"There you are!" Bingley said enthusiastically. His eyes, were it possible, lit up even more at the sight of Hancock. "You brought company? Excellent!"

Darcy gave his friend a severe look, and said repressively, "Bingley, Mrs Bingley." He bowed. "Thank you for the invitation. Hancock needed a place to stay on his way to his grand-mother's. I offered your hospitality. I hope you do not mind?"

He could scarcely keep from smiling at Bingley's immediate cheerful response, "Of course not! Any friend of yours is welcome here, you know that."

"Hancock, this is my dear friend, Charles Bingley, and his wife, Jane. Bingley, Mrs Bingley, this is John Hancock, the parson of the Kympton parish. He had some transportation -- difficulties -- and I offered to take him this far myself."

"Mr Hancock," Mrs Bingley was saying in her sweet voice, "It is a pleasure. We are always glad of company."

Hancock only nodded, seeming rather dazzled. Darcy looked expressively at Bingley and receive a smile verging on the smug in return. The years had been kind to both Bingleys, but there was no doubt but that hers was the greater beauty. With her tall, womanly figure, fine, regular features, and unusual colouring, she had always reminded him rather of Georgiana. Mrs Bingley, however, was not a girl; there had always been a quality of constancy and serenity about her, whether as Miss Bennet of Longbourn or Mrs Bingley of Baildon. Even while fearing for Bingley's happiness, he had always admired her; and as they had come to know one another better, the admiration had grown to a sort of brotherly affection.

It was rather singular that so many of that family treated him as if he were one of them.

As Hancock mumbled something, Darcy caught sight of a tall, slim figure, and for a moment, the jumbled images -- glossy chestnut hair, wide dark eyes, clear brown skin -- assembled into an terribly, wonderfully familiar picture. It was wrong -- he knew it, she was too tall, Elizabeth was just a slight little thing, and her hair was not so dark, nor so straight -- but nevertheless his heart thudded in his chest as he turned to face her.

"Miss Catherine."

"Oh! Mr Darcy!" One hand flew to her cheek. He wasn't sure whether to be dismayed or amused. She dropped the hand, and stared at him blankly. He was not certain what she saw that still bewildered her, as she briefly glanced at Anne and then commenced staring. "Why, you aren't frightening at all," she pronounced, and Darcy could not keep from smiling.

"Thank you, ma'am," he said dryly, and kept a firm grip on Anne, who was trying to dart behind his trousers.

She blushed fiercely, her eyes fixed on his right cheek. Darcy wondered if some mud had gotten on it, and was about to rectify the situation, when Mrs Bingley's voice trilled out, "Kitty! Kitty, we have another guest, for a few days."

Miss Catherine flushed and turned to her sister. "Jane, I don't -- oh." She blushed more deeply. Hancock blinked. Bingley raised his eyebrows; Jane and Darcy smiled.

"Hancock," said Darcy, "this is Mrs Bingley's sister, Miss Catherine Bennet. Miss Catherine, my friend, John Hancock, parson of the Kympton parish."

For a moment, there was a brief furrow between her straight dark brows, and Darcy was painfully hit by her very striking physical resemblance to another, despite the great dissimilarity of character. Then she smiled brightly. "It is a pleasure to meet you, Mr Hancock."

Hancock looked even more dazed than ever. "Ah -- Miss Catherine," he stammered. "I -- I am very happy -- to see you -- that is, to meet you."

"I hope you will stay with us a time," she said, giving him a meaningful look which could not possibly be misinterpreted. Hancock coloured deeply.

"I -- er -- I do not know -- I think -- that I shall stay -- a, a time, yes. Awhile."

Bingley and Darcy glanced at one another, and decided to leave them to it. Mrs Bingley, with a fond look for both, ushered them out half-absently, her eyes intently fixed on the pair.

Bingley exhaled deeply. "Well! I am so glad you accepted the invitation. About time! Would you care to examine the library or the children first?"

"How are they?" Darcy inquired. "The children, I mean. Bennet was just an infant when I saw him last." He handed a sleepy Anne over to Mrs Burrows, a bustling, agreeable woman, and focussed on his friend.

"Older," Bingley said, with a laugh. "Anne has certainly grown up. You're going to have your hands full with her."

"I already do," Darcy said ruefully. "I daresay I shall have a crisis of nerves to rival your mother-in-law's when she comes out."

"Keep matters simple. Marry her off to someone in the family -- isn't that nephew of yours the same age?"

Darcy briefly lifted his eyes up and prayed for patience.

"Actually, there was a matter --" Bingley hesitated slightly, then hurried on, "I was wondering if you might have some opinions . . .?"

Darcy laughed. "Bingley, I always have opinions."

"Excellent. That's the wonderful thing about you, you never change. It's vastly unfair, you know; you don't look a day older. Ah well, I daresay you have enough trials to make up for it. Come, you must see the children." He slapped his friend on the shoulder, and Darcy smiled; Bingley's good humour was as infectious as ever. He could not help but feel nearly cheerful himself.

---

The Bingley twins screamed with joy as they caught sight of their god-father, who had long ago won their affections by his peculiar manner of speaking directly to them, as if they were adults; morever, he had a pleasant, soothing voice, and was invariably accompanied by gifts and a play-mate. Anne and Jenny, giggling madly, almost immediately asked permission to go look at some of the latter's latest acquisitions, and ran off almost before it was granted. Charles, who found his sister's new doll spectacularly uninteresting, shadowed Darcy's footsteps Anne-style and attempted to contort his amiable features into a severe expression. Failing this, he took to discreetly following his aunt Catherine and the stranger, at a particularly inopportune moment leaping down from the nearby tree with a blood-curdling scream. Shortly thereafter he was confined to his bedchamers; the girls offered sympathy and looked smug.

Bingley's "matter," it transpired, was not the troublesome business affair Darcy had expected, nor even a recalcitrant tenant, but — as far as Darcy was concerned — far, far worse.

"It's Caroline," he confided, with a weary look. Darcy sympathised, all the while wishing himself very far away. Say, Padua. He had briefly attended university in Padua, and it had been pleasant. Pleasant was not exactly the first word that sprang to mind when contemplating Caroline Elliot née Bingley.

"She just — arrived," Bingley was saying helplessly. "I know she's my sister, and —"

Some things, Darcy decided, were inevitable. Apparently he was a magnet for dissatisfied female relations.

"— not behaved well. Now, admittedly her husband is not the most scintillating company —" a scathing denunciation coming from Bingley — "and perhaps getting on in years, but running to me every time she quarrels with her daughters-in-law, or their husbands, is starting to get tiresome — just a little, you understand."

"Of course," said Darcy, not daring to smile. He must be furious. "What has she done?" he inquired. Bingley flushed.

"She — I do not know for certain, and I know you and Jane do not condone listening to gossip — but it is being said — she has been seen, in the company of a — a fellow known for — dallying with certain — with ladies in Caroline's circumstances."

The disparate pieces slid together. "You mean, handsome married women, wealthy and bored? This charming gentleman, has he a name?"

"Crawford," said Bingley off-handedly, clearly forgetting the lamentable connection; Darcy sighed and mentally calculated the distance to Houghton. "Her letters are full of him. Good God, Darcy," he said plaintively, "she has children."

It was on the tip of his tongue to mention that this was hardly a hindrance to most women's, or indeed men's, pursuit of pleasure; he restrained himself out of regard for whatever fraternal fondness Bingley still possessed. Clearly, I was not properly grateful for Georgiana, he thought wryly. "I very much doubt she is the first mother to have been seduced by that man," he said grimly.

"Oh, do you know him?" Bingley asked, cheering slightly.

"His sister is married to my cousin."

"Oh, dear," said Bingley sympathetically. "I had no idea."

"I try to avoid thinking on it. If Fitzwilliam and his wife are at my uncle's estate, I may be able to do . . . something." He suppressed a shudder at the thought of Mrs Fitzwilliam, but undoubtedly something must be done, if only for the Bingleys' sake. There were duties in friendship as well as privileges; and this was clearly one of them. Otherwise he would have no qualms whatsoever about leaving the erstwhile Lady Elliot to her fate.

"Is Mrs Fitzwilliam much like her brother?"

"No. Yes. I don't know." Bingley laughed and Darcy flushed. "I mean, in some ways she is very like him, and in some, not at all." Mary was at least more circumspect, and, despite her ways, seemed sincerely fond of her husband. Morever, she was as ambitious as any Fitzwilliam and in that respect made a perfect wife, daughter, and cousin to them all. She looked well on Richard's arm, always saying and doing the right thing; and so, her apparently irresistible attraction to severe, respectable men was overlooked in favour of the benefits she brought to the family. That she was driven by prudence rather than any sense of honour or principles was, apparently, seen only by the trio of cousins she relentlessly pursued. Darcy rather hoped that Henry and Edward would be at home as well, if only to divert her attention.

"I wouldn't concern myself," Bingley was saying, looking uncharacteristically grave; "I care for her, naturally, but she is long past the point where I could imagine that I had any say over her actions." Darcy flinched. "Frankly, I was at first inclined to let her, er, make her own bed — but — " he sighed — "then I thought of Jenny. Caroline's her aunt, and if she continues on in the way she has, it might reflect on Jenny. The others too, but boys are — different. And what of Jane? What of the children?—Caroline's children, that is."

"They must be considered," Darcy agreed cautiously, although he had no great fondness for the latest Elliot offspring, relations or no. The connection was not one he took pleasure in acknowledging, naturally barring the Wentworths.

"So," Bingley heaved a great sigh, "here we are. Caroline and her children are here, and I daresay one of her husband's people will show up at some point, and it is all very trying. Have you any advice?"

"A pity you cannot turn her over your knee," Darcy said dryly; "I very much doubt she is interested in reforming her ways at present. Mrs Fitzwilliam might be able to convince her brother to redirect his attentions, but Caroline will only find someone else. You might be able to do something for the children, as I do not recall Sir Walter being very much interested in such things; it would be more convenient if she could simply be disposed of."

"I beg your pardon?"

"I meant," Darcy hastened to add, "rendered — sent abroad, or some such thing, where she could do nothing to reflect upon your family."

"Oh."

There was a brief pause, as the two men mulled over possibilities. Darcy prepared to pen an awkward letter to his cousins; Bingley thought of his (usually) sweet-tempered daughter and beloved Jane, and determined that Something Must Be Done. Both cherished distinctly uncharitable thoughts towards Crawford.

"Charles, really I — "

It was only to be expected, really, that the former Miss Caroline Bingley should choose that moment to march into the study. Her hazel eyes went round as she caught sight of Darcy, and she instantly reverted to the woman he had found so contemptible in earlier years.

"Oh! Mr Darcy! What a delightful surprise. Why, Charles — how sly of you, brother, not to tell me that such a dear friend had arrived. I am but recently arrived myself, Mr Darcy."

"So I understand," he replied dryly, vaguely wondering what the attraction was. Presumably Crawford was charismatic enough to be a little fastidious; Lady Elliot was a handsome woman, to be certain, with good enough taste to make the most of nature's gifts, but she could not hold a candle to any of the women in his family. Including his grand-mother. And it hardly compensated for her less appealing personality quirks.

He could not keep himself from wickedly inquiring as to his cousin's health. "I know he is not so young as he once was — about my father's age, I should think, if father were still alive."

Lady Elliot flushed. "Fortunately, he enjoys tolerably good health, Mr Darcy. I shall tell him, when next we meet, that you asked after him, however. I was not aware you were particularly close to that part of your family?"

"It is a distant connection, to be sure," Darcy said dismissively. "I do not think we should have met as such, were it not for my mother's friendship with the former Lady Elliot; she was my god-mother, you know."

Lady Elliot, who did not care to be reminded of her sainted predecessor, frowned and denied any knowledge of the sort. Sir Walter bore his age well, making it easy to "forget," but the gap between her husband and Mr Darcy evidently struck her forcibly at that moment, and her face expressed her thoughts well enough. Darcy was not a particularly vain man — pride, rather than vanity, tended to be his weakness — but he was not so oblivious that he could not divine what her appraising look at him meant.

"You must know my daughters-in-law well, then." The faint grimace accompanying this spoke volumes.

"Oh, yes. I see Mrs Wentworth occasionally."

"She is very well-bred."

"Certainly;—and her husband as well."

Lady Elliot's features tightened, although she retained enough deference for his opinions that she did not dare directly contradict him. "He is very agreeable, when the mood takes him."

This struck Darcy as a more accurate description of Lady Elliot herself than Frederick Wentworth, who whatever his other flaws, did not lack a consistent charm of manner. Ah — he guessed at what might have occurred there, that might explain her hostility towards the man but not his wife. He sighed, and after several minutes of mind-numbingly dull conversation, chiefly consisting of inquiries after mutual acquaintances, took leave of brother and sister. A letter was written and posted; Darcy gladly retreated to his own chambers, accompanied by several books. He spent the rest of the evening lost in a pleasurable intellectual fog.