Deep within a scenic, woodland path stood Elizabeth, looking on fondly as her walking companion gave cuddles to the floppy-eared spaniel at her side.

"Quelle douce fille, mon Antoinette!" cooed Priscilla, the pampered pup wagging its tail and tongue in elation. "Frederick hates when I speak French to her." A look of melancholy spread over her face. "These days, he hates just about anything French. Not that I blame him, of course."

Elizabeth, unsure of whether her friend was merely thinking aloud or initiating a serious conversation, decided it best to avoid a response that she may not wish to hear. In a safe gamble, Elizabeth opted to smile in a manner that denoted she was listening, regarding it a blessing that a question was not asked of her, and counting this the third or fourth time, since her delivery of the dubious "love letter," that its author was mentioned, either in passing or with an evident strength of feeling. It was plain that Frederick dominated his wife's thoughts, which was an easily understood (and likely deliberate) outcome. But Elizabeth could not but root against the potential consequence of Priscilla losing all good sense in a haze of cheap sentiment, of her succumbing to the same means of seduction so artfully exercised by her lascivious lover. Frederick, too, was an artist, designed from birth to meet his domestic obligations, achieve his aspirations, retain control over his province and those who inhabited it, by any means necessary. Though Elizabeth accepted that her limits as a friend stretched no further than wishing Priscilla every happiness, the mother in her had grown ferociously protective of this sensitive, expectant young woman in whom she had already invested so much. In painful silence, she stewed over the suspicion that Frederick was no wiser in reflection of recent events, and that he would purloin the methods of his own wife's Lothario to serve his single-minded purpose. She perceived the letter as little more than bait in which to lure and ensnare his prized game for whom his passion was perched significantly higher than respect. And even with the child to consider, Elizabeth found herself, per her "Charlotte defect," lamenting the loss of yet another deserving woman to an undeserving fool.

And yet, thought Elizabeth, there stands William's charge of my being more thick-headed than fair-minded with regards to Frederick Blackwell. Sometimes it was so vexing, how well he knew her! and how effortlessly he exposed her in this particular case. It was a quality they admitted to sharing equally, this stiff reluctance to give even a morsel of credit or clemency to those who had committed the atrocity of losing their good opinion. If history were any indication, then winning back either Mr. or Mrs. Darcy's approval was akin to climbing Everest, while sustaining their disapproval was a sled ride down an icy slope. A similar comparison applied to the select few they cherished despite all shortcomings and transgressions; for the Darcys loved with as unbending a will, sometimes foolishly, but ever faithfully. And even as Elizabeth owned to her own shortcomings, and could accept the possibility that Frederick was learning how to properly care for the wife he claimed to love so deeply, she still doubted his aptitude for the task. Over her heart's cry to have faith, her intellect argued that the second Mrs. Frederick Blackwell, while more valued, would fare little better than the first. But Priscilla shall at least have a child to adore, said the shard of light in her dark reverie. And should she not survive the birth, may her memory be honored with more than a half-year of perfunctory bereavement.

Such thoughts passed the time until Priscilla quit her petting and their walk resumed, the two ladies immersed in their respective musings while the happy dog matched their pace with no tug of the leash required. No sooner had Elizabeth conceived a neutral topic of discussion, than Priscilla broke the long silence with, "I never fancied myself in love with him, you know."

Elizabeth started. Her suppressed notions shot up to the surface. "With Sir Frederick?"

"With Count Belliard," Priscilla clarified to Elizabeth's surprise. The lady closed her eyes and raised her head skyward, basking in the warmth of the sun, the cool spring breeze, the soothing sounds of nature. "There is so much beauty, and a feeling of such peace here at Pemberley." She leveled her gaze back to the trail and its regal surroundings. "I should recommend it to any wounded soul in need of convalescence."

"Please no, I beg you!" cried Elizabeth in mock horror at the prospect of filling the estate with this sizable, sorrowful portion of humanity. Priscilla savored that small bit of levity before resuming her contemplative speech.

"My time here, as nowhere else, has afforded me the space and serenity to really think and reflect on everything. I…" she swallowed hard, and spoke thickly. "I acted so selfishly, Lizzy. Stupidly." She steadied herself with a good, deep breath. "Frederick bared his soul to me in that letter, and I must return the favor. At the risk of inflaming him, I shall admit to him the whole truth, that in my wish to mend a mere crack in my heart, I broke his completely. Out of melancholy, I let myself be drawn in with flattery and poetry—poetry!" The word was repeated with disgust. "For the briefest period, my loneliness was assuaged, and yet my heart was never touched. My fancy for the count was just that: a fancy. Nothing close to love. I did, however, depend on his favorable attentions, which were as empty as my will was weak. In the letter, Frederick owned to a dependence on me that he feared made him weak. And he and I have lately, unfairly, formed a dependence on your friendship which has weakened us both. I believe it was his need of a friend—as his father slips further and further away—that decided him on appealing to you for a plan of action that he could not have concocted on his own."

Elizabeth turned to hide her blush, which Priscilla caught before she continued. "The letter was revelatory. My eyes are now open to just how much you and Mr. Darcy knew. It seems that everyone in Derbyshire has heard fabled versions of our troubles, but you, by Frederick's confidence, know the truth. I can scarce imagine the pain and desperation that drove my husband to yours. What humiliation he must have felt while disclosing such a thing to a man of whom he thinks so well, and whose esteem he regards just below that of his own father. And knowing that I am the cause of that humiliation…"

Discomfited, Elizabeth endeavored to quiet her with an explanation that the overwhelming feelings driving her to speak so openly were merely symptomatic, to which the young woman raised a hand and cried, "Please, Elizabeth, let me own the shame of it. I can bottle this up no longer. Be the vessel in which I pour my guilt and grief, this one last time, for you are the only woman I trust, the one friend who still looks kindly upon me, and genuinely so. I was struck this morning with an attack of conscience, a feeling that I was unworthy of your hospitality. I was almost overcome with the urge to run away again, this time to God-knows-where; but very quickly I stayed that urge, realizing that I must be salvageable, else you would not have agreed to help Frederick in the first place, let alone offered me refuge here for any longer than it took to arrange my departure."

Elizabeth opened her mouth to respond, but Priscilla shook her head in protest, continuing in a gush of emotion:

"Frederick has often called your husband excellent to a degree that stirs both inspiration and frustration. He once joked that meeting Mr. Darcy's standards, either of conduct or kindness, is too arduous a challenge, and that his forgiveness of our faults is about the best we can hope for. I say that his excellence is owed very much to you, Elizabeth, and that he is but half superb without the benefit of your insight. I wish to be my husband's Elizabeth, a wife for whom a husband would walk through fire, and who would never use her power over him for evil. I wish to be Kingston's mistress, who does not cower in the face of difficulty. I want to atone for my sin, then put it behind me and stand with pride and confidence before a sneering, vindictive society without a care in the world for their trivial acceptance. I want to be the mistress who does not flee her own home, but who takes charge of it for the building of a happy nest for her husband, her children, and herself. I want to be a wife, mistress, mother, and woman, and to stop being a daughter and a child!"

The speech was followed with a loud, freeing exhale, while Elizabeth simmered in self-deprecation at having given so little consideration to Priscilla's portion of the blame for the affair, and for her unhappiness in general. At length, the lady looked at her and said:

"Tell me, Lizzy, why did Mr. Darcy not scorn me outright, brand me a whore as all the rest of Derbyshire? He must have been repelled by my act of infidelity, and Frederick so deeply values his counsel. Why did he not recommend divorce? Be honest, I beg you. Is it for you that he has been so merciful? Or for Frederick, or the child? Or…"

"I believe my husband would tell you that he has not the divine authority to show mercy, merely the human decency not to rebuff a decent human so evidently in pain, and in need. Whatever his personal feelings, whether of the circumstances or offense, he will exert and exhaust himself for those who inhabit his heart, his world, or his life in almost any capacity. It is just his nature."

"And yours, too, I find."

"Similarly, perhaps, but not equally. I am less liberal-minded than my husband with regards to...some people." At her friend's questioning look she specified, "Those to whom I suffer a general aversion."

"Ah," the lady uttered with a knowing nod. Quietly but directly she asked, "Then why agree to help Frederick get me back?"

"That is not what I agreed to," Elizabeth answered with equal candor. "I agreed to my husband's notion of giving a party that he supposed would secure a reunion between you, however long the reunion lasted. That was the extent, as we both saw it, of our help."

"But it was not, Lizzy," Priscilla argued gently. "The day before the party, you answered our most unreasonable bid for your presence at Kingston after Lord Blackwell's…after my return from Melbourne. You relieved us all tremendously, generously; and so effectively you calmed the waters in our absurdly tempestuous household. Again, why? Everything you have done has been well above and beyond the call of friendship, certainly of decorum, neither of which we infamous Blackwells deserve. You ought to have been rid of us, washed your hands of us completely, and were well within the bounds of propriety to do so."

"Mr. Darcy and I seldom live by what is formally deemed right and proper. We act as our characters command."

Priscilla smiled. "I expected you to cite Scripture in your response."

Elizabeth shrugged. "It did not occur to me."

"Because you are caring by nature, not by decree. But, as Mr. Darcy has shown much bounty and tolerance, Frederick has likewise borne his censure. Why have you not censured me, Lizzy?"

"I…" Elizabeth had to admit the truth of it. "I did not want to believe you were at fault, Priscilla, because you are dear to me and Sir Frederick…"

"Repels you like a hair drawn out of fresh butter, as my father likes to say."

Elizabeth flushed deeply. "What arrogant fools we were to have played any part, which has only rained disaster upon our house, and has hardly helped yours."

"Such a feeling is understandable, given the consequences to your property and your poor dear nephew." And given the ill-fated arrival of a certain occupant, thought Elizabeth as her friend continued. "As for our situation, I must profess to having the deepest gratitude for that minimal part you played. Had Frederick never entreated upon you, had Mr. Darcy more prudently refused him, had you not given that party which my father grudgingly bade me to attend for the sake of our family's reputation, I might still be in Melbourne."

"And Newton Hall you find worse than what you have since been enduring at Kingston?"

"Under my father's roof is no safe haven, I assure you. He is a hard and selfish man, Lizzy, who sees his children not as free-thinking individuals but as extensions of himself and a means to the uniting of properties. Before Frederick, my whole life had been planned out, including marriage to a man for whom I felt nothing. Never once did Father ask what I even thought of Lord Selvidge. Or any prospect, for that matter."

Though Elizabeth knew better than to pursue this response, she found herself asking, "And did Sir Frederick, while recommending himself, particularly care what you thought of him?"

Priscilla smiled as she loosened her reticule and removed her husband's letter. "If he did not then," she said, "I dare say he does now. Whether ape drunk or kicked by a mule, Frederick could have never written a letter like this in our first year of marriage." She laughed tearfully. "Not a bit of it! I know him too well!"

"He really was drunk, you think?" Priscilla reaffirmed her belief wholeheartedly, to which Elizabeth replied, "I have never been one to fault or credit inebriation for one's behavior; for I am convinced it does nothing but lift the veil to expose our true natures and true feelings, which is perhaps the real reason our culture frowns upon it. I will confess that Mr. Darcy has, on the rarest occasions, given himself away…gloriously."

The two women shared a knowing laugh before Priscilla said, "I never told anyone how Frederick won both my affection and my hand in a single instance. He met me on my ride one morning, all charm and swagger as the day we were introduced. I would have none of it, not merely because of my father's design, but also my sister's warning that he was not widowed half a year, and my brother's against old men like him who make a conquest of girls like me. I was quite aloof as we rode together, giving one-word responses to his efforts at conversation, and then suddenly I look over to see in his hand a large, purple orchid that he is extending to me. Mildly complimented but not terribly impressed, I accept the token with a terse thank you, and trot on. He then disappears into a copse without so much as a farewell, and despite my tepid feelings, I have not the heart to let his gift fall to the ground. Such a lovely and fragrant bloom it was, after all. A minute or two later he reappears, this time with a pink bloom of similar size and a sweeter smell. I am now puzzled, but again accept what is offered with gratitude. He gallops off again in a different direction, and some minutes pass before he races back to me with a yellow bloom. Now most perplexed, I say to him, 'Sir Frederick! We are surrounded by a field of every color for you to far more easily gather a bouquet,' to which he replies, 'But they neither look nor smell the best!" and then rides off again in a yet another direction. I halt my horse to await his return, and then laugh when he soon thereafter delivers three more blooms of white, of red, and of blue. 'God save the king!' he cries, waving them like a flag before joining them with the others. I remained there another half an hour, Lizzy, until my bouquet was complete, the largest, most vibrant, most beautiful bouquet that ever was seen. Poor Frederick was out of breath at the end. Though he had said so little throughout, before taking leave of me he asked, very politely, to kiss my hand. With one touch of his lips, I was lost, and in his dazzling eyes saw that he was, too. And then Frederick, taking an astounding, utterly reckless leap of faith, followed that tender gesture with a heartfelt proposal," she gave a wink, "though I would wager it nowhere near as devastating as your Mr. Darcy's."

Elizabeth froze for a split second before returning, with a small smile, "Devastating, indeed," and then swiftly veered from that subject with, "Given such a story, Priscilla, I find myself all the more shocked and disturbed by Frederick's account of his response to your…error in judgement."

"My betrayal, you mean?" She dabbed at her watery eyes with a handkerchief. "I, too, was surprised and disturbed, for he is indeed a man rather of action than reaction. The day he confronted me about Belliard, my mind conjured a series of events to shortly transpire. I fully expected a taking of immediate measures to have my deed swept under the carpet as quickly, quietly, and carefully as possible, to purchase, threaten, intimidate, whatever it took to snuff out every flicker of scandal. I envisioned him journeying to Paris for the express purpose of calling the man out as one of several plans to take vengeance. I saw violence in our future, possibly death. None of this happened, thank God, and yet…" she shook her head sadly. "That terrible day, when I confirmed Frederick's suspicions, when his last shred of doubt was dissolved, he simply sank to the floor and whimpered like an abandoned little boy, my pathetic, feeble excuses falling on deaf ears. So helpless he looked. Inconsolable."

Elizabeth could scarcely picture such a scene. "But then he…did he not become violently angry? Did he not shout and curse you out of the house in a fit of rage?"

"Is that what he told Mr. Darcy? Hm. I suppose that would be his account of it. A more acceptable emotion for him than anguish is anger, which…" Priscilla's brow lifted as comprehension dawned, "…which was expressed vigorously on my return. Except it was my stricken father-in-law who shouted and swore at me, never Frederick, much as he may have wished to. Lord Blackwell explodes into these sudden fits with little awareness or remembrance, while…oh, Freddy! you poor, stupid man…I understand now, Elizabeth. His father bore the brunt of all the fury in his heart, not I. He hurls it back, again and again, and cannot be silenced. Every day, every night, Frederick hears him curse my name repeatedly, which he suffers like a penance, shielding me from it yet torn by it, leaving him with aching doubt about my constancy, about whether the child is...oh, God!"

Elizabeth grabbed hold of her hands, urging her to calm. "Priscilla, dearest!"

"It is Frederick's child; I am certain of it! You see, the count could not…never mind. Lizzy, I must write to him directly and tell him not to fret, that he most assuredly is about to become a father."

"Of course, but…Priscilla, why went you to Melbourne in the first place if not out of fear?"

"Oh, but it was, Lizzy. He frightened me terribly, for never in my life had I seen a man so vulnerable, and Frederick of all people! I knew not what else to do but run. Such a coward I was. We are both cowards! both fools! Here we are married, in love, and yet so utterly inept at it! What is wrong with us, Lizzy?"

"You are humans, it would seem. We prefer easier, softer paths, and 'the course of love never did run smooth,' quoth the Bard. The wise avoid it entirely, or look for detours. Mr. Darcy and I certainly did."

Priscilla's mouth fell open. "No!"

"Oh, indeed! In the beginning, neither of us were at all willing to surrender our hearts. We fought tooth and nail for our emotional autonomy until, very gradually, that resolve to be free of each other became panicking fear that we might never meet again." Elizabeth looked sheepishly at her friend. "I want you to know, Priscilla, that William and I spread not a word about what we knew. It was kept strictly between us."

"Oh, I never suspected otherwise. My wager would much sooner be laid on our own staff at Kingston. Servants have the loosest tongues. Why I heard just a week ago the most outrageous rumor about Pastor Lumley and Mrs.…oh, listen to me! As if I am any better!" She dropped a treat right into her little dog's awaiting mouth, and with a clap of her hands cried, "Bonne fille, joli chienne!"

A little later (and both a little wiser), the two of them emerged from the woodland area and made the turn towards the house. The clearing offered a wide view of the grounds, including the easterly patch of land on which a company of three children, two women, and a wafer-thin noble was comprised.

"Oh, Elizabeth!" Priscilla cried with alarm. "That man is doubled over. Look!"

Elizabeth took a few steps toward the scene, and on closer inspection shook her head. "It is not as it appears. Our guest is simply studying the…dirt?"

"I see," said Priscilla with the same confounded expression. Recovering quickly, she then asked, "Pray is that the patient?" When Elizabeth answered yes, she said, "He looks so frail, the poor man, I thought he had collapsed."

"I dare say he has grown stronger in the last day or two. Mr. Darcy and I are hopeful…" as is Dr. Fitzwilliam, Elizabeth nearly said, but stopped the lie cold. "Shall we take refreshment?" she then asked, guiding Priscilla towards the opposite end of the manor.

The lady beamed. "I am far too eager to write Freddy. I will see you all at dinner!" And with a kiss to Elizabeth's cheek, Priscilla dashed away, with her excited spaniel bouncing playfully at her side.