace to pull out her phone. She frowned, silenced the call without answering it before looking up at him. "It's my mother," she announced.

"Shall we?" William indicated the door.

"Yes," she nodded. They hadn't reached the door when the phone started ringing again; she glanced again at the caller I.D. "Mom." The phone went back into her pocket. It rang a third time as they were walking up the stairs.

"Should you call her?" he asked as they stopped on the half-landing.

"No, absolutely not. I'm not giving in to guilt or whatever she wants to dish out. I suspect she's at my aunt and uncle's house and was lying in wait to scold me about last night. The fact that I'm not coming to dinner has thrown her off her plans," she explained.

They made it to the top of the stairs when the phone rang for the fourth time. "Put it on silence," he suggested. Lizabeth did as they stood at the top of the landing, which was a space large enough to be a room of its own.

There was a small wooden bench (any furniture with cloth had been removed). William steered her to it and pulled her down to kiss her, distracting her only long enough until the vibrations of her phone made her pull back to look at him with pursed lips.

"Don't do it," he said.

"I'm not," she answered, pulling out her phone. "But if you don't mind, I think I will call my Dad."

William was surprised; she hadn't spoken much about her father. Lizabeth had shared a lot about the mother, and now he had experienced Mrs. Bennet firsthand. "Sure. I'll give you some space."

"Hello?" Lizabeth could hear the sounds of baseball in the background. She knew that while it was the Final Four weekend, the FINAL game wasn't going to be played until Monday night (such was being Todd Bennet's daughter). But it was also baseball season and opening day. It was miraculous that her father had picked up the phone.

"Dad, it's Lizabeth." Perhaps that was unnecessary as he didn't have any other children. "Um, Mom."

"Is she still at your place? I expected her home last night," he remarked. She could tell that he was watching a game and not listening to it on the radio, which was probably better for a conversation as he couldn't listen to her and a baseball game if he had been following it on the radio. But his eyes could follow the action while he gave her half a mind.

"No. I believe she's at Chrissie and Ned's place. We sort of had a big fight last night. I may have thrown her out," she explained.

"Really? Good for you, honey," said her father.

"You think it's okay for me to throw her out of my apartment?" Lizabeth exclaimed.

"She's been holding onto the apron strings for far too long. I refused to drive her or condone this trip." He paused as a play was made; she could hear the cheers and commentary in the background. "I think it's good that you've finally gotten out on your own. But Dawn's been going crazy with you gone. I guess I hadn't realized how much her identity was invested in…" There was another pause while he watched a play. "How much she was invested in being your mother; she has no other way to define herself. I hope you understand that and have a little sympathy for her."

"Are you trying to guilt me into…"

Her father interrupted her. "No guilt. She gives both of us enough guilt that I don't want to heap any more on your plate. For now, stand your ground. I imagine it will be tough and mean I will be on the receiving end of her tongue. But, I'm proud of you, honey." Lizabeth thought she could hear her father smile. Her brain conjured up an image of his face. It made her insides warm.

"She keeps calling and won't stop," Lizabeth explained. There had been the continual evidence of that on the line as she spoke to her father.

"While she can be very focused and hard-headed, she will give up. Stay strong," said Todd Bennet. Another play distracted him, but Lizabeth could tell it was the end of an inning. Her father sounded a little more focused. "I doubt that Ned wants her to stay another night. She has to get herself home and will want to drive while it's light. That means she needs to get going soon. Stay strong," he repeated. "She'll give up soon and come home. I'll see what I can't do to keep her out of your hair."

"Dad…I don't know what I would do without you," Lizabeth gushed. "This talk has meant a lot."

"You're welcome, honey. Bye," he said.

"Bye," she whispered, more overcome with feelings than she anticipated. "Bye." She hung up.

She sat for a few minutes, staring down at the phone in her hand, but in her mind's eye, that image of her father remained. When she imagined her family, she realized how much her mother took precedence. Unfairly, Lizabeth let Dawn take center stage, but Todd Bennet had also had a hand in raising her. Maybe the better parts of her had been her father's influence. She knew life wasn't black or white, though right then, Lizabeth was happy to sing her father's praises.

Dawn finally stopped the incessant dialing, and Lizabeth tucked the phone away and went to locate William. She found him in what she assumed was a bedroom but one built on a completely different scale; she got distracted by its size. It was probably twenty-five feet in one direction and twenty in another, with floor-to-ceiling bay windows that created a beautiful nook that would have made a nice seating area. A ducal-sized bed could fit in the room and still allow plenty of space for other furniture.

William was on the phone when she stepped in; Lizabeth caught his eye. He waved a hand as though to say he would be off soon. She stepped back out and went to peek at the other rooms; they were equally large bedrooms, though there was a lack of bathrooms that a modern person would bemoan. She was going to see what surprise awaited behind a closed door when he found her.

"Sorry about that," he apologized. "It seems we both have demands, and the need to make phone calls."

Lizabeth wondered if she could ask who he had been talking to, but William volunteered the information. "That was Caroline. There are some things which have come up."

"Come up? It sounds like you need to go."

"I do," he admitted. "But not right away. I had planned to stay up here until the city council meeting on Wednesday, but I will need to go and come back then."

"You're going home today?"

"Tonight," he clarified, coming up to gather her in his arms. "I'm not in a hurry to leave, quite yet. I'm not in a hurry to leave you." She could feel his warmth; it was more than the heat from his body as he stood near her. It was his presence; he was focused entirely on her. She thought that she wanted him again; could they make love before he went away?

"How much time do I have?" she asked. It appeared that this was to be the measure of dating a man who lived in LA, and who had the type of job that he did. Despite promises (though he hadn't promised or even assured her that he would be with her all week), he would need to go back to his city and his work.

"Let's have dinner," he declared, drawing her close for another kiss. "But given traffic, I should leave tonight."

She frowned even as she nodded. "Can we finish touring the house another day? That way, we have time to change for dinner and…" she left her sentence unfinished as her voice fell off; Lizabeth hoped he understood her meaning.

"Yes." He kissed her again, having a difficult time doing so as he was grinning.

They walked downstairs, his hand around her waist. "It's a shame. I wanted to show you the turret. Everyone loves checking out the turret."

"It just means you'll have to come back and show it to me again," she challenged.

"You know I'll be back," he assured her. William locked up the house, and also had to lock the gates after they pulled through. "Do you have a preference for dinner?" She didn't. "I imagine we should change, but I will find a good place for us."


They ate at a place called London's, which Lizabeth had never heard of. It was in a rather nondescript building with no signage, and she wondered if it was even a restaurant. William assured her that it was. There was a gentleman at the door who opened it before they got to it, and unlike those crowded entryways in other dining establishments, this one was austere and didn't have a waiting room. A man in a dark suit came, bowed slightly to William, and said his name as if he had been waiting his whole life to do just that. He led the pair of them to a table, cloth-covered and elegant.

Lizabeth understood that this was a high-end restaurant given the almost lack of décor, the distance between the tables, and the deference given the two of them. There were no prices listed on the menu, which had been printed that day as it included the date.

It was romantic. She knew William would drop her off at home and drive back to LA that night, but she wasn't disappointed. Instead, she enjoyed their time together, his presence, and their conversation. He indicated that ordering an entire bottle of wine wouldn't be a good choice, so they ordered a glass each. But her heart felt full. It wasn't beating rapidly, but the happiness of being with him made it swell. She felt giddy, little-girl giddy, like one who is proud of a creation and wants to share.

She let William select the meal. Most of the dishes on the menu were ones she had never heard of, and because he knew about her limited palette; Lizabeth trusted his judgment. Everything he chose was delicious, but not so overwhelming in flavor or spice that it assaulted her. But there wasn't anything that wasn't palatable, and she complimented him on his choices.

There was also dessert. It was the tiniest confection—which she questioned. The creation was so small she thought to consume it in three bites. William assured her it was a custard that was rich enough to please. He ordered a café with his since he had to drive later. It came in a doll's cup.

That was the first indication that the evening was drawing to a close. Those hovering waiters, plural, didn't present William with a bill. Apparently, there was some other way to settle it, but their coats were brought back, and he slipped Lizabeth's on her shoulders, kissed her cheek, and they left.

"Come up?" she asked when he parked at her complex.

"I think I left a few things," he said. They walked hand-in-hand to her door. Lizabeth had gotten in the habit of making sure that the orange ball of fluff didn't escape whenever she unlocked and opened the door, but Kitty wasn't lying in wait. As soon as the door clicked shut, though, the cat crawled out from under the couch to harass Lizabeth. Her owner now recognized the chorus of meows and knew that this one was a demand for food and not for attention or howls of neglect.

"I'll start packing," said William.

Lizabeth fed the cat, then scratched Kitty quickly after she had eaten, her attention, for once, elsewhere. She finished her speed snuggling and walked down the hall. His leather duffel bag sat on the bed in the spare room; she stopped in the doorway and watched him. He sensed her and turned around.

"Your toothbrush is still in the bathroom," she said. "But it's the one from before. You can leave it here if you want."

"I'll leave it here." They stared at each other, tension growing between them. He had to leave that evening or else waste too much time being caught in LA traffic, but neither wished to say goodbye.

"Leave it here," Lizabeth repeated and took a step towards him. "I can be sure you'll come back for it then because it's so valuable." She grinned and moved closer. William closed the distance between them, and they reached for each other. Their hands ran over the other's body as their lips touched, gently at first, then heat took over. Both of them groaned, without breaking contact. He ran his fingers through her hair while Lizabeth's hands moved down to run over his behind.

She pulled him against her while she whispered, "stay an hour." His answer was to pick her up and throw her down next to his duffel bag, but she shook her head and held out a staying hand. "Not this bed, not this room."

William grabbed her hand and tugged, and they went running out of the spare room, with its associated memories, and into her room which held far happier memories. He closed the door against the fluffball. "Lights?"

"No," she whispered. Despite that one time in the afternoon at his aunt's house, Lizabeth preferred making love in the dark and under the sheets. William flicked off the overhead lights to join her by the bed.

She still didn't know what to do and appreciated his taking the lead. With time, she would know what she liked and what she didn't. Putting her hand around his neck to feel the short, clipped hairs that graced the back of it always thrilled her, and she braved that touch. Beyond that, however, Lizabeth didn't know how else to touch him, how to undress him.

William's hands were busy with her dress zipper; her dress puddled on the floor. Her bra joined it. He kissed her, but his hands were busy heating her skin. His kisses traced down her chin then her neck; they swirled around a shoulder as his hands cupped her breasts. He feathered down to cover both of them with kisses before he stopped to unbutton his shirt.

She slipped into bed while he removed the rest of his clothes and joined her then gathered her to him underneath those crisp sheets, but the heat from both their bodies warmed them quickly. There was a frenzy of movement; their need was intense as hands and arms and lips and teeth worked instantly to arouse both of them. Lizabeth was panting. She had been thinking of this exact scene all through dinner, their desire pushed them on quickly as their need was ferocious. She was no longer embarrassed by her nakedness but reveled in the touch of their bodies and savored the intimacy.

Her arm lay under William's neck, a hand was on his chest as they snuggled afterward, dozing for a few minutes before his hand ran gentle fingers along her arm. "I need to get dressed. It will be the middle of the night before I arrive home, otherwise."

Lizabeth's hand on his chest traced a small pattern before she pushed herself away, and pulled her arm free. She moved to the edge of the bed but didn't say anything; she didn't want him to go but understood.

The next day there was work (like there always was work) and William would return soon enough. But it was hard to part from him even for a few days and something inside crimped a little. Perhaps separation was easier for other people who were more used to relationships or more comfortable with intimacy. She wanted him to stay as much as she understood the reasons for his leaving.

William slipped out of bed and left her to ponder the newness of this relationship as he quickly showered and dressed. She wasn't in love with him, but the foundation was undoubtedly better laid than with her ex-boyfriend. But Lizabeth felt a warmth inside and couldn't help but smile when she thought about him.

Perhaps she didn't understand how people were supposed to interact? She had no positive relationship with her parents. Her mother ruled the roost, but such a figure, always tightly in charge, wasn't a good example of how to be with someone. Maybe it was why her father was so obsessed with sports, but perhaps he would have been that way anyway. They hadn't divorced; on some level, the relationship worked for them. But since coming to Merton, Lizabeth had been learning how to be friends with people since she didn't have much of an idea of how to do so in the past. She was likely to make mistakes, both with friends and with William.

"Ready," he said, standing in the doorway.

"I'll see you off," she answered. She stood, without embarrassment at her nudity, and pulled on a robe. "I need to make sure the kitten doesn't escape."

"Just that?" he quipped.

"And kiss you, goodbye."

The cat was asleep on the couch as they stood by the front door for one last drawn-out kiss. "I'll call you tomorrow night," he promised.

"If you're not too busy," she cautioned.

"I will make time," he said then opened the door and left.

Kitty didn't move, and Lizabeth considered petting her for a little solace but went to seek solace in her bed where there was a slight scent that she believed was William's smell. She might not wash the sheets until he returned.