The Darcys set out from Pemberley the day after Darcy posted his acceptance of Bingley's invitation. Anne, who had missed her cousin a great deal in the weeks after his departure, was almost trembling with excitement.
"I like Charles and Jenny," she informed her father, "But Bennet is just a baby."
"You were a baby not so long ago, Anne," he replied, smiling. She bounced on her seat experimentally.
"Not like Bennet, I wasn't," she insisted. "He has no hair."
Darcy was forced to concede that this was so.
"I don't like when Charles pulls my hair, though. He says it's because he wants to see it up close, but I don't believe him, because boys are nasty except Stephen and John and sometimes Richard. He says that he hasn't seen that colour on anybody before, and that it's like mud, all slimy and dark. My hair isn't slimy, is it, papa?"
He reached out and touched it, putting two loose strands behind her ears. Her bright eyes were anxious as she gazed at him, and he laughed. "Vanity, thy name is woman! No, darling; or if it is, mine is too."
She pulled out the tail end of one of her plaits, and examined it gravely before leaning up to look at his. "It's just the same! Well, your hair isn't slimy at all, papa."
"That is a great load off my mind."
Anne returned to her own. "So that means mine isn't. It's just shiny. Shiny is pretty, isn't it? Like Aunt Georgiana's pianoforte." Her thoughts were briefly distracted. "Papa, Aunt Georgiana sings the pianoforte very nicely, but she never sings the old one, the dark one."
"She plays, she does not sing," Darcy corrected. "You are right, she does not play the old pianoforte now, although she did when she was a girl."
Predictably, Anne demanded, "Why not?"
"I gave her the new one when she turned sixteen, almost five years ago now, and she prefers it."
Anne considered this. "Shall you give me a nice pianoforte like that when I turn sixteen?"
"If you want one, yes."
Satisfied, she turned to peer out the window. "Look, papa, it is so pretty outside! Pemberley is so much prettier than everywhere else, don't you think? Aunt Catherine says that it is too wild, but she thinks I'm wild too, and I'm not wild, am I, papa?"
"No, you are not wild."
"Well, if Rosings is not wild and Pemberley is, I would rather be wild, wouldn't you?"
"Oh, yes," he said, smiling.
"You don't like Rosings very much, do you, papa?" Darcy glanced up sharply to see his daughter's clear blue eyes set on him mildly. "It is all right," she added comfortingly, "I do not like Rosings either. Nothing is the way it should be there."
Darcy flinched, slightly. "I quite agree," he said, glancing out of the window. "It is a nice day, isn't it?"
"Why else don't you like Rosings? I think you don't like Rosings much more than I don't like Rosings, although Lady Catherine is so fond of you."
He hesitated, then — unable to do anything else — replied honestly, "Unpleasant things often seem to happen, when I am there."
"Oh." He vainly hoped her insistent questioning would end there, but she frowned and said, "But papa, what happened to you?"
Fortunately, his answer had been strictly literal. "Many things. My baby sister died, and something terrible almost happened to your aunt, and my cousin was unhappy all her life, and a — a great many things."
"What almost happened to Aunt Nana?" Anne demanded.
"She was almost hurt," Darcy said carefully.
"Oh, that's awful. I don't like it, because it takes so long to wash off the dirt. Do you think I shall be happy to-day, papa?"
"I think you cannot be happy, unless you try very hard at it," Darcy said ruefully, brushing her dark hair out of her eyes. "But we shall be in Baildon in a few hours, so circumstances are on your side."
She beamed. "Oh, good. I do want to see Jenny again. And Mr and Mrs Bingley, they are so nice — much more nice than Lady Elliot." She wrinkled her nose and Darcy suppressed an inclination to do the same.
"Lady Elliot means well, Anne."
"She is dreadful," Anne declared.
"Anne . . ."
"Not as dreadful as Caroline. I don't care if her father's a baronet, I don't see why she must always always talk of it. Why, look, papa!"
Darcy glanced out the window. Not far ahead, a curricle lay, turned over, while a man stood to the side, glaring down. Were it not for the white collar, Darcy would have suspected, by his expression, that the young man was rather at odds with the Almighty. He ordered his carriage stopped, and stepped out, Anne hiding behind his trousers at the prospect of meeting a stranger.
"Hancock!" he called, and Anne peered out.
"Mr Hancock!" she cried, coming forward as she the familiar face. "You don't have to worry anymore, we are here."
A true Darcy, he thought wryly, and swung Anne up in his arms, making little of the distance. "Hancock, what seems to have happened?"
"I haven't the slightest idea," the clergyman confessed frankly. "I was fortunate to get out with a few scratches. I suppose I'll have to write to grandmother — might you take me to the parsonage, Mr Darcy? I hate to be a burden, but it isn't far out of your way, and I can't think —"
"You're visiting your grandmother? Does she live with your family in Yorkshire?" he replied, a plan instantly forming in his mind. Darcy was very fond of Hancock. His people were genteel, though fallen on difficult times, and the senior Mr Hancock had been tutor to the Fitzwilliam children, including Darcy himself. When the Kympton living fell vacant, young Hancock was the obvious choice, and Darcy had never regretted taking the path of least resistance for quite possibly the only time in his life.
"She lives in Yorkshire, but not with my father's people — she's my mother's mother, and her home is in the northwest. Fifty miles if it's an inch," he added glumly, with a vengeful kick at one piece of what had been his curricle. Darcy smiled.
"Excellent! Kympton is actually considerably out of my way, as I'm heading to Yorkshire myself;—a friend of mine invited me to stay at his estate for a — a while. We can take you as far as Baildon, and arrange for transport from there."
Hancock blinked. "Your friend won't mind an extra guest?"
"Bingley?" Darcy laughed. "No, of course not. I'll have, er, this taken away, and a new one ordered — "
"The money — "
Darcy waved such trivial objections aside. "You may repay me when you have it. Is this scheme convenient for you, sir?"
"Convenient?" Hancock blinked at him. "Well — yes, of course, but — you are certain you don't mind, Mr Darcy?"
"I would not have offered if I did. Come — Roberts? Could you possibly . . ." He gestured at the former curricle as a bemused Hancock climbed in the carriage. He had the utmost faith, fully reciprocated, in Roberts' capabilities; with the exception of a certain long-standing aesthetic disagreement relating to Darcy's choice of clothing (which he was more inclined to blame on the man's previous employer, his god-father or no) — the relationship between master and servant was ideal. Darcy allowed Roberts free rein, in all matters not relating to his apparel, while Roberts achieved whatever Darcy wished, often before he had even gotten around to asking for it.
"Papa doesn't mind," Anne interjected, beaming at the parson. "He never does." She peered down at the ground. "It's darker, papa."
"I beg your pardon?"
"My hair, papa, it's darker than the mud." She stuck her straight little nose in the air, and declared, "It's dirty and smelly and my hair is nothing like that, and can I get back in the carriage because it's icky."
He laughed and accompanied her into the carriage. Within an half-hour, they were en route to Baildon.
---
Jenna: I don't know if I replied to you before -- I don't think so. Goodness, millions? I could only wish. Thank you very much for the compliments. Character and some degree of historical consistency are my "biggies", but I do try -- again, thanks for a wonderful review.
Allison: Elizabeth, at Aincourt? Er -- forgive me -- but I don't understand. Why on earth would she be there? It's a neighbouring estate to Pemberley, a marquess' estate, which Georgiana is mistress of. But it has nothing to do with Elizabeth. Elizabeth and Georgiana are bare acquaintances. Their only connection is that Elizabeth's sister's husband is god-father to Georgiana's niece. Lord Westhampton has only met the Gardiners, and then only once and never gave them a thought again. Nor in town -- Mr Gardiner mentioned that Elizabeth was chiefly occupied with her father's health. She's at Longbourn, and at Longbourn she will stay; and Darcy cannot go. Er . . . "you are wrong." If that makes you feel better -- seriously, there will probably be -- not so much misunderstandings as obstacles. They will not probably meet in the near future; I can only repeat my mantra for Darcy-centric fanfiction: "he has a life." That life is not, unhappily, about Elizabeth.
Teresa: I'm sorry, my reply is so long that I posted it at my livejournal. I hope it's not too inconvenient?