There was a peculiar combination of pride and joy and wistfulness on her face as she watched my cousin swing her cousin into the air. It was not too difficult to guess where her thoughts had gone. Fitzwilliam was unmistakable even from this perspective, but the slight, dark-haired child in his arms, her face turned away from us, could have been anyone: our own Amelia, another Miss Bennet (not that they needed one), the small Miss Gardiner that she was — or perhaps, as she was clearly imagining, the next Miss Darcy.

"He is very fond of children," I remarked, and Miss Elizabeth started. She managed a guarded smile. Our family's welcome had been perfectly civil, most of us even cordial, but no more. There was a distrust, disapproval, even dislike, that was only thinly veiled beneath habitual good manners. For my part I liked her. At first, admittedly it was nothing more than a combination of pity and approval for her good taste in loving my cousin; but as I observed her, I understood Fitzwilliam's rational as well as passionate regard for this young lady from the country.

"Miss Fitzwilliam."

"Miss Bennet. Would it be very inconvenient if I intruded upon your solitude for a few minutes, until my cousin comes? I have enough Bertram in me to make conversation with tolerable ease."

"Oh, of course not," said she, and that settled, I walked over to the window she stood by.

"I have never been to Hertfordshire before, it is a lovely country."

"Thank you," Miss Elizabeth said, looking faintly surprised. "I have a great fondness for it myself;—although a rather greater one for Derbyshire as of late."

I smiled at her. "I hope you do. It is — a rather wilder sort of beauty, don't you think? And yet ordered."

"Yes," said Miss Elizabeth simply, "I quite agree. Have you spent much time there? I thought I understood you were from Yorkshire, Miss Fitzwilliam."

"Lord Matlock and Lady Anne were very close. We spent a great deal of time at Pemberley when I was young, until my aunt died."

This expression was easier to read — clear curiosity. "Of course," she murmured. "Mr Darcy does not speak of Lady Anne. Was she very like her brother?"

"Well, we are all quite alike," I said frankly. "Oh, you mean in character? I was only nine when she died, but from what I remember and have heard, she was very proud and reserved, even haughty, and yet, there was a kind of sweetness to her; and there was brilliance as well, she was so very clever. We loved her, but she was a difficult woman to love and an even more difficult one to understand. Yes, I think she was quite like my uncle, particularly when he was younger. My cousin favours them both a great deal."

"Somehow," said Miss Elizabeth, "I had thought he was like Mr Darcy."

"He has something of his father's character," I agreed. "It was my uncle who taught him — a great many things. He could never tolerate injustice or deceit, either, and he had — I don't know, ideals, dreams, but he was not practical. I always liked him, though. He had the most charming manners, very open and engaging, and quite lively. Grandmother says he was a bit wild in his youth, although he settled down once he married my aunt."

"They must have an interesting pair," Miss Elizabeth observed.

"They were not very well-suited, I understand," I said. I gave her a sideways look. From the first we had not wished to like her, this unknown girl from the country who had somehow managed to capture my cousin's invulnerable heart. He could never do anything by halves, and he had fallen in love with the same earnest fervour he applied to all his concerns, whether of the heart or the pocket. We were afraid for him. Fitzwilliam was so detached, he almost seemed to inhabit a different world from the rest of us. There was a need to shield and protect him, as they had his mother before him, and we all feared for him the same fate that had befallen her.

"It is not that we dislike you, Miss Bennet," I said, deciding quickly. She loved him and she deserved to understand, for she would be part of our family soon enough. "We wished someone of our own rank for him, I confess it, but that is not all."

"You wished to see him marry within the family?" she asked shrewdly. I hesitated.

"Fitzwilliam is — he is not — yes, we did, we wished that. But not because, not how you are thinking." I took a deep breath. "My aunt and uncle, the Darcys, I said they were not well-suited, but it was more than that. They were desperately unhappy together. They were perhaps infatuated at first, particularly him, but they grew to hate each other by the end. My aunt, I think she was glad to die, she was miserable and tired and — it was dreadful, Miss Bennet, and Fitzwilliam is so like her. There are no portraits of her at Pemberley, they are all at Houghton and the house in town, because my uncle, when she died, he went a little bit mad, he could not bear to see her face." I looked at her steadily. "Fitzwilliam is not like other men, other people, you know that, Miss Bennet."

Her rather sharp features softened noticably. "Yes," she said, "I know."

"He is very strong and confident and clever, but he needs looking after. They, we, were terribly afraid that you would not understand, that you would be like my uncle — you are very like him, in some ways. My uncle and grandmother especially, they simply adored her, and they were devastated when she died. They loved Fitzwilliam all the more because of it, but Mr Darcy could not love him, he could hardly bear to look at him. It is only, we do not wish to see him hurt or broken. And we resented you, because he has always been — there, very devoted and loyal and reliable; you know how he is. We were afraid you would take him from us." I looked at her plaintively. "The others still are afraid, except Richard and, perhaps, Henry."

Miss Elizabeth sighed. I could not read her thoughts; perhaps it had been unwise, and imprudent — if Fitzwilliam had wanted her to know, surely he would have told her. But perhaps, he had simply put it out of his mind for too long, and he would not speak of it, not even to her, and she needed to know what had made him the man he was today, who she had fallen in love with. And I wished for myself that she could understand us.

"When I was at Pemberley, I hardly recognised him. I thought he had changed, transformed, into someone new. I did not dare fall in love with him. We were too different, he would not understand me, I could not give him what he deserved."

"I have never noticed any great change," I said indifferently.

"No," she said, "I understand that now." She smiled with a sudden brilliance, that single look telling me more than hours of painstaking observation had. "Thank you, Miss Fitzwilliam. I would never dream of taking Fitzwilliam — of trying to take him — from those that love and appreciate him." She laughed. "They are few enough." I was comforted. It was the first time I had heard her use his Christian name, in public or private.

"Please, Miss Bennet," I said, clasping her hand, "I hope we shall be friends as well as cousins, whatever the rest of us think. My family calls me 'Cecily.' "

"It is an easy enough name, I daresay I could manage it," she said lightly; "and may I hope that 'Lizzy' is not too great a trial for you?"

I laughed. "You may, Lizzy."