A/N The next chapter is kicking my backside so I'm posting this earlier than planned in the hopes it'll magically spark a breakthrough.

I forgot to say in the last chapter, that I've had lots of requests for an alternate ending – I can confirm that an ending in which the Colonel lives is in the works. Whether this will be a one-shot or multi-chapter story will be decided as I write it, and I won't start until LWNPTG is full wrapped up. But it will come!

My spotify has been really messed up trying to find the right music to write all this to. You're welcome for this emotional rollercoaster, no need to thank me (I'm lying, please thank me. Or shout at me. Just let me know what you think).

oOoOoOo

Friday 9th December 1796

Though not originally receptive to the suggestion of a Christmas ball at Netherfield, Miss Bingley and her sister were resolved to make the occasion surpass any other event in Meryton that season. As the Bennet party entered the great house, they were greeted by towering arrangements of exotic fruit and extravagant flowers procured from the most exclusive hothouses. Glass chandeliers and strategically placed mirrors reflected the candlelight again and again until the ballroom was filled with a golden glow, and shadows and flames appeared to dance together across the walls. A group of musicians were playing a sweet melody from a raised platform at the far end of the room. Though the dancing had yet to begin, the guests held the music in the gentle sway of their bodies as they stood about with flutes of mulled wine.

Jane was met with delight by a cane-bearing Bingley, who bowed with much grace and even more enthusiasm, before nodding individually to the rest of the party. This was received with an indulgent smile from Mrs Bennet and a giggle from Lydia. Miss Bingley was less effusive with her welcome, and there was a somewhat resigned air beneath the ostrich feathers in her hair, though she was polite in her manner. She had developed a greater tolerance for Bennets of late - whether this was because her brother owed his life to one, or because that same individual brought connections to the highest circles of society, it wasn't known.

Mr Darcy was not near the receiving line, and instead took in the spectacle from his position in a secluded corner. He watched as Elizabeth's gaze skimmed the crowd, the corner of her lip twitching as she spotted the youngest Lucas girl squealing and skipping around – and through – several groups of people to reach for Miss Lydia. Her cheeks were flushed; her eyes shining in the candlelight. When he made his way towards her, past a collection of matrons who tittered into their hands, Elizabeth smiled brightly and bobbed an irreverent curtsey.

"Darcy!" she cried, "you have braved the throng."

He bowed deeply, a brightness in his expression "I had the most worthy motivation".

"And pray tell, what was it?"

"I could not miss the chance to engage your hand for the supper set," he said, with some feeling. He paused, then. "Unless another has already…?"

"I am not yet engaged for the supper set, and would be very pleased to dance with you."

They parted, with Elizabeth greeting her friends about the room, and acquiring Mr Edward Goulding, the younger son, as her partner for the opening set. Darcy lurked in a corner.

When the first notes of the minuet were struck, Mr Darcy was required to emerge from his position of retreat to take the arm of Miss Bingley. All the while, hushed remarks were passed amongst those at the side of the room, as the crowd saw Mr Bingley place his cane aside and bow to Jane.

The minuet was the only dance Mr Bingley danced that evening. He was unable to perform the steps with his previous elegance, choosing instead to simply walk Jane through the processional dance. Jane was no less delighted than if he had skipped around her with the spring of a deer. They were a fine-looking couple, for all of Bingley's heavy, limping steps, and any deficiency in the dance was amply compensated with the sheer joy in their faces. Darcy and Miss Bingley's turn of process was accompanied by noticeably fewer smiles.

The music was exceptionally played, the drinks were flowing, and Elizabeth was certain she had not enjoyed herself so much in quite a while. She did not lack for dance partners, despite the women outnumbering the men considerably, as many a childhood friend (and many a young man disappointed to have lost her to the Colonel) came to claim her hand. Mr Darcy, unwilling to appear impolite yet as uncertain as ever around people he knew so little, danced with Jane, Mrs Hurst and Mary – who blinked at him for several seconds too long when he asked, confused – before he retreated to the fringes again.

The supper set was a lively quadrille which Elizabeth skipped through with great pleasure. A lightness had settled on Mr Darcy's countenance which showed he was equally satisfied. Though he was reticent in unknown company, Mr Darcy was a charming conversationalist once the acquaintance was established, and they spent the dance in cheerful discussions about Elizabeth's son, Georgiana and Pemberley. By the time the conversation turned to a recently-published volume they had both read, Elizabeth laughed,

"Look at us, Darcy! My goodness, talking about books on the dancefloor. Is this what it is to feel old?"

"Indeed," he replied solemnly. "Old. And musty. We no doubt smell of stale kippers and dust."

As Elizabeth had to dance opposite another man for a few bars, she was unable to tell Darcy off, so when they faced one another again he felt no compunctions about continuing.

"Of course, I am almost a decade your senior, which leaves me in an even sorrier state." Mr Darcy's expression was sombre and earnest. "As we speak, I feel myself becoming more moth-eaten."

"Stop! You ridiculous man, stop it, or I shan't be able to continue – I cannot catch my breath for laughing."

"I am afraid, Madam, that you cannot lay the blame for your breathlessness at my feet. I am dreadfully sorry to be the bearer of unfortunate new, but if you cannot laugh and dance at the same time, it is because you are old. Ancient, even."

"I mean it, Mr Darcy, you must cease at once!" Elizabeth was gasping between snorts of mirth.

"One might go so far as the to say: a crone."

"I shall walk off this dancefloor at this very moment!"

But Elizabeth did not leave the dance, and when Mr Darcy led her to the dining room, she settled happily to be served white soup and poured a glass of negus[1]. Now seated amongst acquaintances he did not know well, Mr Darcy withdrew once again behind his armour of haughty reserve. His conversation was sedate, and he made no more outrageous jokes, but he did serve the lady on his other side with politeness if also an air of stoic resignation. When he was allowed to turn to Elizabeth, however, Darcy's eyes seemed to soften and though he did not exactly smile, the contentedness sat gently on his face, like a prickly cat allowed to bask by the warmth of a hearth.

oOoOoOo

Saturday 10th December 1796

When Mr Bingley emerged from his carriage with Darcy the next day, it was immediately evident that his leg pained him greatly. His cane took his weight more heavily than it had in many weeks; each step he took was accompanied by a poorly-concealed wince. Nevertheless, he took his tea from Jane with his usual effusive thanks, praising the preparation ("Why it is simply the perfect shade, you have steeped it for exactly the length of time required for a perfect cup of tea"), the pouring ("I am sure I have never seen anyone lift a teapot so elegantly") and the arrangement ("You chose a cake of the most perfect size, it fits precisely on the edge of my saucer here"). Darcy caught Elizabeth's eye then cast his gaze heavenward with a sigh. Elizabeth muffled a snort with her handkerchief.

The usual pleasantries were exchanged. It was established that much enjoyment had been had by everyone the previous night, but all except the youngest girls – who were still abed - had not quite slept long enough to make up for the excitement. The weather, which had held all evening, was admired, and Mrs Bennet fervently wished that it would continue so, because her bones were so quick to chill these days, and it would be dreadful if she should have to lay abed all day because frost had the temerity to settle. Elizabeth rolled her eyes. Mr Darcy choked on a lavender biscuit.

Once the niceties had been observed, Mrs Bennet was suddenly overcome with the need to consult Mrs Hill about the Christmas decorations, and did she not need Mary's help, because everyone knew that Mary had a keen eye for such things.

"You always say my ideas are boring, mamma, I don't see why this occasion should be any different".

But Mrs Bennet was quite firm and bid Mary rise. As she reached the door, Mrs Bennet turned to wink most theatrically at Elizabeth, nodding towards Jane and Bingley, where they sat side-by-side, then at Darcy, before winking again.

"Are you quite alright, mamma?" Elizabeth asked with great earnestness, "do you have something in your eye?"

Mrs Bennet merely winked again, motioned towards the door, and left, pulling Mary along by her elbow.

Knowing Jane and Bingley were too immersed in each other to pay any attention to the rest, Elizabeth leaned towards Mr Darcy whispered loudly, "I do believe my mother would have us leave the happy couple to their own company".

Darcy threw a fond but exasperated look at Bingley, who had taken Jane's hands between his own and was nervously patting her as he would a puppy with tiny but exceedingly sharp teeth.

"I don't think our presence shall be any impediment to them."

And it was not, for Mr Bingley was not a soft-spoken man and they soon heard him ask, in his characteristically flowery manner, whether dear Jane, who he had come to love for the beauty of her soul and the kindness in her eyes and her very soft hands (here the patting intensified), would do him the honour of becoming his wife. Jane's answer was quieter but no less heartfelt.

In this moment, Mrs Bennet burst into the room, showing little remorse for her obvious eavesdropping.

"Oh Jane! Oh Jane! And Mr Bingley! Mr Bingley! And Jane!"

"Yes, it's quite wonderful, mamma," Elizabeth remarked, watching her mother's hands flap about as though fanning a small fire or shooing a large animal. Mr Darcy touched her elbow lightly, hesitantly.

In due course, Mr Bingley left to speak to Mr Bennet, but the meeting was brief and soon the whole family was gathered into the morning room. The youngest girls had been drawn downstairs by their mother's ecstatic wails, and it was discovered that nine people was an untenably great number to fit in the room at one time. This situation was only exacerbated when Mr Collins returned from Lucas Lodge. He stood in front of the fireplace as though it was a deliberate choice – in reality, he was simply forced to stand somewhere due to lack of available seating – and coughed lightly. Then he coughed again.

"Mr Bennet" he said with a bow in the gentleman's direction, "Mrs Bennet. Mr Darcy," here, another bow, "Mr Bingley, Mis Bennet, Miss Elizabeth-"

"Yes, yes, Mr Collins," Mr Bennet interrupted impatiently, "we are all acquainted with one another, there is no need to take a register."

Mr Collins nodded deferentially. "It is with gratitude that I make this announcement today. It is an announcement that shall come as little surprise to my good cousins, of course, because it has been my intention since the beginning, as I declared shortly after my arrival, to take a wife. I came to Longbourn with such an intention because it was recommended to me by my patroness, the Lady Catherine de Bourgh," here he bowed in Mr Darcy's direction again, "and her advice in such matter is unfailingly reliable."

Lydia yawned loudly.

"Because I was blessed by her council and was thus resolved in my dealings with the local community, with whom I shall one day be neighbours-"

A muffled "harrumph!" was audible from the other side of the room, where Mrs Bennet sat.

"-my endeavours have been successful, and with my humble satisfaction I may now inform you-"

"Oh do get on with it," sighed Kitty.

"-that Miss Charlotte Collins, whom I know to be a close friend and confidant of the daughters of this house, my cousins, has most graciously agreed to be my wife."

Mr Bingley declared "my sincerest felicitations to you both!" as though the celebrations of his own engagement hadn't been interrupted.

"Oh," said Elizabeth faintly. "Oh."

oOoOoOo

It rather put a damper on things, Elizabeth thought.

With Mr Collin's announcement, the impromptu gathering in the morning room came to and end, after mutual acknowledgement that Mary, Kitty and Lydia could only squeeze onto the settee together for so long before they were inclined to come to blows. Mr Bennet retreated back to his study, and Mr Collins followed, uninvited. Mrs Bennet was finally overcome with the events of the morning, as the reminder that they could be consigned to the hedgerows to make way for Charlotte Lucas of all people, along the news that a wealthy new son-in-law could prevent this, predictably induced a fit of nerves. Kitty had places to be, Lydia had people to see, and both left for Meryton, giggling.

When Mr Bingley declared that he should like a turn about the park, Jane had thrown Elizabeth a look of such alarm that Lizzie put her foot down, both for the sake of her sister and her fiancé's leg.

"You are clearly feeling the ill-effects of dancing last night, Mr Bingley, and if you attempt to go for a walk I shall steal your stick, shove you into a wheelbarrow and cart you back here myself."

Mr Bingley laughed, but the alarm in his eyes suggested he believed she might very well do such a thing.

"I am to be your sister now, Mr Bingley," she confirmed, "which means that if I have to push you into a wheelbarrow for you own sake, I shall. It is the sisterly thing to do."

"Goodness," said Bingley, "I can't say I've ever had a sister like you, Miss Elizabeth."

With the happy couple hereafter content to stay in the morning room, now that the crush had moved on, Elizabeth quietly took her leave. She made her way to the rose garden, as bleak as it was in December, with the bushes cut back and crouching low in the brittle winter sun. Mr Darcy had trailed after her, she noticed, as much as it was possible for a man of his stature to trail after anything. She ignored him, feeling listless all of a sudden.

The earth felt dead underneath her feet. She used to find such hope in a winter garden, she mused, when the plants looked barren and bare, and yet underneath life lay coiled and ready to burst forth come spring. Now, as she looked around her, she thought they just looked tired. It seemed such an awful waste. All of the beauty, all the joy of unfurling leaves and vibrant summer colours, gone by the time the weather turned. Ever year, it was all lost. The leaves fell; the flowers died. Everything always died.

"She doesn't love him, you know."

Darcy showed no surprise at being suddenly addressed.

"Charlotte, that is. Jane loves Bingley as though he hung the moon, which I'm sure he would, if weren't for the dratted leg."

Her companion said nothing, but came to stand closer. Elizabeth didn't look at him, her gaze on the frayed end of a broken twig, but he felt solid next to her.

"Charlotte does not love Mr Collins, and yet they are to marry. It shouldn't surprise me if they end up down the isle before Jane and Bingley, because Charlotte is in a hurry to be far away from the title 'spinster', as quickly as possible. And Mr Collins simply wants to show his devotion to your aunt by executing her wishes as efficiently as he can.

"We've spoken about marriage often – argued, even – and I cannot help but worry that she is sacrificing herself to a miserable existence with such as man as Mr Collins rather than risk being husbandless. She cannot, cannot, be happy with him, it simply is not possible!"

"I have observed," Mr Darcy said softly, "that the world is not often kind to women alone."

Elizabeth threw him a dark look.

"Yet she no doubt believes that her security of status will confer some measure of happiness, but she does not know! She cannot know the hardship that will come, nor that her love for her husband will be the only thing to get her through the night when the trials you face together are suddenly so great, or when- when-"

Her body wracked with shivers, Elizabeth succumbed to violent sobs. Watching her as closely as he had, Mr Darcy was swift enough to catch her as her knees buckled, pulling her towards him with an arm about her waist until she was cradled against him. He engulfed her hands in in one of his own and held them to his chest. His skin warm and dry, she noticed, and slightly rough. Calloused. Richards' hands had felt like that.

When her tears finally subsided, Elizabeth could feel Darcy pressing his cheek to her hair, and she realised how much she had missed being held, being touched, by a man. Then a wave of intense sickness overcame her at such disloyalty and she jerked away from him, gasping. Mr Darcy was at a loss for what to do with himself, so he searched his pockets for a handkerchief which didn't appear and then stood stiffly with his arms hanging awkwardly at his side.

Elizabeth scrubbed roughly at her cheeks with the heel of one hand. Her stomach was roiling. She thought she might cast up her accounts[2].

"Are you quite alright?" Darcy asked gently.

What an utterly ridiculous question, Elizabeth thought. But she replied in an unsteady affirmative, and acquiesced when he guided her to a bench nearby.

"But I am happy for her, if she has decided this is the direction in which she wishes to take her life. And I could not be more delighted for Jane and Mr Bingley. But I cannot- Oh, I do not know what I mean to say! I feel as though my stomach is filled with every possible emotion and yet none at all – like I am stuffed to bursting but empty at the same time. It is an absolutely dreadful sensation."

Mr Darcy stayed beside her as she sat shaking on the bench in the rose garden, and when the shaking progressed to shivers which wracked her whole body, he did not ask her to go back indoors. Instead, he quietly left her to return to the house, and brought back with him her a shawl and a bowl of hot posset, which he pressed into her hands.

The sky was fading to an inky blue streaked with yellow by the time Darcy spoke.

"There are times when I struggle to celebrate Georgiana's birthday."

Wrapped up in the shawl and clutching the posset but no longer shaking, Elizabeth shifted to press their shoulders together.

"It was so strange, when she was born. It was not a joyous occasion. My mother was slipping before Georgiana had even joined us in this world, and the next day, she was gone. My father was deeply affected, that first year, but after that it seemed as though he felt nothing at all. Of course, by that time I was away to school for most of the year – and we were never particular a family to share our emotions," Darcy threw a somewhat wry glance down to Elizabeth. "I have never been able to reconcile this- this duality, I suppose one must call it. I wish to celebrate the utter joy Georgiana brings to my life, but I am also burdened by grief not only on my behalf but also for my sister, who never knew our mother at all."

"You are correct to call it a duality, I think," Elizabeth mused. She was quiet for a moment before she spoke again. "Richard's death is still so recent for me. And I have not yet learned to hold those two feelings – the joy and the grief – without falling apart. Drowning in the sorrow. I was so happy! Then suddenly the world seemed to lose all colour and I could not breathe." She sobbed desperately, just once. "I don't know how to breathe without him."

oOoOoOo

[1] At a private ball, white soup was a staple, and was made with either chicken or veal stock, egg yolks, cream and almonds. This was often accompanied by negus, a sort of mulled wine made from wine (usually port), hot water, lemon or orange juice, sugar and spices like nutmeg.

[2] To cast up one's accounts – to vomit