Darcy had once mentioned that his father used to call his mother's family "variations on a theme," and Elizabeth found the derogatory remark strangely apropos. With the single exception of the late Colonel Fitzwilliam and his mother, the entire family were both in carriage and countenance astonishing similar, none more so than the triad of Lord Newbury, Mr Fitzwilliam, and Darcy. In fact, most of the family seemed unable to distinguish between the two young men when they were not standing next to one another; she had no such difficulty -- quite aside from the simple fact that he was not Darcy, Mr Fitzwilliam had darker eyes, a broader frame, and was some two inches the shorter.

Oddly, the presence of the extended Fitzwilliam clan did not seem to place any very great strain on Darcy. He was clearly a favourite of sorts with them; despite his comparative youth, all relied heavily on him, and he, bizarrely, seemed to draw some sort of reassurance from it. When he informed them of his engagement, his expression just this side of defiant, it was the old countess, Lord Newbury's mother, who broke the sudden heavy silence.

"My dear -- my dearest --" she said brokenly, tightly embracing Darcy, who placed a kiss on her brow. "I am so pleased." She took Elizabeth's hand and looked deeply into her eyes. "I hope you will both be very happy."

The others were less enthusiastic; only Mr Fitzwilliam seemed really pleased, although all but Lady Catherine were perfectly cordial, and even she was civil; she seemed to have softened with the years. Elizabeth saw them infrequently through the week following the funeral; she could not but be put off by their lack of warmth -- and worse, by the suspicion with which their manner betrayed when Darcy was not present. Only her knowledge of Darcy's inexplicable fondness for them allowed her to tolerate the veiled impertinences with courtesy and composure. They were so very like how she had originally thought Darcy to be, cold and proud -- she could not see that they felt anything at all about the tragedy that had brought them here, barring the two Lady Newburys.

Once, as she briskly walked past Ro -- Mrs Gardiner's parlour, she heard the most wretched sound, a man's deep sobs, sounding as if they had been torn out of his throat. Fearing it was Darcy -- that he had hidden such feelings even from her -- she hurried to discover the source of the sound, and found Lord Newbury, the coldest and proudest of the lot, actually bent by the force of his grief. Elizabeth hesitated, feeling, somehow, that any offering of compassion or comfort from her would be instantly and indignantly rejected. She was not one of them; not yet. She quietly retreated, and by chance or fortune, nearly bumped into Darcy as she went looking for Jane.

"What is it?" he asked, steadying her. Elizabeth pushed a loose fair strand of hair out of her face, and said incoherently,

"It's Lord Newbury -- at least, I think it is . . ." The tall, large frame and thick dark hair could have been anyone in the family; only the heavy threading of grey gave him away. Darcy, with a look of near panic, raced in the direction she had come, and Elizabeth sighed, approaching more cautiously.

She was astonished to see Darcy slowly enter the room, and say, in a calm voice, "Uncle? Uncle, are you well?"

The earl looked up with red, swollen eyes. He said, in a harsh, weary voice, "When your mother died, I thought -- I thought I could not bear it. That I should see Anne, my youngest sister, dead -- but this -- this is incalculably worse. To see her daughter buried -- "

Darcy hesitated, then reached out a hand, helping the older man to sit erect. Lord Newbury clung to Darcy's supporting hand, and with a look that quite broke Elizabeth's heart, said -- "Fitzwilliam, marry that girl as soon as you can -- give me a troop of children to spoil -- we need more children -- and happiness, you deserve it as much as anyone -- "

"I shall," said Darcy, and the earl patted his hand.

"My dear son -- " he said brokenly, and both, with embarrassed expressions, looked away. Elizabeth tactfully retreated. When she recalled the scene, she did not know who had received the greater strength; and she realised that the Fitzwilliams had come to give consolation as much as to receive it. They loved Darcy, as a son or brother, and although they would never be easy in the expression of it, she could then understand what they meant to him.

As for herself, she had the Gardiners' warm support, and more surprisingly, that of Darcy's great-uncle, Sir James. He took to her immediately, partly on her account, but more, she suspected, to irritate the Fitzwilliams -- there was, evidently, some sort of long-standing feud there -- and she could not help the fondness she felt towards the clever old man. He delighted in bringing a blush to her cheek, and told any number of stories, many of which she was quite certain were unsuitable for a young lady's ears. Many, however, were of Darcy's youth, and she was able to draw a picture of the young Fitzwilliam, a pale solemn boy delighting in his cat and birds and studies, and of the household dominated by the brittle, unsteady marriage of George Darcy and Anne Fitzwilliam. Pemberley, Elizabeth thought, had come a long way.

"Fitzwilliam changes things," said Sir James, "wherever he goes -- nothing is the same, simply by his being there. Some are like that -- you, for one. I always loved Pemberley, but it was never the same, after it fell to him. It was a pretty piece of property -- but there is something more these days."

"Yes," said Elizabeth simply, looking out the window. The first crocuses were blooming.

---

In late February, urgent business summoned the Bingleys home, and Elizabeth accompanied them. The morning before her departure, he astonished her by cupping her face in his hands and pressing his lips against hers, briefly and intensely. Elizabeth did not have even enough time to appreciate what was occurring before the attention ceased.

"Do not allow them to ride roughshod over you," he warned. Elizabeth smiled ruefully.

"You know me too well."

"They mean well, but that does not make it less . . ."

"Irritating?" she offered, burying her head in his shoulder. "I shall miss you."

"I certainly hope so. You will write?" he added, with a sudden anxiety. Elizabeth smiled brilliantly.

"Of course."

"Then -- we will be ready for you, in June."

"I shall have to tell my mother."

"Via letter," he advised. "Shall she like such a son-in-law?"

"Once she sees Pemberley, she shall." Elizabeth laughed a little tearfully, and Darcy caressed her hair.

"You had better go."

"I know." She fought back a sniffle. "Fitzwilliam -- "

"My dearest Elizabeth -- " he stopped, caught his trembling breath, and continued steadily, "We shall be waiting here for you, when you return."

---