George knew he would fail at providing a clear explanation, were he asked why he was decided on filling the remaining holes of an account in which he had no part, no personal stake, and therefore no viable reason to be consumed with curiosity. Perhaps it was Thornhaugh's expression at certain moments of his narration, his reluctance with regards to certain details, his curious glances, or, strangest of all, his sudden quitting of the story at its pinnacle event. It was confounding to the point of suspect that this ailing, solitary shadow of a Lord, who was left only with memories to his once brilliant now boggy name, would so abruptly and ardently abandon so enthralling a story. Why in its telling was there a strong hint of deep disturbance beneath his dazzling surface? Even he would own up to existing as more of a minstrel than a man, only to make a midsong judgment that his audience (and the account itself) were naught to him but a nuisance? Something was amiss.

"The shot was not meant for Thornhaugh. It was meant for Papa."

Questions had poured from George's mouth upon the disclosure of such a detail, with none of them answered to his satisfaction as Ben avowed from there to have given him all he knew, all he was permitted to know, and all he cared to know.

"Thornhaugh risked his own hide to save my father's," his cousin had staunchly reaffirmed. "The details composing that fact are enough to satisfy me."

"Not me," George had stated unequivocally, to which Ben replied:

"Then you must find your answers elsewhere. I cannot help you; for I made a promise to delve no further, and that one I mean to honor."

George would indeed delve further, despite his cousin's (probably true) assertion that it was a useless cause. His interest above all others remained stuck like tar on Stewart's motives. "Did Uncle give no hints or so much as a guess?" he had desperately inquired. "Said he nothing more, Cousin?"

"Only that Stewart's reasons were no different than Sam Cullen's," Ben had quietly answered, effectively shifting the subject to his new understanding of the circumstances, those that led to George's disappearance and of Thornhaugh's contribution to his rescue. George had paled at the reminder of that horrific ordeal he desperately wished to forget, the sudden, raging flood of emotions urging him to sprint away as he usually did when confronted with sadness, fear, or embarrassment. He stayed and battled that urge, which was fiercely fought and proudly won, leaving George with greater strength to combat any future inclination towards, as his Lordship called it, a 'puerile tantrum.'

Ben, who could well intuit George's suffering, treated the subject with care, essentially quieting after a minute or so of lauding Thornhaugh as a hero and Cullen a devil. They talked for just a minute more on Sam's demise, with neither of them privy to its aftermath nor the fate of his corpse, not that they were all that interested in knowing. Some things are better left alone, had been their parting agreement upon quitting each other's company that afternoon.

But not all things, thought George as he made the climb up the dark, winding stairway that led to a panel door which allowed entrance into the main guest quarters. Knowledge of this strangely situated passage had been one of many "secrets" divulged by Sam's nefarious cohorts some months ago, the chambermaid Gwen in this case. George's hindsight estimated that she had educated herself thoroughly on all the rooms she kept up; and he had indeed, just as Thornhaugh accused, believed himself at the time a privileged guardian of confidences, bearing with disdain Ben's snobbish contempt for his fraternizing with servants. George now marveled at what a simpleton he had been to miss all the signs of a grand burglary scheme for which he had, just as Thornhaugh deduced, been used as a pawn for their achievement of ill-gotten gains.

Never again, lest I be a fool!

George positioned himself at the door that required a mere push to open. Is this spying or sneaking? He knew not, only that he had come to appreciate his Lordship's critical lesson on the value of…how did he word it? the value of unsanctioned knowledge, that a person's livelihood might flourish because of it, and survival may well depend on it. A formal education, whether administered by governess or Eton, seemed almost worthless without that which had been attained by the likes of men like Thornhaugh and Crusoe, through difficult, sometimes dangerous, but most informative experiences. If there was a lesson to be followed, it was that of a man who had lived, whether in extreme wealth or extreme poverty, by nobody's standards but his own. George's newfound resolve to live likewise provided plenty of rationale for such naughty behavior.

Gently he pressed his ear to the door, hearing the muted voices within, as well as the vigorous rustling of paper. "Linen! Not cotton! Look, Baxter!"

Never had George heard in Thornhaugh's voice such elation (over clothing, of all things!), and had to smile as his joy increased with every subsequent unwrapping, "—matching this banyan in the Indian style! Look! Pure silk!"

Though George began to feel rather wicked for eavesdropping on so ordinary an activity, he held his station by mere virtue of his enjoyment in Thornhaugh's exuberance, which, judging by Miss Baxter's laughing responses, was a mutual feeling. At certain moments was heard that woman's voice and footsteps nearing George's proximity, followed by the rustling of garments, and the opening and closing of cabinets. Patiently, prudently, he listened for all sounds to recede back into the sitting room. Not until the sudden addition of Uncle Darcy's voice did his smile drop and keener interest rise. Soon was heard peculiar talk of a challenge that deeply intensified his intrigue, and for another minute he listened intently.

"Do you…do you mean it, Darcy? Have you really a game for us? a memory game?"

"I do, indeed; and if you win, the clothes are yours free of charge. If I win, you lose them."

Their exchange was audible, but just barely. George knew he would need to get closer, and relatively certain that the coast was clear, dredged up the nerve to crack open the panel door and peer into the empty bedroom.

Stealthily he crept in, gently pushed the door closed, and then dragged himself swiftly across the carpeted floor until he was underneath the massive bed. Apart from the breath he blew out from the thrill and relief to have not been discovered was he thenceforward determined to stay quiet as a mouse.

"I accept. You are a witness, Baxter," said his Lordship after the terms and stakes of the challenge were discussed, with George utterly confounded by Uncle's decision to offer up his gold ring from Aunt Lizzy as a prize. Though little of what he was hearing made much if any sense to him, he was fully committed to it with the hopes of a better understanding by the end.

He next perceived the sound of footfalls upon carpet, soft but constant, followed a bit later by complete silence…and then the unlatching of a chest of some kind. Or a case, perhaps?

The next voice heard was Uncle Darcy's: "Two hours a day, six days a week for three years is a good portion of a young life spent on learning any instrument. And then at what age did your discipline suffer that, shall we say, permanent suspension? Just short of eight years old, was it? What boy as yet at the age of reason could retain his mastery for another three decades? I aim to test your steel trap memory, the same one that can recall word-for-word a speech from more than ten years ago. You are to play a piece from your tutelage, whatever comes to mind first, or any other you wish. Do that, and victory is yours."

"Darcy, do you not understand that there are exceptions to everything? Did I not state plainly that my recollection of the incident which put a halt to said tutelage is hazy at best? And now you expect me to play as if—"

"Are you admitting that you have forgotten how? Have I won already?"

"No. I am only saying—"

"Have you even so much as touched a violin since that day?"

"Why ask now? The challenge itself presumes that I have not."

"Indeed it does, which breaks my own rule about the fallacy of presumption. Nevertheless, I am confident."

"Enough to risk so prized a possession as that ring? I find that interesting, as would your missus, no doubt. Perhaps it is not so great a treasure as I had the temerity to presume; your marriage, that is. Are you certain this contest is worth her knowing the truth of your regard, or lack thereof?"

George clenched his fists with the tension-rising dread of his uncle's response to such language; for he himself had inflamed the man over far less. A stretch of dead silence preceded a much cooler reply than expected. "Now is that a genuine question, I wonder, or a desperate means of persuading me to withdraw or revise this challenge he has no hope of meeting with success?" Uncle added firmly, "Enough dawdling. It is a waste of time, which is best taken to prepare yourself than perturb me, don't you think?"

Then was heard the slight rustling of a soft sort of fabric. "Darcy?...Darcy! Stop! Stop! Set it down!" His Lordship sounded almost frantic.

"So you will not even try," said Uncle, his voice thick with frustration. "Upon my word, this is a most disheartening win!"

"It is your treatment of a violin that is disheartening. You are to remove the cover gently, and then lay your left hand under the neck and lift—bloody hell, Darcy, let me do it. Stand aside."

"Very well." Uncle's calm was restored, as was his good humor. "Careful, your fingers are unsteady."

"Bugger off," Thornhaugh grumbled.

For some moments, little was heard but movement of clothing. Uncle made a "tsk" sound before uttering, "The weight of it alone does not bode well. Do you think he can bear it, Miss Baxter?"

"Not for more than a minute or two, I should think, sir," replied the governess.

Thornhaugh requested and was granted a few minutes to tune and warm up. Though George had almost no ear for music, he knew what shrill sounded like, and was glad when this period ended.

"Oh, dear, those fingers," Uncle again observed. "Give your nerves more time to calm. Take as much as you need."

"I neither need nor desire any, for I cannot wait to crow about my win."

"Not a chance, ol' man. Had you the skill of Bach himself, the odds are well in my favor."

"Then I shall play Bach. And for your information, Darcy, this is the proper rest position, strings untouched, with the right elbow settled here. Might you retain that?"

"I shall. Forgive me, I meant no disrespect."

"Where am I to stand?"

"Wherever you please. You are confined to this room as agreed upon, but apart from that rule are virtually boundless in terms of stance or movement. Another advantage: the object of this challenge is remembrance, not a show of talent or fluency. Play well or play poorly, but you must play to the end of the piece, with not a single note out of place. That is all. Now go to it."

With that came a long spell of quiet but for the faint whistle of Thornhaugh's labored breaths. As the clock ticked away, George grew concerned, almost fretful. Why does he not play? thought he. What is wrong?

"Are you unwell?" Uncle gently asked after a minute or so had passed. "You seem to have grown pale. Do you need—"

"One more moment, please," said Thornhaugh roughly just before he was heard entering the bedroom, allowing George a worm's eye view of his brisk walk towards the bed. George's heartbeat quickened upon consideration of his wolflike instincts, and he held his frozen state with the belief that detection was imminent. Squeezing his eyes shut, he sensed the lifting and dropping of the top mattress, followed by the handling of something—a trinket, George gathered by the soft clack of it being pocketed—and then his Lordship's immediate return to the sitting room. "Partita," he said confidently. "Number One in B Minor."

"You cannot be serious."

"As the white plague, ol' man. This will teach you never to doubt me again."

"Oh, well, then I look forward to the lesson," said Uncle, and then…nothing. Wheezing breaths through nostrils filled the silence.

"My fingers will not calm," said his Lordship in a quivering voice.

"Might I make recommend something that may help you?"

Thornhaugh's tone shot to angry. "Help me to what?" he snapped.

"Perhaps if you turned your back to us, facing out the window? The view may ease your nerves. Or if you prefer, Miss Baxter and I will go out and listen from the hall."

"I would prefer you be hanged at this moment, Darcy. Now let me be." Another extended pause. "Blast!"

Said Uncle in a kindly, almost fatherly manner, "As no terms were established beforehand, you are free to perform in the most comfortable manner you decide."

"To that same point, you are free to disrupt my progress in whatever manner you decide."

Uncle sighed. "You may also choose to see me as more of an ally in this than your nemesis."

"Why would I do that?"

"Why would you not? You hear me, now open your eyes. Trust your instincts if you cannot bring yourself to trust me."

"It is your words I do not trust, when you as the challenger are meant to act against me."

"I am unfamiliar with this rule, which may be common knowledge among your circles, but most definitely not mine. I tend to take up with those who should much rather I rise to meet a challenge than watch me fail at it, no matter what the stakes may be. I am married to such a person, and such people I should call my favorite of all."

Then came silence, followed by a deep, shuddering breath. "Mine, too."

"Have a look at your fingers now. I assume this means you are ready?"

"I believe so. And should I lose this wager, you and this fine fiddle may be assured of my good sportsmanship. On my word, I shall bear the loss as I have borne all the others: with dignity and diplomacy."

"I am holding you to that promise," said Uncle with a hint of anxiety. "As is my son."


Elizabeth made her own private study of the bright change in Priscilla's countenance on this second dog-walking excursion, knowing only that her friend's most recent letter to Kingston had been answered that morning with another. Its contents were evidently agreeable, for Priscilla's face had been fixed in an expression of cheer all day; and Elizabeth took it as an even better sign that the lady had no apparent interest in furthermore discussing letters, her husband, or her marriage in general. Whether because of or irrespective of their correspondence, she now seemed resolved to no longer attend the bitter past that nearly dissolved her prospects for a happy future, which she, judging by her conversation, was looking forward to with decidedly more enthusiasm than trepidation. Hence, her plans for the baby's room was their principal topic; and for the last half-hour of the walk did they talk of almost nothing but children, motherhood, and the sunniest blend of colors for a nursery wall.

But no sooner were they back at the house, with Elizabeth of an "all's well that ends well" frame of mind, than she became fraught with alarm at the sight of Matthew's carriage in the process of being loaded. With the thought that he might have been crucially called away, she raced up the portico and into the entrance hall. Her request of Bridges for an explanation was answered ruefully with, "I know not, Mrs. Darcy, only that the doctor is set on departing for Hope Valley as soon as may be. Forgive my not informing you, ma'am, but had I known what trail you were walking today—"

"Never mind that. Just…" Suddenly remembering her companion, Elizabeth turned to Priscilla and said, "Pardon me, dearest, but I must attend this matter. Our tea will have to wait. Shall we see you at dinner?"

"Of course! Think nothing of it. Antoinette and I are due for a nap." She gave a tug on the leash, "Viens, mon amour!" and then led her spaniel up the stairs toward the family wing. In her preoccupation with the dog, she nearly collided into Matthew himself upon reaching the second landing. "Dr. Fitzwilliam! I beg your pardon, sir."

"Lady Blackwell." He bowed to her curtsey, friendly but weary. "We have spoken so little since you arrived. You are staying in the family wing, yes?"

"Yes, sir. Pray how is your patient?"

"Stout-hearted, madam, though severely…infectious. You know it is best to avoid his presence, should you happen to meet it?"

"Aye, that is what the Darcys recommended. My husband, too. What would you consider a safe distance?"

"Oh, ten or twenty yards, perhaps more. As far as possible, how is that? And the less conversation, the better. He, er…his lungs, you see…every breath is precious. Would that he stopped speaking altogether, but there is no chance of that."

"Oh, the poor man!" she grieved. "I shall pray for him, doctor, though I have yet to know his name."

"For good reason and for your own good, ma'am. Send all the thoughts and prayers you wish, only do heed my warning." And with a parting farewell, the two resumed their walks, with Matthew marching downward. "Bridges," he said upon meeting him and Elizabeth at the foot of the stairs, "inform Miss Baxter that I am leaving a good supply of his tea with the kitchen. He sleeps best on that particular blend."

Bridges acknowledged the order and with a bow was then excused, whereupon Elizabeth asked Matthew with little patience, "Now may I be informed about everything else?"

"I leave that to your husband, dear Cousin. Essentially, my work here is done. We shall see you at Christmas. Give my love to the children." He kissed her cheek, and then moved to walk past her, only for her to shift and block his path. "Elizabeth, please—"

"Just tell me why the haste, Matty. Have you pressing business elsewhere?" His face hardened in response. "I thought not," she said, folding her arms. "Was there an incident? An argument? What in blazes has he done? I want to hear it from you!"

"Damn it, Lizzy," he grumbled, then placing a hand on her elbow took her aside and divulged the details of a fierce quarrel transpired in the oak parlor not an hour ago.

"Oh, dear God," she moaned. "I am so sorry, Matthew."

"And I am sorry you will be unable to bid your sister, niece and nephew a proper farewell. I intend for us to spend just one night with the Bingleys before we start the journey home to London and my practice, where I may be of actual use."

"But you have been useful," she pled. "Really, Matthew! We have just begun to see improvement."

He shook his head fervently. "It is but the appearance of such, which I assure you will not last. That is the nature of the disease. In spite of everything, I do wish him the best, suffer no hard feelings, and genuinely hope his last days are spent in comfort…oh, I almost forgot." From a hidden pocket he produced a cut of notepaper that was then placed into her hand. "I had meant for Baxter to have this, but you and Darcy may need it the most. It is a list of symptoms to be expected in the coming weeks, if not days, and measures to take in accordance. If he is lucky, he will go like my father, quietly, peacefully, but for these patients it can be an excruciating process of—"

"He cannot die here!" she exclaimed, now on the verge of tears. "William will not have it."

Returned Matthew with much patience, "You know better than that, Lizzy. What Darcy will not have is him to expire on some desolate road to nowhere. Now listen, please. As his pain increases, close observation is an absolute must. Sufferers tend to become desperate for relief in the end. Any relief. Let nothing near him that may be used as a weapon."

"Shhh! Matthew, please, please tell me what can be said or done for you to stay just a little longer. I would not have you further tolerate his abuse, but…but might we be able to come to an arrangement of some kind? Perhaps you need not be in his company while you work. Perhaps—"

"Elizabeth." Willing her to listen, Matthew took her gently by the shoulders and looked kindly into her watery eyes. "He is in the final stages. This is what I have been trying to make your husband come to terms with, but he remains obstinate. Surely you will have better success in getting through to him. You must."

He released her, and she stammered out between sniffs, "Then…then you are not leaving us out of anger, Matthew, but…in absence of all hope?"

"There is always hope, Cousin. Mine was that I might give him another six months, a year at the most. But that was before I knew the extent of what I was working with, which took no more than a week of examination to fully appreciate. After that, my work has amounted to gauging the speed of his advancement and herbal methods of slowing the infection's spread to his kidneys, his spine, or God forbid, his brain. But wherever it persists, there comes a point when it is out of our hands, when there is nothing left but to wait. Like your last hours with Mrs. Wickham. And that final day with Anne, remember?"

Elizabeth glanced down, nodded, and said, "Except we were not at Anne's side at the very end. Thornhaugh was."

Matthew's warm gaze went cold. "At Darcy's behest, not of his own will. Let us not pretend otherwise. Do you know what Thornhaugh was up to that morning? When called on to sit with her, do you know where he was found?"

"Matthew, please…"

"Between two harlots at Madam la Croix's. And if you think this but a vile rumor, ask Richard; for it was he in his morbid interest who desired to know the baser details and thus made all the necessary inquiries."

"I am well aware of Thornhaugh's nature," she shot back, "and in fact am less shocked by this particular than his submission to my husband, whether debt-driven or not." A beat later, Elizabeth's brow wrinkled with dawning comprehension. "Were it not for William's wager that evening before she died…had Thornhaugh not drawn the low card…"

"Then there would have been no debt to honor, and therefore no quitting his little romp for her deathbed," finished Matthew. "Anne would not have had her dying wish, and the devil would simply have moved along with her wealth as a goodly prize won, under no obligation to look upon any of us ever again."

"What was her wish?"

"To lay one last time in her husband's arms. She told me this as I nursed her. I told Darcy, and he did what he could. None of us, including Anne, expected this wish to be fulfilled, and only Thornhaugh knows if it was. Considering the indifference etched all over his face when he walked into the sickroom, I would sooner believe he talked her out of the wish than deigned to grant it. And that shrewd bugger had the gall to try and shame me, declare me the rake, that we regarded her less than he. Even at the end of his life, he will not admit the truth of how little he cared for her!"

"But here is another truth," returned Elizabeth, "that while her family had the deeper regard for her health, he had the deepest regard for her passions, her pursuits, and especially her freedom. In India, he never treated her like an invalid nor confined her by any means well within his power. Money was no object, and no expressed wish of hers was denied. She always talked of India with such affection and admiration of its culture, sights, beauty, with all of those wonderful memories to nourish her passing soul. And to the very end she avowed her love for him and credited his philosophy—that our time like our lives belong to us and no other—for that short period of happiness. And your time belongs to you, Cousin. You have every right to leave. Forgive me for standing in your way."

She then moved aside to let him pass, but he remained still, regarding her thoughtfully. "Elizabeth, I have never thought to ask you this till now. It is about that day in Hyde Park. How vivid is your memory?"

"Exceedingly so, else I would not be…" her lip began to quiver. "I would not be so bent on saving him. It is irrational, I know."

"You had the best view of the scene, surely of what happened after Sir Alvin shot himself. I was attending the body, so I cannot…I cannot say with certainty that Thornhaugh consciously bore a blast meant for your husband. But you can."

She looked at him and said conclusively, "I can."

"But why? Why did he do it, Lizzy?"

"William has never stopped asking that same question. For my part, I care not the reason. I am only grateful. Eternally so."

"Do you hear that?" he asked suddenly, and then hushed the activity around them to fully catch the unmistakable sound of violin music. He and Elizabeth moved over to the staircase, peering up with confounded interest as the allemande endured at a relentless tempo, with no variation but a double to mark the end of one movement and beginning of the next. "Upon my word, Cousin! That boy of yours is a prodigy!"

"But that…that cannot be Ben," replied she. "It is too advanced for him. Is that Mozart?"

"Bach," Matthew confirmed as they ascended together, chasing the rapid tune up to the very top and into the guest wing, where far up the hall Darcy and Miss Baxter were stationed just outside Thornhaugh's room, both of them leaning against the wall as they listened at opposite sides of a wide-open door.

She and Matthew drew closer until Darcy spotted them in his peripheral vision. His smile held as he raised a finger to his lips, beckoning them with his other hand to come closer…and then palmed a bid for them to halt. The tune went on, and the same gesture was performed when their three children were spotted from the family wing, their little faces fixed in astonishment. Closer they stepped until also motioned to halt just short of the doorway, where Malcolm hugged his arms around Elizabeth as they all continued to listen without a peep uttered. Astonishment became enchantment. It flowed through the household, freezing everyone in mid-chore, including Priscilla Blackwell, who was preparing herself for bed.


Darcy shut the door behind him upon entrance, and addressing his back said simply, "Well done."

Thornhaugh, still panting after his three-and-a-half-minute solo, turned to place the violin with great care back into its case. "Return this to your son…with my compliments." He paused to cough into one of his new handkerchiefs before adding, "Set the ring on that table."

Darcy looked down at the beloved band and caressed it with his thumb. "Allow me to offer as an alternative its value in coin, which will come in excellent use when Blackwell arrives."

"Offer denied." He latched the case shut, and without meeting Darcy's eye turned towards the adjoining room. "Good afternoon, sir." And then he disappeared into the bedchamber, leaving Darcy certain that any further attempt to negotiate was pointless.