Click-clack, Click-clack. Bridget was well aware of the sound of her shoes as she walked up the stairs from the kitchen, handing over the plate – filled with tiny ginger cakes and iced lace-patterned biscuits – to Ralph, who was waiting next to the hoist to lift the trays to the ante-room before Mr Staughton oversaw the parade of footmen who would carry them through to the splendour of the dining room, presenting them to Mr Darcy and his guests. She only knew the visitors by their trunks, currently stored in the gap underneath the stairs. Bingley. Hurst. Godwin, that was a new one, she thought. But she had seen the young lady before in glimpses of satin and curls, the older gentleman with his demands for seed cake, and the wane looking woman of middling years who seemed almost all gone. The murmurings in the servants hall had suggested that this Godwin woman was going to marry the master, but Bridget wasn't so sure. It wasn't fitting for the mistress of Pemberley to always keep her nose so high up in the air, she thought.

"Reckon we'll be done before midnight, Bridget?" Ralph said, loading the tray into the hoist.

"Maybe… I think we might be done before ten, if we're lucky," she said, with a nod, "Miss Bingley likes to retire early, and Mr Bingley will be bladdered before eleven."

"Aye, he can't handle his drink," he said with a laugh. "why old Staughton had to carry him to bed the last time he stayed."

"I remember…Poor Mr Bingley."

"Poor Bingley? Don't say that, Bridge…"

"I had a care for him that day, Ralph. He were proper ill."

"Who were proper ill?" Dotty chirped quickly as she carried a scuttle of coal past the two older servants.

"Mr Bingley," Bridget said.

"Oh, Mr Bingley," the younger girl sighed dreamily, "he's such a gentleman."

"When have you seen Mr Bingley?" Ralph enquired, knowing full well that the scullery maid should never have been seen upstairs.

"Only quickly," she said, "when he arrived, like, and he were wearin' that green waistcoat and his fancy hat, and I thought to myself that he looked like t'Prince Regent himself."

"When 'ave you ever seen the Prince Regent, Dotty? Get away, ya daft apeth!" Bridget laughed, as the younger girl began to scuttle away down the corridor, the bucket banging against her legs.

"What about you, Bridge, 'ave you a care for Mr Bingley?"

"Why would you think I have a care for Mr Bingley?" She was quite put out by this suggestion.

"You spent time in the house in town last season, di'n't yer? Learning wi' Mrs Boyle… you know t'Bingleys better than any of us 'ere."

"I were only in the kitchen, Ralph. I were never upstairs, you would be best asking Nancy or one of t'housemaids if you want to know personal things about Miss Bingley, which you shouldn't even be thinking about anyway!"

"I meant because of yer brother, Bridge, ya wet."

Bridget took umbrage at Peter's manner and folded her arms against him. None of the other servants mentioned the fact that she was the sister of George Wickham, not wanting to embarrass her, she presumed. It had been thought that he would become the steward of Pemberley, as his father had before him, but it had become clear early on that George was nothing like her dear papa. She didn't see much of him, kept away from his bad influence and his London ways in the sanctuary that was Paddock Cottage. Her mother Eleanor, who had once been a governess at nearby Chatsworth, educated her children in a manner perhaps thought excessive, but Bridget prided herself on being one of only a handful of servants who could read to any exacting standard, and she had a good hand too. She knew that if fate had been kinder, she too could have been teaching the bored daughters of the upper classes, but George had prevented that. Alas, he was her brother and her blood and regardless of what he had done wrong, she would do all she could to defend him.

"Don't talk about George, or I swear I'll 'ave our David come and gi' thee a clout."

"Eee, that isn't fair! David's as big as a bleedin' carthorse."

"I said don't talk about our George, Ralph," she warned. "Mrs Reynolds will go half mad if she hears ya, so it's for your own care. You know you cannot talk about him in this house."

He nodded quickly, Bridget Wickham was as fiery as they came, and she was clever too. Must be hard for her, he thought to himself, having her own kin so despised at Pemberley. He had only met Mr Wickham once, when him and the master had returned from Egypt, and he knew right then and there that there was definitely something funny about him. Ralph was a good judge of character, he knew he was.

"Is there any reason why you are both still harping on here, when Bridget has work to do?"

Mrs Reynolds had appeared from nowhere, her Derbyshire tones causing Ralph to jump and look busy, whilst Bridget blushed underneath her bonnet and disappeared back into the kitchen.

"Bridget," she said, catching the girl halfway back down the stairs.

"Yes, Mrs Reynolds," Bridget curtseyed quickly.

"Have a mind with the male servants, your mama would not approve," she said softly, "and as your godmother, neither do I."

"I know, Aunt Frances," Bridget said in a similarly quiet tone.

Frances Reynolds softened. The last few years had been hard for Bridget, Eleanor too. After Robert had died, she had done all she could to support his widow and the three smaller children. George, the oldest by six years, was under the protection of his namesake, spirited away to school and the benefits of a private education. Peter and David Wickham were not as lucky, being too small to ingratiate themselves to the master of the house and his heir, and Bridget, despite being the same age as Georgiana Darcy, had been shunted into this lowly servants position in the bowels of the kitchen. All three of the children were still employed by the estate, and Eleanor lived off the annuity left by her husband, but it all seemed unfair to Frances, who knew that Bridget could have been as close a companion to the young Miss Darcy as her brother was to the master.

"Why don't you go up to bed now," she said, taking the tray, "you look fair jiggered."

"No," Bridget said, "it's alright. I have work to do."

Frances knew that her niece had the same work ethic as her own brother, Robert had been up with the lark and still working away long past bedtime. It was more than likely one of the reasons that he had passed away before his time.

"Bridget," she said firmly now, "go to bed."

The girl sighed, "I feel as if this is more than a hint of favouritism."

"If I cannot have a care for you, then who can I have a care for?"

"You are too kind."

"Perhaps," she said, "now, go."

Bridget smiled, did another quick curtsey and disappeared back into the corridor.

Fitzwilliam had dressed in his newest evening jacket, it was the one that made him look taller, his shoulders wider; he had also insisted his hair be trimmed before coming down for dinner this evening, which meant he was late into the library, managing to catch Georgiana who was also similarly late to entertain her guests.

"Will I do?" he said to her, a sudden bout of nerves dancing in his stomach. He wasn't even sure if he would be able to eat anything at all.

"Oh Fitz, you look particularly handsome this evening."

"Thank you for the compliment, although I will never believe you."

"Is all of this effort for Miss Godwin?"

"Not specifically, but maybe I have inadvertently dressed to impress her."

"You are a terrible liar, Fitzwilliam," she grinned. "Why, Miss Godwin is a fool if she does not adore you."

He hesitated for a brief second, "do you genuinely think so?"

"Of course," she said, her voice quiet under the grand stairs, "although we have to make sure that she is worthy of you."

Smiling tightly, he led her into the library, where their visitors were talking amongst themselves, Bingley chatting animatedly to Jemima and her companion, Mrs Winters, who was trilling with laughter, Louisa sit in the bay window, and Mr Hurst conversing with Mr Warner, whilst his very young second wife, Isabella, was being talked at by Miranda and Beatrice Hurst, and Caroline Bingley, all of whom were dressed similarly in matching dresses made from printed muslins.

Georgiana felt him take a breath, and she squeezed his hand; he looked down at her quickly and was instantly reassured by her presence even as she checked to make sure he was alright, a comforting glance, a nod, before venturing over to Bingley.

"Why, Miss Darcy, you are perfection personified," he said, taking her hand and kissing it, a relaxed bow to mirror her relaxed curtsey.

"Mr Bingley, please do not feel that you have to flirt with me, I am well aware of your charms," she said, noticing that the smile on Miss Godwin's face was beginning to sag, "and I do hope that you are looking forward to dining with us here tonight at Pemberley, Miss Godwin. I trust that your rooms are satisfactory?"

"Of course, satisfactory. My rooms are facing the North, I have noticed."

"Yes, Mrs Reynolds and I placed you in the Yellow Bedroom suite, it's one of the oldest rooms in Pemberley, and we reserve it for our special guests, why King James the Second even stayed in there once."

"Yes," she said, "and there is a portrait of his mistress right above the fireplace. Didn't one of your relatives also once hold that unenviable position?"

"I presume that you are referring to the Countess of Dortmund?"

"Was that the title bestowed upon her?"

"Yes," she nodded, "by the King." She noticed Jemima look over derisively at Mrs Winters, "Lady Sophia Darcy is one of the great mysteries of Pemberley, Miss Godwin. You see, to put it bluntly, she simply vanished. None of us know what became of her, but we do think it strange that a lady can disappear like that."

"Well, the room is perfectly adequate, of course, although my maid did struggle putting up my hair for dinner, which is why it looks such a frightful mess. Did your maid have a similar issue, Miss Darcy?"

If Georgiana was offended, Miss Godwin would not have known. Bingley looked over quickly at her, and then back at Jemima. She wanted to make it plain to her that she would not tolerate being disrespected at Pemberley, that she did not like this woman who had expected all the deference with none of the rank or manners to own it, and if Jemima doubted it for one minute, then Georgiana she knew she would have make it clear.

"Not at all, but then again, my rooms are in the family wing and face the South, which is why I would not have suffered as greatly as you. Any mishap with my own appearance is my own doing and, of course, my brother plays a large part in whatever decoration I am adorned with."

"Your brother helps you dress, Miss Darcy, is that your meaning? Why, how scandalous, rather like one of the characters in a novella, do you not think?"

"I think you have misunderstood," her voice acerbic, "My brother plays a large part in what I wear merely because he pays for it."

Bingley shuffled uncomfortably in his evening shoes, suddenly aware of the tightness of his cravat.

"I daresay my opinion counts for naught, but I must say, ladies, that you both look perfectly splendid, I would be happy to dance with either of you this evening," he bumbled, "perhaps even more than once… Danvers," he called to the gentleman and his wife, "come and join in our jolly conversation, I fear I am being overcome with womanly talk."

Georgiana was sure she caught Bingley breathing a little sigh of relief as Danvers joined them, an expression of relief crossing his face.

Fitzwilliam walked over to Louisa, a stiff bow, before relaxing and taking a seat next to her on the plush, newly reupholstered window seat, which overlooked the garden and the lake. The candlelight above them in the Turkish lantern flickered, a souvenir from the near east, an inspiration for the décor in this room, all golds and creams, and rich red fabrics.

"Fitzwilliam," she said widely, "I had quite wondered where you had gone!"

"I was momentarily delayed, but here now."

"And all the more grateful am I for it, for I have missed you greatly and have been eager to see you in person."

"And I you," he glanced quickly upwards, "and soon we all shall be spending the month together in Hertfordshire."

"You still wish to venture to Hertfordshire with us, Fitz?"

"Aye," he said, still not giving her a glance, "it looks to be a marvellous end to the year, does it not?"

"Perhaps…but," she began.

The Darcy butler entered the library and announced that dinner was to be served. Fitz grinned at her, before gesturing for them to begin the short walk to the dining room. Louisa knew that all chance of a continuation of this conversation would now be forgotten. She knew that she only had half of his attention, that out of the corner his eye he was watching Jemima, that his grey eyes, usually hard like slate were softer, molten almost. He was only paying her half attention, she could tell. Louisa had never seen Fitzwilliam like this before, but she didn't believe for one minute that he was in love with Jemima Godwin. She had seen Charles like this so many times, so had Fitzwilliam; all lovelorn and unable to see any kind of reason, it surprised Louisa that Fitz was unable to identify it in himself, unwilling perhaps to admit that he could also fall as fast and as foolishly as her brother.

"Maybe it shall be the first venture to the countryside for the future Mrs Darcy and I, what say you, Mrs Hurst?"

"Maybe," she said with a smile, as he took her hand.

The dining room had the smell of new paint and plaster, the gilt frames edging the portraits of long-gone relatives sparkling in the candlelight. The architect had been very clever in this room, which was a masterpiece of plasterwork, grained to look like wood panels; the ceiling a decadent floral confection manufactured from the best material, stark white and classic; and the room had been extended outwards so that they could enjoy the views of the garden, the windows were still open even at this late hour and the summer evening air was granting them all with refreshment in the hot room. There were over twenty of them in attendance, a few local families had been invited too, as well as the houseguests already present.

Louisa found herself sitting next to Edward Warner on one side, whose conversation was less than lacking, and Georgiana on the other, who was sparkling with conversation, even amongst more dominating personalities, such as that of her own sister. Caroline was similarly effervescent this evening, flirting with Hugo Danvers who was looking decidedly dashing this evening. He was a handsome young gentleman and it pleased her to see her sister laughing again, she had been melancholy ever since word had reached the house on Grosvenor Street that Christopher Dalhousie was returning to Edinburgh with a new bride, but tonight she was her usual self. Darcy was sitting at the head of the table, with Miranda to his left, Charles was about halfway down with Jemima in the centre. Louisa studied the girl carefully – she had known her for a while now, becoming gradual acquaintances in the houses of Belgravia, introductions to the high-born, who received Jemima through her family connections, but who only allowed Louisa entrance because of her wealth and recent marriage. She was no stranger to the snobbery of London society, had experienced it herself more than once, a sign even in these modern times that prejudice was still prevalent, even with an inheritance of twenty thousand pounds.

"How was the journey, Louisa?" Georgiana asked with an excited look on her face, "I am so happy that you are come, I have so many things planned for us. Fitz has even bought two new ponies for the phaeton."

"The journey was long, but everything I find can be solved with a rush around the estate with two new ponies," Louisa said biting into a ginger cake.

"And you know of Miss Godwin, of course," she said with a terse smile.

"Yes." Louisa paused, saw the hardness running through her veins, "and what is your opinion of Miss Godwin?"

Georgiana did not say anything but looked at Louisa with her eyes wide and knowing, and took a drink of her wine, "she is tolerable, I suppose, but I haven't seen much in her yet that recommends her to me."

"Oh, but she is handsome woman, is she not?"

"She is beautiful, Louisa, I am not denying the lady her beauty," Georgiana was still smiling, but Louisa knew it was for show, a hardened laugh at the edges of her sentences.

"Oh," she paused, wanting to question further, to ask what had happened between the Godwins arriving at Pemberley and now, but it was not to be.

"Dancing, I think," Fitzwilliam said, rising to his feet, "what say you Miss Godwin, would you care to dance?"

Jemima smiled and clapped, "oh, that sounds positively wonderful. Although, I will only dance if dearest Charles is my partner for the first two."

Louisa caught the look of disappointment on his face, but he recovered admirably.

"I did not think we would be dancing this evening, Mr Darcy," chirped Miranda, who

"Well, quite," he said, gesturing for them all to stand. "Shall we?"

It was noticed by everyone that he offered his hand to Miss Godwin a little sooner than was appropriate in company, and even Georgiana was slightly vexed at this knowing that she ought to have taken precedence. Caroline gave Louisa a pointed stare, acknowledging that the lady was making their friend forget himself indeed. Jemima took his hand, leading the way through the tall, wooden door with a smug look upon her face, her uncle and aunt following after, with Georgiana taking the hand of Charles, who kindly led her through the stag parlour and into the more intimate setting of the drawing room.

"Georgiana," Jemima said, in a tone that the lady did not appreciate, "I have heard that you are the most proficient on the pianoforte, so you can play while we dance."

"Well," she said, "I am quite proficient at dancing too, so maybe someone else would care to play. I have heard that you are a rather capable musician."

"Indeed, I am," she said back, her tone more glacial with each passing second, "but I have already promised Mr Bingley the first two dances, so I am unable to oblige." She turned her back quickly and announced to the gathering that they would be dancing the Scotch Reel, and the group began to gather into couples and line themselves up for the dance, a kerfuffle of noise and a rustle of gowns and evening shoes on polished wooden floors.

"Georgie," Fitz asked quickly, "please play for us, you know how I love to hear you play."

She looked up at him underneath her ringlets, "alright, but please be aware that it is only for you that I am obliging the fancy of Miss Godwin."

"I know, sister," he smiled, "but she is nervous, please be kind."

"I am always kind, Fitzwilliam," she said, taking a seat over at the pianoforte, looking for the music, "but please do not close your eyes to the lady's imperfections. I can see how you admire her, but we all have our flaws."

"Do you disapprove, G?"

She did. She disapproved of Jemima Godwin most wholeheartedly, but she didn't feel as if this was something she could tell her brother quite yet, and especially not in company.

"I think that you need to make sure."

"I am sure, I have never been surer."

"Alright, then."

He smiled at her quickly before disappearing to dance with Miranda, who was giddy as they hopped and jumped around to the jaunty tune. Georgiana kept half an eye on the music and half an eye on Miss Godwin.

The guests began to depart sometime after midnight according to the chimes of the clock that echoed across the estate, Bridget watched from the room in the top of the house that she shared with three other kitchen maids, who were still downstairs working away. They would be in their beds within the hour, up again by six to start preparing the trays and the food, the scullery maids chasing around the house lighting fires and emptying chamberpots. It was a cool night, in contrast to the warm afternoon, and Bridget could see the sharp crescent of the moon bright in the inky sky. She slipped on her shoes, pulling on her jacket, fastening her bonnet around her hair, which was unpinned and loose around her shoulders. The door was still unlocked, meaning that Mrs Reynolds was still downstairs, ensuring that everything was ready for the morning, she slipped down the backstairs that curled around the older parts of the house, the mullion windows still visible behind the palladian façade. The oak door that led onto the courtyard creaked as she opened it, outside on the driveway the lanterns were still burning and a group of lads from the stable were tending to the remaining coach, sharing banter with the Danvers coachman. Under the arch and into the garden, the blackness of the estate glistened in the moonlight, the edges of the trees looking like they had been coated in icing sugar. Bridget always felt at home in the garden, her mother called her a wild thing, as she was often found with her brothers in the forest, or climbing the tallest trees. She had been walking this path for nearly all of her life, the soil under her feet firm as always.

"Who goes there?"

The voice made her jump, and she pulled herself back from the worn path in the grass, wanting to hide, her heart suddenly beating fast in her chest. Could it be a poacher? A thief?

"I said, who goes there?"

Emerging from the border of trees came a young woman dressed in white, her face half hidden by the darkness, illuminated by the moonlight, but Bridget knew she recognised the voice now, could half glance the girl. Miss Darcy.

"I do apologise, Miss, if I startled you."

"And who are you?" Her voice was sharper than she expected it to be.

"Bridget, Miss," she said, by way of explanation. "I work at the house."

Georgiana seemed to drop her guard a little, "and what do you do at Pemberley, Bridget?"

"In the kitchens, with Mr Artaud. I…I… I make cakes?" Bridget didn't really suffer from nerves, but standing face to face with Georgiana Darcy made her very nervous indeed.

"Alright, and why are you wandering about the grounds at this hour of night."

"Not to speak out of turn, Miss," Bridget said tentatively, "but I could ask the same of you."

Georgiana went to say something, but stopped, instead she said, "you're very right, and I'll tell you. I just really needed to have a think about something that is vexing me greatly indeed, and the house was so stuffy this evening, so many people."

"It's always best to get out into the fresh air if something is bothering you. My father always told me that it blew away cobwebs."

"My Papa always said the same thing."

They continued onwards, their gowns catching on the grass as they walked the well worn path.

"Do you not like having houseguests, Miss Darcy?"

The two began to walk to the top of the hill, towards the Lantern, which stood proudly as a landmark in the woods, from there they could see the house below, the lights still burning softly in the windows.

"I do like having houseguests, but I prefer it when it is just my brother and I at home."

"It makes it easier for us, no doubt, but there is something magical about Pemberley when it is full of people."

Georgiana was looking at the girl, there was something familiar about her, something she couldn't quite put her finger on, "yes, there is, and of course I do enjoy it when there are delightful biscuits and desserts for us to enjoy."

"I make a lot of those biscuits, you know."

"I didn't, but thank you for doing so. You are all so wonderful at looking after us."

"My family have been looking after your family for generations now, it's what we do."

"Our roots intertwined, you could say," Georgiana smiled as they took a seat on the stone floor of the Lantern.

"Exactly," she said. "Both of my brothers work at Pemberley too."

"And do you have any sisters?"

"No, Miss."

"Me neither," she sighed, "well, you know that, of course… I always thought how much fun it would be to have a sister."

"Me too," Bridget looked around, the woods were getting much darker now, the beacons at the front of house, usually still bright from this far away were starting to dim. "We should probably start back now, I don't think either of us will do well if anybody knew we were outside. Pemberley Woods can be unsafe, even for those like us who know them well."

"That is an excellent point," she said, as they both stood and brushed the gravel from their gowns. She noticed the embroidered trim on the edging of Bridget's gown, "did you do this by your own hand?" Her fingers against the fabric, "it is very beautiful. Maybe Mrs Reynolds would spare you sometime so you could teach me."

"That would be grand, Miss Darcy."

They began the walk down the hill in companionable silence, occasionally glancing over at each other and smiling as if they were about to begin something wonderful. Georgiana wondered why they had never met before, she had known most of the younger maids, had even been trying to teach the little scullery maid a few letters when she could. The lantern under the archway was still alight, and both girls knew that they would be going different ways.

"It was a pleasure to meet you, Bridget."

"You too, Miss," she stumbled, "even though we know each other by way of passing."

"We do," she turned to cross the courtyard, "Bridget?"

"Aye, Miss?"

"You said your family had been in the service of mine for generations… I would like to tell my brother about you, what is your family name?"

"Wickham, Miss."

Georgiana felt her heart drop to her feet, "oh. Oh. Well, goodnight, Miss Wickham."

Bridget saw it, whatever it was, "goodnight, Miss."

She watched as Georgiana crossed across to the door in the opposite corner, would be climbing the stairs to her bedroom on the South front, directly under her own if she thought about it, but reached in a completely different way. Bridget crossed to the archway, deciding it would be less problematic to take the back staircase up to her own room, but something caught her ear. She could hear the sound of rider – faster now, pacing, racing – before reaching the gravel of the gated driveway, the man racing past her into the courtyard, before turning and marching up to her with an agitated look on his face, the smell of travel and sweat pouring off him.

"You! Girl! Do you work here?!"

She nodded quickly, as he thrust a letter into her hand.

"Take this and deliver it as quickly as you can," he demanding, turning on his boot heel as he did.

"But I do not have a coin for you, sir."

"No need, miss," he said over his shoulder, walking back towards his horse as she followed, "it has already been paid."

Bridget stood there, watching him disappear as quickly as he had arrived. She looked down at the letter, a wedge of papers with a heavy wax seal, addressed to 'Miss Jemima Godwin', she thought it said, as she squinted at it in the dim light. It was well known that Miss Godwin was the young lady who it was believed Mr Darcy would marry… she carried the letter back across to the courtyard to hand to Mr Staughton, for it was that gentleman's responsibility to deliver it to her. She looked down at her precious letter again, the moonlight brighter now as the cloud cleared, and she knew that this letter could never reach Jemima Godwin. The firm, steady copperplate hand was one that she recognised all too well; the curve of the J, the roll of the G. This letter had been written by her brother George, and Bridget decided there and then that whatever he was plotting, whatever mischief he had planned, she was going to stop him.