Two fanfiction users were kind enough to message me about the theft of VMC I on Amazon under the title The Candlelight Engagement: A Pride and Prejudice Variation. I have reported the copyright infringement to Amazon and posted a "chapter" under VMC I informing readers of the theft and asking that they leave negative reviews indicating it was stolen. I have been amazed at the outpouring of support. As a thank you, I am posting a chapter of this sequel early.

Chapter 10: Frogs and Butterflies

When Edwin and I arrived, I hurried to escort the ladies from the carriage and then paid for our admission. Once through the front doors, we seemed to break into groups most naturally. Miss Elizabeth and I were in the lead (I enjoyed that she took my arm), followed by Mrs. Gardiner with Edwin and Miss Bennet, with Georgiana and Miss Lucas bringing up the rear.

Our whole group stayed within about ten feet of each other at first. There was no opportunity for intimate talk, but I enjoyed seeing Miss Elizabeth's reactions in viewing the fine botanical and zoological paintings.

She seemed especially struck by a painting of vipers and lizards. Besides two complete depictions of each, there was also a wide gaping mouth of a viper ready to strike with its fangs at the ready. She shivered slightly and stated, "I have never seen its like and I am glad. Such a sight would put me off my walks entirely."

"They are certainly a danger. I have heard that there is a snake in the Americas that rattles before it strikes. It may frighten horses. Imagine being the unfortunate horseman whose horse rears and bucks him off among such snakes."

Miss Elizabeth gripped my arm tighter and I wondered, was it imagined fright that caused it, or was fright her excuse to show more intimacy than was strictly proper? I wanted to protect her from anything that would do her harm; she was so small and so precious, though capable and vigorous.

We looked upon an oil painting of a frog and this seemed to spark a memory as she told me, "As a child I brought frogs I caught to my father and he praised me as he might have praised a son. However, my mother was not nearly so kind when one I was bringing up to Papa got loose at Longbourn. You see, Mary had asked to see what I had and then when she saw the frog to hold it. I placed it in her hand, bid her to hold it gently but firmly, but her grasp was too loose and it hopped to the floor quite near my mother (who had been paying no mind to what we were doing, occupied as she was in instructing Jane on her sampler).

"In silence, and it seemed instantaneous to me, and I still do not know how she did it, Mamma lept atop the buffet table, as easily and nimbly as a cat. From this elevated perch, when all danger of encountering the creature was past, she screamed and howled as if having a fit of apoplexy. You would have thought it was a tarantula we saw a few paintings back, rather than a small pool frog, which likely had only lately lost its tadpole tail as it was no bigger than my thumb."

I enjoyed the picture Miss Elizabeth painted with her words. Then she recounted, "Because Mama was screeching, Mary began screaming, too, even though she had not been frightened before, and the little ones started up as well. In all the excitement the frog was lost."

I imagined a young Miss Elizabeth, her curly hair in two long braids, on her hands and knees calmly searching for the frog while her mother carried on atop the buffet table and pulled the other screaming girls up beside her. I imagined the boy I once was helping her look for the frog. However, when I reflected further, I saw that this could not be; given the differences in our ages when Miss Elizabeth was yet a girl collecting frogs, I was likely already a man.

"However, that is not the end of the story. For years afterwards, Papa teased Mama by claiming to spy it many a time. He would casually drop into conversation, 'Today I saw Lizzy's frog. It is now the size of a mouse.' Then while my mother gave a look of horror and began glancing about as if she, too, would now spy the amphibian, he would begin talking of some other thing. Two months or half a year might pass before he would mention it again. The next time, its description would always be larger than before. Sometimes my mother would say nothing, other times she would question him with incredulity, ask him, 'Are you certain Mr. Bennet? No frog could truly be that size.'

"The first time Papa answered, 'That is because no other frog has Lizzy feeding it on mutton.' You see, I am not overly fond of mutton. Then my mom began to berate me for feeding the frog. Papa looked over at me, amusement in his eyes, daring me to contradict him, so of course I did not, said nothing but did not lie. While it has been years since Papa mentioned the frog to Mama, it may well be that he is not done with the joke yet. Perhaps when I return from London, the frog will appear again, this time the size of a hare."

Taking note of something she said earlier, I resolved, "I promise to never serve mutton to you."

"That is very kind, but I am less adverse to it now, although it is not a favorite. However, in fact the frog's fate was not so lucky as to perpetually live in our house. A servant found it some months after it escaped, dead and flat under the sideboard. She was a more squeamish sort, so she requested that I assist her in removing it. She said if I helped her, she would not tell my mother I was still bringing frogs into Longbourn."

"Were you still bringing frogs into Longbourn? Did you help her?"

"Yes, naturally I was still bringing frogs to Longbourn, but my father had suggested that rather than simply grasping one in my hand, it was far better to secure it in a jar (he had his man make holes for the lid) and bring it straight to him in his study, so I do not think another one could have gotten loose. I made sure to always place the jar inside a bag I had sewn from scraps of muslin, so my mother did not know what I had."

"Very sensible."

"But as I did not want my mother to throw another fit, of course I helped our housemaid. However, now that I am telling you the story, it seems likely that if she had told on me, she would have been in trouble too, for it showed her to be most deficient in housekeeping based on the state of that frog lying in that location for what had to be many months."

We proceeded forward to view the physical specimens. I think Miss Elizabeth may have liked the shells and butterflies the best, for her eyes lingered on them the longest, especially a particularly fine example of a swallowtail, a papilio machaon, so named for the Greek mythological figure of Machaon, son of Asclepius. While many might describe it as black and white, the white color was more the color of cream and, easily seen with its wings pinned open, were the blue border sections of scales along its hind wings and two red, eye-like dots, the ocelli.

As she stared at it, Miss Elizabeth surprised me by commenting, "While it is certainly pleasant to study butterflies more closely than I ever see them on my walks, I cannot but regret a little that their short lives were made even shorter by them being plucked from life to be preserved for our enjoyment."

I hesitated momentarily before telling Miss Elizabeth "As a lad, having visited the British Museum, I became obsessed with butterflies and, thus resolved I would start my own collection. Lepidoptera consumed my thoughts for several years and, naturally, although it was not easy the first time, I became an expert at wielding a killing jar."

For a moment I remembered Mr. Stowbaugh following me, carrying the killing jar with the ether cloth inside used to kill the butterflies I captured in my net. The ether had a distinctive, pleasant odor.

"Do you know where your collection is now?" She asked.

"The cabinets with all their contents remain at Pemberley still. However, it has been many years since I have looked at them. My butterflies may have deteriorated, I know not."

"It is cheerful to imagine you running about the land, butterfly net in hand," Miss Elizabeth opined. "Did you do such while in your skeleton suit?"

"I was a bit older than that," I replied. "Of course, because of how I am, part of my delight was memorizing all of their scientific names and repeating them and any other information about them that I had learned from my books to all who would listen, which was mostly my mother and tutor."

"Such a recitation would likely be more fascinating than when my younger sisters can talk of naught but ribbons, lace and officers."

"Perhaps not," I offered, "if you heard the same description multiple times. The conversations of my younger years would not be scintillating for most."

"Have you retained all this knowledge of butterflies now that your interests lie elsewhere?" Miss Elizabeth inquired. Her focus was now on me rather than on the specimens.

I considered, looking more away from her than at her as I answered, "Much of it. The names and colors of butterflies still give rise to comparisons with other things I see. The fabric of a man's waistcoat may be the brown of a pararge aegeria, you may know it as a speckled wood; the auburn color of lady's hair may be the same hue as a polygonia c-album, a comma, found in the south, although Miss Bingley's shade of hair is closer to that of a . . ." here I scanned the cabinet and spotted, pointing to it, ". . . pyronia tithonus, a gatekeeper."

I further recalled, "Lady Catherine has some curtains in her music room whose pattern reminds me of a marbled white, which used to be called the half-mourner for its wing color which alternates between shades that are roughly black and white. When I first saw your sister's eyes in the sunlight streaming in the windows when your party visited my house, I thought that the blue of her eyes was like to that of the azure (or wood) blue butterfly." I pointed out the last butterfly I had named, whose wings shimmered even in the somewhat dim light.

I might have continued on in a similar vein if Miss Elizabeth had not stopped me by replying, while looking away from me, her hand suddenly removed from my arm, "Yes, Jane has lovely eyes; that is what I have heard my whole life."

The tone of her voice seemed wrong somehow and grew more altered still as she added, "Everyone always remarks on the shade, while mine are the color of mud."

I hastened to explain, dropping my voice lower, "My darling, your eyes are every bit as lovely as hers if not lovelier, although I have struggled to decide just what they are like to, for just calling them brown will not do. Their shade is close to the darker tone of a thecla betulae . . . ah, here it is, a brown hairstreak." I glanced at her eyes for comparison, "although this particular specimen is not as like to it as some, but in varying light your eyes can resemble coffee, chocolate, gingerbread, hickory wood, so many things that give delight." As I spoke, my eyes darted now and again back to look at hers and at her dear face, which seemed softened and more relaxed somehow, the longer I struggled to describe her eyes.

I concluded, "Dearest, I could struggle for a lifetime to find the proper word for their lovely shade. Perhaps they are simply Miss Elizabeth brown, unique."

Then I added in an even quieter tone, for I preferred to not be overheard, "Did you know that when I first spotted your ribbon dangling from a rosebush in Netherfield's park, not knowing what it was, the color of it reminded me of a colias croceus?"

I strode back to a previous case, where my eyes had lingered for a time. Miss Elizabeth followed me. Edwin and the rest then proceeded past us to study the case we had been last gazing upon. I could hear them talking but my focus was such that it seemed just sounds and not words.

I pointed out the colias croceus to her with the index finger of my left hand, for my right hand was already reaching into my pocket. "Is it not like to your ribbon?"

"I suppose it is," she replied while gazing upon it.

I instructed, "It is popularly known as a clouded yellow butterfly (or alternatively saffron or clouded orange)."

While I spoke, I fingered her the ribbon for a moment to reassure myself that it was still there, let my fingers linger for a few moments in stroking along its silky-smoothness, a sensation that now meant "yellow" to me. While I was tempted to pull her ribbon out to compare it to the butterfly, I sensed that I should not flaunt that I had Miss Elizabeth's token before her aunt, so instead I regretfully removed my now empty hand.

"When I found it, your ribbon connected you to me."

"You have it with you?" Miss Elizabeth asked, her eyes having followed the movement of my hand.

I nodded. "I have it with me always."

Her face grew soft with some emotion I could not categorize. Miss Elizabeth gave me a nod of acknowledgement and said, "I did not know." Then she said nothing further for a few moments.

When she spoke again, Miss Elizabeth commented, "You must have a prodigious memory to absorb so much knowledge.

I considered, "While my memory may be better than most, I do not think it out of the ordinary. It is simply a matter of my mind dwelling on certain facts until they are committed to memory. While my choices of what to learn may be different and seem impressive to someone who knows little of the topic, it is not so different from the way a man may be impressed that ladies have so many different words for varied shades of blue and green, when he only knows blue and green."

Elizabeth asked me, "Why do you think you liked collecting butterflies so?"

I reflected. I did not think I had been asked that question before, or if I had been asked when yet a lad. Then, I would have had no answer but that I liked having them because I did. Now, perhaps, I had a better answer.

"I think it was because I could perfectly contain and organize them. The butterflies when captured and killed stayed nicely on their pins, were constant and unchanging. People were so much more confusing to me then, compared to the butterflies. It was much easier to understand their habits, than those of my fellow man."

"Ah, I see." Miss Elizabeth's hand tightened reassuringly on my arm once more. "When and why did you lose interest?"

"My interest had already waned when I went away to school as I was ready for more complicated things, however it is nice now to remember that hobby as it reminds me of my mother."

"How so?" asked she.

"Well, my mother listened attentively when I talked about butterflies, purchased for me many expensive books and looked at them with me. While I admit to annoyance that she could not seem to remember their Latinate names, she admired the colored plates and the butterflies I captured, said they were more beautiful than the most expensive jewelry."

I reflected further on the memory and then added, "Looking back on such interactions, I do not know if Mother genuinely liked them (although I suspect she did to a certain extent), but I know she genuinely liked me and wanted to enter into my world." I felt a warm feeling inside in having shared something so personal with Miss Elizabeth.

Miss Elizabeth smiled so sweetly at me then. "Someday I would like to see your collection and hear more about your memories of your mother."

If I had not loved her yet, surely such a declaration would have stolen my heart.

Miss Elizabeth grasped my arm and we continued on in a companionable silence for a while. I could not help but hear the conversation between Edwin and Miss Elizabeth's sister who were now ahead of us, their words clear to me now that my focus was removed from the butterflies. I think Miss Elizabeth remained silent so as to follow what they were speaking of, though she made no attempt to join in.

I heard Miss Bennet exclaim, "Oh, look at these nests. I never knew they were so intricate in design."

Edwin replied, "Do you know that many of the songbirds mate for life and raise their chicks together? The male may even bring food to his mate as she sits upon the eggs, and later brings food to the chicks when they hatch and feeds them. He is loyal and true for he loves his mate and their young ones."

Somehow, although his words were proper, I felt that Edwin was using this discussion to woo Miss Bennet. Perhaps Miss Elizabeth felt the same, for she gave me a look, released my arm and walked closer to her sister, saying "Jane, I have missed you these past months; we must look at some of the portraits together."