Love and Other Accidents

by paperclipz

Done! A modern P and P. Darcy and Bingley are musicians trying to find material for their new album in a rural college town...where they meet the Bennet twins who are surviving college together. Lizzy's a photographer, and Jane's a med student.

7. Entertainments at Rosings Park

1.

Lizzy really needed this break; she had to get out of that apartment. She had to keep reminding herself that she'd never been in love, so she couldn't know what a broken heart felt like. But honestly, it had been three months since Charlie had left. At a certain point, Jane just needed to move on, and Lizzy couldn't think of anything else she could do to help her. So, when Charlotte called and invited her to Rosings Park for Spring Break, Lizzy had ignored her guilty conscience, risked seeing Collins again, and taken her up on it.

As for Charlotte—

Well, although Lizzy hated to admit it, Charlotte looked good. In baggage claim, when Lizzy was searching among the rolling duffles and tagged suitcases for her own beat-up luggage, she hadn't even recognized her ex-roommate. She'd gone blonde for one thing, and she was wearing a skirt suit (Lizzy thought it was linen) and a diamond chocker.

"Lizzy, you look terrible," said Charlotte, hugging her around the shoulders.

"I just woke up," Lizzy mumbled, rubbing the sleep out of her eyes. "And what about you? You're all fancy."

"Is it bad?" Charlotte asked, reaching up to touch her hair.

"No," said Lizzy, stifling a yawn. "You look great; I just never thought I'd see you out of paint-splattered jeans and peasant tops. It's a big change."

Charlotte shrugged. "How's Jane?" she asked, and Lizzy grimaced. "That bad, huh?"

"Yeah," Lizzy sighed; she pointed out a couple old leather valises. "Those are mine."

She grabbed one, and Charlotte grabbed the other, the choker swinging off her neck and her blonde hair falling into her face. "Ugh, this is ancient," said Charlotte.

"It was Dad's," said Lizzy with a proud grin. "My Christmas present. They were his when he was just starting out; they've been everywhere—Bali, the Rhine, South Africa, Egypt. I'd love to go to Egypt."

Charlotte smirked, placing a dramatic hand over her heart. "Sentiment value--it turns crap into gold."

Lizzy stuck her tongue out at Charlotte, who laughed and slung an arm around Lizzy's shoulders. "Real mature. Come on; my car's out front."

Charlotte's car was a BMW—black and brand new. "Wow," said Lizzy, dropping her suitcases in the trunk. "It's so shiny."

"It's a wedding present," said Charlotte grinning.

"From Collins?" said Lizzy carefully, as she opened the passenger door and stepped into the car.

"From Lady de Bourgh," Charlotte corrected, turning the ignition.

"She's got a title?" said Lizzy surprised.

"Not yet, but she's prowling the market," Charlotte said. "Tell me about Jane."

It wasn't lost on Lizzy that Charlotte was deliberately changing the subject, but traveling had made too tired ride to push it. "Jane's an insomniac now," said Lizzy, "but only at night. She takes catnaps for most of the day; sometimes I can't get her out of bed even for meals. Even for linguine, chicken, and sugar snap peas."

"That's her favorite still?" Charlotte said, and when Lizzy nodded, Charlotte grimaced sympathy. "Is she even going to classes?" Charlotte asked.

"Yeah, but her grades suck for the first time in her life," Lizzy replied, "and the Valentine's Day Ball was the first dance at school that Jane hasn't helped organize since she started at Vickroot."

"Well, it was Valentine's Day; that's understandable," Charlotte said. "What do her friends say?"

"They send lots of Get Well Soon cards; everybody thinks she has mono," explained Lizzy.

"Even your cousin?"

"Even Lydia," said Lizzy. "I have to run the dishwater twice, because Lydia's germaphobic and thinks Jane's contagious. She's completely clueless; she even keeps finding all these shows with B.F.D. on them and calling Jane into the room. You know what came in the mail last week? B.F.D.: Behind the Music. Jane ordered the DVD online--that's not normal, is it?'

"Well, I guess it's hard to make a clean break when your ex is a rock star, especially one keeping himself busy promoting his new album-in-progress," said Charlotte in her most diplomatic voice, and Lizzy knew that if Jane was anyone else, Charlotte might have labeled her pathetic.

"You know, on those shows, he doesn't look good," Lizzy commented frowning. "Jane always says so, but he looks terrible to me. He seems really tired, so maybe Charlie's not sleeping either."

"Lizzy," said Charlotte reproachfully.

"I know, I know," said Lizzy sighing. "I just can't shake the feeling that he really, really cared about her; besides, it's hard to help Jane get closure when I don't know what happened either. He just left." Lizzy's face hardened, and she looked out the window, watching manicured lawns and sculptured hedges slip away. "And never came back."

"I bet it was Caroline," said Charlotte. "She had bitch written all over her."

"Yeah, but what did Caroline have to lose over him dating Jane?" said Lizzy. "If anything, she'd get more; it'd be even easier to take advantage of Charlie if they were together. He'd be too happy to say no to anything." Lizzy sighed. "Jane hasn't cried either. Well, once." Lizzy was silent for a moment, remembering. "She wishes she'd slept with him after his party."

"She didn't sleep with him?" cried Charlotte.

"You know Jane," said Lizzy. "She wanted their first time to be special and preferably at least a day after their first kiss."

"They didn't even kiss until Christmas?" Charlotte asked aghast.

Lizzy ignored this. "I just don't see Charlie breaking off all communication with someone, just because he wasn't getting any."

"What about Jack Wickham?" Charlotte said.

She was changing the subject again; Lizzy guessed that Charlotte didn't agree with Lizzy about Charlie's reasons for leaving. "What about Wickhead?"

Charlotte smirked and searched Lizzy's face. "Anything?"

Lizzy smirked back, shaking her head. "I've seen him once since your wedding, when Lydia dragged me to the mall and I needed some coffee to get through it. She and Jack flirted a little (Lydia's got long, white-blonde hair, and Jack can never resist a blonde). I was surprised to find out how much it didn't bother me."

"So, if Jack and Lydia started dating, it wouldn't bother you?"

"Of course, it would! Jack would eat her alive," Lizzy said. "but he wouldn't go for her. She's just too young; he's bound to be almost ten years older."

"And you?" Charlotte asked pointedly.

"I'm too smart for him," Lizzy said with a wry grin. "Jack couldn't keep up with me."

"I meant how are you?"

Charlotte watched her friend's smile become sad, as Lizzy looked out the window at the huge, well-groomed green lawn and tapped on the glass idly. "I'm fine. I just don't know what to do about Jane; I can't think of anything I haven't tried."

"Well, tell me what you've tried," Charlotte said, turning down the radio. "Maybe I can help."

"I've tried to cheer her up—you know, cooking her favorite meals and—" started Lizzy, but the phone rang at her feet and she jumped.

"Shit," said Charlotte scowling. "Sorry; can you get that?"

Lizzy bent and fished the phone out of Charlotte's purse. "I can't believe that you downloaded the Addams Family theme for your ringtone," she snorted, handing the phone over.

"It's only for Rosings," said Charlotte grimacing. "You'll understand when you see it."

Charlotte flipped open the phone. "Hello? Oh, hi honey." To Lizzy, she mouthed, "It's my husband." After a really long pause, she said, "Yeah, I just picked her up…Right now? I was going to head over after we went home to drop off Lizzy's luggage. It won't take but a minute." There was a really long pause after this one, and Lizzy could hear Collins' nasal tones talking very quickly. "Well, okay, honey, but no matter what she says, dinner won't be ruined if Lizzy and I just—" Collins interrupted her with a lot of squawking, and Charlotte sighed irritably. "No, honey, I'm not; I'm actually very grateful for everything Mrs. de Bourgh—You know what? Never mind, we're on our way. Uh-huh—yeah—bye now." Charlotte hung up, threw the phone back to the ground at Lizzy's feet, and scowled.

"Trouble?" asked Lizzy.

"Quick," said Charlotte, looking at Lizzy, "do you have anything you can put on?"

"What's wrong with what I'm wearing?" said Lizzy, looking down at her jeans and pink Oxford shirt. "It's clean."

"Trust me on this," said Charlotte, braking at a stop sign. "You'll have to change in the backseat."

"I can't; I don't have anything that doesn't need to be washed or ironed," said Lizzy frowning. "Charlotte, what's going on?"

Without taking her eyes off the road, Charlotte reached in the back for a hairbrush. "Here, fix your hair; if you want to pull it back, there's a barrette in the glove compartment."

"Charlotte," Lizzy said reproachfully, "what's going on?"

"Lady de Bourgh is big on first impressions," Charlotte said grimly, looking behind her and then pulling a U-turn so fast that Lizzy was thrown against her window. "Mr. Collins had me go through a whole makeover before I met her."

Well, that explains a lot, Lizzy thought, glancing at Charlotte's suit again. "First of all, Charlotte, it's beyond weird that you still call your husband 'Mr. Collins,'" snorted Lizzy, picking up the brush and flipping down the sun visor to check her hair out in the mirror. "Second of all, I'll take the blame for how I dress, so don't worry about the de Bourgh bitch."

"Lizzy, you don't understand—" Charlotte started cautiously.

Lizzy opened the glove compartment, pulled out Charlotte's barrette (it was hammered silver and very classy), and put it in her mouth as she brushed her hair. "Relax, Charlotte," she mumbled around the barrette. "How bad can she be?"

2.

If there was a competition in Architectural Digest for "Most Likely to Become the Set for a Haunted House Movie," Rosings would definitely win it; it had it all: high, spooky ceilings; red-carpeted, winding staircases; creaking, hardwood floors; heavy, velvet curtains; and dim lighting. Lizzy hoped she was being unfair and reminded herself firmly that plenty of old houses were creepy at nighttime.

"Why's it so dark in here?" Lizzy asked Charlotte, after the butler let them into an unlit entryway. (A real, live butler! Lizzy thought. I thought those went extinct in the eighties.)

"Well, Rosings is still being renovated," said Charlotte quietly. "We're still having trouble getting the electrician to come out here."

"There's no electricity?" Lizzy said and laughed. "Is the meal being catered, or are we having steak tartar by candlelight?"

"Not so loud, Lizzy," said Charlotte, taking Lizzy's arm and guiding her down the dark corridor with a flashlight on her keychain; Lizzy noted the full-length portraits and antique tables with gleaming finishes. "Some parts of the house—kitchen included—have already been rewired, and Mrs. de Bourgh's chef is really good."

The hall was longer than Lizzy had expected, but there was a light at the end of this tunnel. Lizzy giggled. "I've had dreams like this, you know—where you go through the only unlocked door, and there's either something really good or something terrible. I bet it's something terrible, like the dragon named de Bourgh."

"Lizzy, she'll hear you," hissed Charlotte.

"Oh, come on, Charlotte; this whole thing is surreal," Lizzy scoffed.

"Lizzy—"

Beyond the door at the end of the hallway, Lizzy heard a self-important, female voice say, "I think I hear Charlotte now." And then, louder, the same voice almost-screeched, "Charlotte!"

"Coming, ma'am," said Charlotte, opening the door. Through the crack, Lizzy could only see a chubby woman in a sequined evening dress sitting primly in an armchair.

"There you are, Charlotte," the woman trilled. "And where's this guest I've heard so much about?"

"Here, ma'am," said Charlotte, opening the door the rest of the way. Lizzy found herself walking into a very spacious living room, austerely decorated in a very modern style. All the furniture was sharp-cornered and spaced far apart; the chair that Collins was sitting in, for example, was wooden and without cushions, obviously not comfortable but as close to Mrs. de Bough as he could get. Lizzy was surprised to find other people in the room: sitting on a loveseat, a woman about Charlotte's age with a pointed nose and very blue eyes, and on the black leather couch sat two young men in suits, one of whom Lizzy recognized with surprise.

"Elizabeth Bennet," he said standing.

"Mr. Darlington!" said Lizzy.

"Well, she certainly makes her entrance, doesn't she?" said Mrs. de Bourgh. "Come over here, girl, so I can get a look at you."

Lizzy raised her eyebrows, but at Charlotte's pleading look, choose not say anything and stood in front of the lady's chair docilely. "Mrs. de Bourgh, this is my friend Lizzy," said Charlotte; Mrs. de Bourgh flicked her gaze over Lizzy's clothing. Lizzy raised her chin and waited until Mrs. de Bourgh looked her in the eye. "Lizzy, this is Mrs. de Bourgh, and her daughter Anne." Charlotte gestured to the young woman seated on the loveseat, who nodded and smoothed the dark satin of her dress nervously; then Charlotte turned to the couch. "These are Mrs. de Bourgh's nephews. Will Darlington, you know, but this is Richard Fitzwilliam."

Richard Fitzwilliam had a red crest of hair and an easy smile, but he wore his suit like it hurt him. He stood up to shake Lizzy's hand. "Nice to meet you. Heard a lot about you."

Lizzy laughed. "Who's been talking about me?" she asked, glancing at Collins.

"Lizzy," said Mrs. de Bourgh slowly, shaking her head. Lizzy turned, but it seemed like Mrs. de Bourgh was just taking her name for a test run. "Dreadful, common name."

"I'm sorry," said Lizzy, trying not to smile. "You can call me Zipporah; it's not common but it's my middle name."

Mrs. de Bourgh raised her eyebrows with pursed lips. "I suppose I could call you Eliza."

"That's what Mr. Collins calls me," said Lizzy nodding.

"However, most Elizas I know understand that when they are invited to dinner, they should dress appropriately," said Mrs. de Bourgh.

"Well, most invitations to dinner are given far enough in advance that I have time to find something to wear," replied Lizzy, smiling to soften the blow.

Someone—a maid, if Lizzy could judge by the black and white uniform—came with seven glasses of red wine.

"You're young, aren't you, to be so opinionated," said Mrs. de Bourgh, raising her chin.

Lizzy laughed. "That's nothing; if you wanted to hear my opinion, you should have asked me about Robert Mapplethorpe."

"Who's Robert Mapplethorpe?" Richard Fitzwilliam asked his cousin.

"Photographer," Will whispered back.

"Bingo—point for Mr. Darlington," said Lizzy, taking a glass of wine and smiling a thanks to the maid.

Frowning, Mrs. de Bourgh sipped her wine. "How old are you, Eliza?"

"Twenty-one, ma'am," said Lizzy, surprised that she could get carded at a private residence.

"William, what's wrong?" Mrs. de Bourgh asked.

Lizzy turned to look. Darcy had his eyes closed and his lips pressed together tight; his shoulders were shaking. At first glance, it seemed like he was trying not to cough, but when he turned and met Lizzy's gaze, his eyes were laughing. "Nothing, Aunt Catherine," he told Mrs. de Bourgh. "The wine—it went down the wrong way."

"Must be careful," Mrs. de Bourgh said sharply. "You're recording in less than a month; you can't afford to get sick now."

"Yes, ma'am," said Will, and Lizzy was surprised to see him so docile.

A maid—Lizzy thought it was the same maid, but she couldn't be sure. It was definitely the same uniform.—came to tell Mrs. de Bourgh that dinner was ready; Mrs. de Bourgh made Will escort her into the dining room, which led Richard Fitzwilliam to offer his cousin Anne his arm, which inspired Collins to grab Charlotte to his side, which left Lizzy walking by herself. Lizzy couldn't help but feel that she was being insulted in some roundabout way, but Lizzy didn't mind much, if it meant that she was being spared an escort.

Dinner wasn't much better than introductions. After another glass of wine, Mrs. de Bourgh started telling Lizzy about the house (without prompting), "It was built in late 1888, in the gothic style, at the expense of one George Whitman. Mr. Collins, how much did you say that it was built for again?"

"The main house—approximately $40,000, Mrs. de Bourgh," said Collins swiftly. "The carriage house—approximately $9,000. The stables—approximately $10,000. The guest house—"

"That's enough now, Mr. Collins," said Charlotte softly with a hand on his arm.

"It passed hands several times, and by the time young Mr. Collins found it, it was a wreck. Isn't that so, Mr. Collins?"

"Absolutely," agreed Collins. "A disaster."

"But I fell in love with it the moment I saw it," Mrs. de Bourgh told Lizzy. "In the pictures that Collins brought to me, I saw so much potential, so I wouldn't take no for an answer. I sent him straight back here to begin work."

"Work?" said Lizzy.

"That's what he does, Lizzy," Charlotte said quietly. "He renovates mansions and makes them liveable again."

For Charlotte's sake, Lizzy stopped herself from commenting that she didn't find Rosings very 'liveable' at all.

"Cost me a pretty penny, too, I assure you," said Mrs. de Bourgh. "Old homes are so expensive nowadays and so much work. Did you know that every floorboard in this house had to be ripped up and laid again."

"Is that when you worked on rewiring the place?" asked Lizzy.

"Pardon?" asked Mrs. de Bourgh. It was obvious that she hadn't expected Lizzy to speak.

"I heard that you were having difficulties with the wiring," said Lizzy. "Wouldn't it make sense to put new wires in while the floors are up? That way you wouldn't have to rip up the walls."

The table was silent for a short moment, until Mr. Collins said with a tolerant smile, "Miss Eliza Bennet, perhaps it would be wise if you did not speak of things you know nothing about."

William Darcy choked on his soup, and his cousin slapped him on the back. "He's fine," Richard Fitzwilliam told his aunt. "Too much pepper."

Mrs. de Bourgh nodded and then tackled her own soup, listening to Collins apologize for Lizzy's "inappropriate despicable behavior. I'm really dreadfully sorry, Mrs. de Bourgh; she's been this way ever since Charlotte's and my engagement. I must say she must regret the choice she made…" It continued on in this way for a few minutes, and Lizzy was about to let them know that she could hear them (the table wasn't all that long) before she decided that she really didn't want to attract any more attention from that side of the table.

So, she turned her own attention the other way to a crowd that wasn't much better, but even Darcy clearing his throat was more interesting than House Renovations 101. "You still with us, Mr. Darlington?" she asked him.

"Yes," he said, his voice hoarse but his accent undeniably British.

"You're going to have to excuse Will," said Darcy's cousin, Richard Fitzwilliam. "He hates Collins on principle for butchering poor, old, unsuspecting houses, and you just accidentally pointed out how incompetent Collins is."

"Incompetent?" Lizzy repeated.

"Did you notice the floorboards squeaking when you came in?" asked Richard Fitzwilliam.

"Yeah," said Lizzy slowly, wondering what the hell he was talking about; then she realized. "Oh, they're new; new floors shouldn't squeak."

"Hole in one, kiddo," said Richard Fitzwilliam, talking through a mouthful of pumpkin soup.

Lizzy raised an eyebrow at being called kiddo (he couldn't be that much older than her) but didn't comment. Instead, she said, "You look familiar. Did you visit Charlie at Netherfield?"

Richard Fitzwilliam stared at Lizzy, mouth open and bread gaping out of it.

"He's my bandmate," Darcy said quietly, taking a careful sip of his soup.

"Oh, you're Fitz," Lizzy said, recognizing now the crest of red hair.

"Not too bright, is she?" Fitz asked Will, grinning at Lizzy.

"Quite bright actually," said Will, setting down his soup spoon and not looking at either of them. "But somewhat dense in certain areas."

"Congratulations, Mr. Darlington," said Lizzy darkly. "You haven't said more than twenty words tonight, and already you've managed to insult me."

Darcy glanced at Lizzy, face blank. "You may call whatever you like," he told her. "I am among my family here; they are all well aware of what my surname is."

"Chickpea," said Lizzy.

"I beg your pardon," said Will Darcy, turning to her.

"Honeycakes," Lizzy continued, letting her mouth curl into a grin. "Lambpie. Sugarplum."

"May I ask why you're listing foods?" asked Will Darcy.

"You said I may call you whatever I like," said Lizzy lightly. "I'm just trying names out."

"Try Snookums," suggested Fitz.

"I meant," said Will Darcy, glaring at his cousin, "that you may call me by my real name."

"I knew what you meant," said Lizzy, "but in your business, you might need to be more careful. You never know when the paparazzi's going to take your sarcasm literally."

"Hear, hear," said Fitz heartily. "You know," he told Lizzy, "at the post-tour press conference, they asked me what I was planning on doing for my vacation, and I said base-jumping off Mount Everest." Lizzy snickered into her soup. "Yeah, you laugh, but apparently some reporters showed up there looking for me."

Lizzy grinned. "So, what are you two doing here?" she asked. "You managed to salvage Christmas by excluding your relatives, and now your aunt is demanding retribution?"

Fitz grinned at Lizzy, red eyebrows blending into his hairline. "I see what you mean. Has her stupid moments, but moments of brilliance too."

Lizzy grinned back. "Not really; I've just got my share of bad relatives. How'd Mrs. de Bourgh manage to actually get you here? My aunts keep inviting me to things, but I don't go unless they pull something really sneaky. Like marrying off my favorite cousin or something."

"She threatened to sell my kidneys," said Fitz.

"She's our manager," Will told Lizzy.

"She's your manager?" Lizzy said, glancing down the table to where Catherine de Bourgh had called the cook out of the kitchen and was telling him how long (fourteen minutes and twenty seconds) she wanted her filet mignon grilled. "How does she like the tour bus?"

"Well, she has an assistant who travels with us," said Fitz.

"How's he? The assistant, I mean," said Lizzy. There was no telling, considering Collins.

"It's a she," Fitz corrected. He fiddled with his butter knife, turning it over and over on the tablecloth. "And she's okay, I guess."

"She's his wife," Will Darcy told Lizzy.

"You married your manager?" Lizzy cried, delighted. "That's so—" Lizzy stopped herself.

"Romantic?" suggested Fitz darkly. "Cliché?"

"I believe Miss Bennet was going to say 'cute,'" guessed Will Darcy.

Lizzy wrinkled her nose because he was right.

Fitz sighed, shaking his head sadly. "Even worse."

"Why isn't she here?" Lizzy asked.

"Pregnant," Fitz explained. "Our first."

"Congratulations," beamed Lizzy.

"What do you mean?" Fitz asked. "I'm still here."

Lizzy laughed which was a mistake, because it drew Mrs. de Bourgh's attention. "What's so funny down there? I can't hear you from here."

"Fitz told a joke, Aunt Catherine," Will said quietly.

"You know, the one about the aunt," said Fitz.

"Richard, how many times must I tell you?" said Mrs. de Bourgh. "Some things are not to be discussed at the dinner table, and insects are one of them." Luckily, then Mrs. de Bourgh returned to her conversation with Collins.

"You're so punny," Lizzy told Fitz with a grin.

"I know," said Fitz. "I practice."

After this, Mrs. de Bourgh decided that Fitz, Darcy, and Lizzy had had enough talking to themselves and conquered the conversation by telling Fitz and Dar that the next day's schedule would include going through album cover sketches and reading the Cindy, Cindy screenplay.

The after dinner conversation wasn't much better. Most everyone sat around drinking coffee, but Lizzy was trying to curb her Caribou-fed addiction and declined. She sat quietly next to Charlotte, trying to be on her best behavior (she even tried not to say anything), but Mrs. de Bourgh managed to maneuver the conversation from B.F.D. publicity-related stuff to what Fitz and Dar should wear on their Good Morning, America appearance next week to men's fashion in general to women's fashion, and then to Lizzy's poor, unsuspecting purse.

"I don't understand why purses must be so big," said Mrs. de Bourgh. "Having a big purse just invites more materialism in today's youth; look at Eliza's bag there." As everyone in the room's attention turned toward her, Lizzy looked down at her leather satchel, which she was normally very proud of. She could've never afforded it herself, but it had been a present from a designer during her time in New York. "I don't understand how you can need to carry enough to fill that."

"It's big enough to use as a carry-on," said Lizzy half-shrugging.

"What object that size could you possibly need on the plane with you?" Mrs. de Bourgh sniffed, reminding Lizzy strongly of Caroline Bingley.

"Honestly, I was in such a rush this morning that I can't remember what I put in—oh!" cried Lizzy, looking at Charlotte. Then, she pulled open the bag quickly and pulled out a large, linen-covered photo album.

"Wedding pictures!" cried Mrs. de Bourgh. "Finally. Charlotte's been telling me to be patient, and I've been telling her that I haven't a patient bone in my body."

"Well, they're not wedding pictures actually," said Lizzy slowly. "Those are still in my suitcase." She held out the album to Charlotte, who took it uncertainly. "It's my wedding present to you," explained Lizzy. "I'm sorry it's late."

Charlotte looked from the album to Lizzy, her chin quivering almost unnoticeably above the diamond choker; she opened it—the title page was the photograph that Ben and Lizzy Bennet had fought over the day before Charlotte's wedding. Lizzy was surprised to see how young the print of Charlotte's face looked next the blonde, suited original. When Charlotte turned the page to a poised shot from a few years ago—of Charlotte's cheesy grin and Lizzy's laugh, Lizzy said quietly, so that only Charlotte could hear, "It's nothing big; it's just a bunch of photographs from the past couple years." Lizzy had planned to say our life together, but it sounded too cliché now that she was here.

"How absurd," said Mrs. de Bourgh to Mr. Collins. "A book of photographs by an amateur artist. In my day, we gave candlesticks and embroidered pillow-cases; useful things."

Lizzy turned to Mrs. de Bourgh, glaring, and would have said something scornful and biting, but Darcy said instead, "Miss Bennet is very well respected by those who know of her. I would be surprised if she remained an amateur photographer for long." Lizzy glanced at Will in surprise, but he was pointedly not looking at her.

Charlotte placed a hand on Lizzy's arm. "Sentimental value, Mrs. de Bourgh," said Charlotte, looking at Lizzy. "It turns crap into gold." She hugged Lizzy and said softly, "Thank you."

Mrs. de Bourgh's daughter coughed twice weakly; it was the first noise Lizzy had heard her make.

"Eliza Bennet," said Mrs. de Bourgh sharply; Lizzy guessed that Mrs. de Bourgh was tired of a conversation that she didn't control.

"Yes, ma'am," said Lizzy with resignation.

"Do you play the piano?" asked Mrs. de Bourgh.

"Just scales, ma'am," said Lizzy laughing. "My mother tried to get me to practice, but I wasn't very patient."

Mrs. de Bourgh gestured with a heavily-ringed hand to the back of the room, where a piano stood gleaming and lonely in the darkest corner of the room. "We have a beautiful Baby Grand, and I haven't found anyone to play for us." Lizzy nodded an acknowledgement, because she couldn't think of anything to say. "You will play for us."

"Um…" said Lizzy, because she still couldn't think of anything to say. "Mrs. de Bourgh, when I say that I can only play scales, I'm not being modest or anything; I really can only do scales."

"You will play for us, Miss Eliza Bennet," said Mrs. de Bourgh, putting her nose into the air. "In my day, a guest didn't refuse her hostess when presented with such an insignificant request."

Lizzy opened her mouth indignantly, about to ask whatever happened to the guest is always right or whatever, and since when was humiliation "such an insignificant request," but Charlotte placed a hand on Lizzy's shoulder.

"Please, Lizzy," Charlotte pleaded, and Lizzy made a face but went.

Lizzy hated that this was Mrs. de Bourgh's way of letting Lizzy know that she wasn't good enough to take part in the conversation; she hated that the de Bourgh bitch was getting away with it (not that Lizzy wanted to get all excited about the pressure washer coming tomorrow like Collins, Charlotte, and Mrs. de Bourgh were doing). She hated that she was the one practicing scales on a beautiful mahogany piano that didn't deserve such an indignity when there were two professional musicians in the room that could definitely do a better job.

Fitz appeared, leaning on the top of the piano with his red hair raised like a flag. "I've never heard scales played with such gusto."

"This isn't gusto," said Lizzy grimly, trying out some half-remembered chords. "It's restraint. If I had my way, I'd be over there smacking the Botox off the old bat."

Fitz grinned. "Aunt Catherine doesn't use Botox; she's too old-fashioned."

"Face lift, then."

"Screws behind her ears and everything," Fitz agreed nodding. "Scoot over. I did a little piano in my time too."

Lizzy moved to make room on the bench, and Fitz sat down, trying out some broken chords with a practiced ease. "Somebody got past scales."

"I'm a Fitzwilliam," said Fitz with a bored scowl. "We're old money. We train our children to impress our business associates."

Will Darcy arrived, looming above the Baby Grand and its two pianists with his hand idly resting on its top. Lizzy turned her attention to the keyboard and plucked out the Jaws theme. "Look, I remembered something," said Lizzy.

Will scowled at Lizzy but didn't say anything; Fitz snorted, "Too notes. Congrats."

"Hey, it's two notes up from scales," Lizzy retorted grinning. When Will still didn't say anything and still kept staring at her, Lizzy leaned towards Fitz and asked, "All right, Mr. Fitzwilliam; maybe you can tell me why your cousin keeps staring at me. Is he trying to intimidate me or do I have something in my teeth?"

Fitz started the first few bars of Moonlight Sonata an octave too low, because Lizzy was where he needed to sit. "Dunno. Let's see your teeth, kiddo." Lizzy wrinkled her nose and bared her teeth. "Nope, that's not it. Must be the intimidation thing."

"I have never tried to intimidate you, Miss Bennet," Will said stiffly.

"No? Then what is this?" said Lizzy laughing. She hunched her shoulders, scowled hugely, and took on a deep British accent. "No pictures."

"That was an entirely different matter," Will protested.

"Okay…" said Fitz, looking from Will to Lizzy.

"That was the first thing Mr. Darcy said to me last October," Lizzy said. "We were at one of my school's party, and I was taking pictures, minding my own business—well, my sister's business at least. I was taking pictures of her, and suddenly, there's this guy—very, very tall and imposing—taking my camera and trying to expose my film."

"Will," said Fitz, tut-tutting and shakng his head. "For shame."

"Charlie was in the shot," Will explained scowling.

"You could've at least asked me what I was doing before snatching my camera," Lizzy told him.

"I don't perform for strangers," said Will.

"What?" Lizzy laughed. "What's playing a bunch of songs to a full stadium, if it isn't performing for strangers?"

"I meant only that I don't have the talent for talking easily to people I don't know," said Will impatiently.

"Talent, Mr. Darcy? Don't give yourself that excuse," said Lizzy. She pulled her wallet out of the back pocket of her jeans and opened it up to show him a blurry still of what might be the back of a pick-up truck.

Frowning, Will took it for closer inspection. "Not your best work, Miss Bennet."

"Exactly," she said grinning. "It's overexposed and out of focus, but it's the first picture I ever developed by myself. I keep it with me to remind myself that trial and error can pay off. All you need is practice."

Will handed Lizzy her wallet back and said nothing.

"You know, you could have made the same analogy with the piano," Fitz remarked dryly.

"Yeah," said Lizzy, wrinkling her nose, "but who really practices the piano anymore?"

Fitz looked down at his hands roaming over the keys. "Apparently, I do."

"I guess that make you a little weird," said Lizzy grinning.

"I'm more than a little weird, kiddo," admitted Fitz.

Will glowered down at them both.

"Mr. Darcy, stop pouting," said Lizzy exasperated. "If you're pissed, just talk.—And don't try to use the can't-talk-to-strangers excuse again. This is the second big, old house we've been marooned in together. If we don't bond over this, we'll never get along."

Bent over the keys, Fitz snickered.

"You're making light of a very serious issue, Miss Bennet," said Will darkly.

"He's right," Fitz admitted. "The paparazzi sucks."

"Well, sure—but you're handling it all wrong," said Lizzy grinning. "If you make a scene, they're just going to make more money. What you need to do is get a watergun, one of those that look a lot like real pistols, and take aim at the cameras. It scares the shit out of them before they realize it's only water, and the water on the lens ruins the shot."

Fitz laughed. "That's brilliant."

Will wasn't so pleased. "When have you ever had to deal with the paparazzi?" he asked haughtily.

"In New York," said Lizzy.

Fitz smirked. "What? You were walking down 5th Avenue and they mistook you for Kate Winslet?"

"I wish," said Lizzy. "They were just bothering some of my more famous friends, so we super-soaked them."

At Fitz's surprised look, Will explained, "Miss Bennet was a model."

"You were a model?" asked Fitz.

Lizzy's shoulders slumped in mock-aggravation. "You know if everyone keeps reacting that way, I'm going to start to get offended."

"You just don't strike me as the type to sit still and smile pretty for the camera," Fitz said.

"It was easy money," Lizzy said and shrugged. "But you're right; I hated it. I hated people always looking at me and caring what I looked like. I hated guys assuming that because I sold my picture, everything else was for sale too. I hate the whole industry. I sucked it up for two years and then I got out."

"I take it you don't plan to be a fashion photographer then," Fitz said with one raised red eyebrow.

"Not if I can help it," Lizzy said grinning, looking up. Will Darcy quickly looked away.

3.

Unfortunately, Rosings wasn't much better in the daytime: the outside looked like a clumsy cathedral with all of Collins's construction equipment marring the façade, and the inside was nearly as dark as it had been the night before, because no one cared enough to open the curtains. Lizzy wouldn't have been there, if Catherine de Bourgh hadn't told Lizzy at the end of the evening that she should come back the next day "to entertain my nephews." Plus, Charlotte wouldn't let Lizzy play hookie.

"Collins and I have to go work on the house," Charlotte had told her. "You'll just be bored here alone by yourself." That was certainly true; the Collins residence was even worse off than Rosings. The floorboards were rotting, the doorknobs were falling off the doors, and they didn't even have cable.

So, there Lizzy was, following the butler out to Rosings' backyard, where the de Bourgh bitch's nephews were trying out the newly installed pool.

Fitz whistled when he saw her. "Yeah, I can definitely see the modeling thing now."

Lizzy rolled her eyes. She was wearing the freshly-washed and de-spaghettied wrap-around sweater with heels and a skirt made out of antique silk scarves, and she had spent a whole fifteen minutes with her makeup and hair. "I just didn't want to give your aunt a chance to look down on me again."

"That's no fun," said Fitz, treading water and squinting up at her. "I wanted to see how far you could push her. Maybe some scuffed-up sneakers at supper or something."

"You wear the sneakers," said Lizzy. "I'll figure out another way to piss her off."

"You do know that she'll still complain if you wear the same thing at dinner as you were today, right?" Fitz asked.

"I've got another skirt in Charlotte's car, just in case," grinned Lizzy, taking a seat on some padded, leather lounge furniture. "I plan to escape before dinner, though.—Why the hell is this furniture leather? It's for outside."

Fitz grinned. "It's supposedly waterproof and mildew resistant."

"Collins picked it, didn't he?" Lizzy guessed, leaning back and crossing her ankles.

"I think so."

"Explains a lot," said Lizzy; she turned and caught Will watching her. Again. "Yes, Mr. Darcy?" she asked, raising her eyebrows and waiting.

"You cut your hair," he said. She had—the day Lydia dragged her to the mall and all the mirrors told her that her hair needed shaping. The guy at Great Clips had shaped it all the way to her chin, three inches shorter than she'd asked.

"Yes, and you grew a goatie," Lizzy replied. "Bringing a little Sugar Ray into the B.F.D.?"

Fitz laughed and slapped Will on the back so hard that he sent a spray of pool water flying all around them. "See, I told you it looked stupid."

"Miss Bennet only commented on its existence, not on its appearance," Will said sharply, scowling at his bandmate.

"Just shave it," Lizzy advised. "Otherwise you'll spend all the air time on your next interview discussing the pros and cons of facial hair."

"Told you," Fitz said, smirking, and shoved his cousin under the water; Will came up sputtering and scowling.

Lizzy smiled and asked, "Hey, can either of you tell me why your aunt thought I needed protection?" The wind blew, drawing goosebumps on her arms under her sweater.

"Protection?" asked Will politely.

"Yeah—when I got here, she took one look at me and asked if I had protection and said that you two couldn't be bothered to keep track of it," Lizzy said, frowning quizzically. "Did she mean sunscreen? Because it's March; the sun's not that strong. Besides, it's cold out—Fitz, what's so funny?"

Fitz was leaning on Will's shoulders and laughing so hard that Lizzy worried he might choke on some of the water he was splashing up. "Will…" he gasped, still laughing. "Will, tell her."

"I refuse to tell her. The idea is vulgar and disgusting," said Will, pushing Fitz away and climbing up the ladder on the side of the pool. Lizzy glanced quickly away from the wet swimsuit clinging to the back of his legs. "Besides it'll only piss her off." He exited the patio by a glass door on Lizzy's right.

"What?" Lizzy asked Fitz. "What will piss me off?"

Fitz snorted grinning. "She meant condoms."

"What?" snapped Lizzy, sitting up straighter.

Fitz leaned forward and announced in a hushed voice, "She thinks you're a groupie."

Lizzy bounced to her feet, jaw dropped and wind whipping her hair around her face. "She thinks what?"

"She probably figured from the way you were hanging all over me last night," Fitz said, stretching his arms behind his head and lazily glancing at his biceps. "You can't control your—"

"Is that the only reason she made me come here?" growled Lizzy.

"Yeah, probably," said Fitz, nodding sagely.

Lizzy bent and ripped off her heels for easier movement. "Where is she?"

Fitz looked up. "Kiddo, I don't think—"

"No," Lizzy snapped, pointing one of her heel at him, "where is she?"

"Uh…" Fitz said, and his gaze traveled behind her. When Lizzy turned to see what he was looking at, she found herself presented with a very wet, slightly pale, well-muscled chest. "Sit down," Will Darcy said sternly, pressing her shoulders until she sank back down onto the leather lounge chair. "You won't be able to do anything to change her." When Lizzy was seated, Will slung a thick canvas jacket around her shoulders, and at Lizzy's open-mouthed stare, he explained, "You said you were cold." Then, in a blur of nice chest, blue swimsuit, and long legs, he dove into the pool.

"I can't believe she thought I was a groupie," Lizzy muttered, pulling the grey material of the jacket tighter around her; it was way too big, but Lizzy just wished that it didn't smell so strongly of boy—really nice-smelling boy but still.

"Aww, look—Lizzy's blushing," Fitz said, grabbing his cousin around the neck and pulling him into a headlock. "Isn't she cute when she blushes?"

Instead of looking, Will wrestled his way out of Fitz's reach, growling "Let me alone." He dove below the surface of the water to put more distance between himself and his cousin.

"You two are no fun," Fitz sighed, putting his arms behind his head again and leaning against the side of the pool.

"Sorry I'm not fulfilling my groupie duties," Lizzy snapped. "I guess Mrs. de Bourgh should just throw me out now."

"Cool it, kiddo," Fitz said. "She's crazy, anyway."

"Miss Bennet, I am surprised that you are roaming the house taking pictures," Will said, as he climbed out of the pool again, his back gleaming in the early spring light. "I haven't even seen your camera."

"It's in my bag," Lizzy sighed, as Will grabbed a towel and started drying his hair. "I'm tried composing shots, but…" Lizzy sighed again. "Rosings is the first place I haven't wanted to photograph in a really long time."

"Butt ugly, isn't it?" said Fitz.

"It's shouldn't; it follows all the rules of aesthetics," said Lizzy. "I just thought that it had more to do with Collins."

"He killed it," said Will, taking a folder off the glass patio table and strolling over to fall in the chair next to Lizzy.

"He didn't kill it, Will," Fitz said. "Houses aren't alive."

"But they have personality," Lizzy said, "and he's right. There's not any at Rosings; Collins ripped everything cool out and replaced it with fake. It's like a face with so much Botox in it that it can't even smile anymore."

"What's with you and Botox?" Fitz asked, grabbing a floating bed and leaning on it.

"Her mother had it done," Will said, opening his folder.

"What the fuck, Mr. Darcy?" Lizzy said.

He turned to her, eyebrows slightly raised, and a smile crept up around his mouth. "I'm right, aren't I?"

He was. Botox had been Mrs. Bennet's Christmas present to herself, but Lizzy glared rather than admit that. After a moment, he turned back to the contents of his folder.

"Will, don't start work now," Fitz whined, using a blow-up, floating bed as a kickboard and splashing around. "Come back and play with me."

"No," said Will without looking up.

"Goody-goody," Fitz said scowling. "You get that from the British in you."

"There are as many scoundrels in England as in any other place," said Will, turning a page, and Lizzy snickered to hear the word scoundrel in a sentence.

"You then, kiddo," said Fitz. "Jump on in."

"No way," said Lizzy.

"Come on," Fitz said grinning. "It's heated."

"Sorry," Lizzy said.

"Damn," said Fitz gliding toward the shallow end. "I guess I have to get out then."

"Don't anything on my account," Will said dryly.

"Nah, Maggie'll give me shit if I don't get busy," Fitz said, hauling himself out of the pool and reaching for a towel.

"Maggie's his wife?" Lizzy asked Will.

"Yes," said Will tersely.

Lizzy snickered grinning.

"Okay, kiddo—what's so funny?" Fitz asked her.

"Maggie the manager," giggled Lizzy. "She could guest-star on Bob the Builder."

Fitz smirked. "Bob the Builder? Sounds like the beginning to a bad joke."

"It's a show that my little cousins watch," said Lizzy.

"Like Barney?" Fitz asked, making a face.

"Yeah, but Bob the Builder ranks a few notches higher than Barney," Lizzy said.

"Are you a kid's show connoisseur?" asked Will with a sharp frown.

"Nope, just trying to help Fitz out," Lizzy said. "He's going to have to know all this since he's going to be a Dad soon."

"No kid of mine's going to watch Bob the Burnout or any of that shit," Fitz grumbled, but the word Dad had brought a smile to his face.

"Hey, Lizzy," said Fitz, before Lizzy could retort. "You got work to do?"

Lizzy folded her arms and sat back, scowling. "No."

"Liar," Fitz said and chuckled.

"I really, really don't want to do it," Lizzy complained, but she reached in her bag and pulled out a book—Purity and Exile: Violence, Memory, and National Cosmology Among Hutu Refugees in Tanzania.

"Is that for class?" Fitz asked.

Lizzy nodded. "Anthropology of Genocide."

Fitz made a face. "Grim."

"Interesting," corrected Lizzy. "It's all about the dehumanization of the Other in order to—"

"Stop procrastinating," said Will.

"Yes, Mom," said Fitz meekly, and Lizzy laughed. For a few minutes, all three of them read silently. Then, Fitz looked up from a spread of potential album covers and said, "I can't make a decision."

Will scowled. "You haven't even tried."

"Well, you and Maggie always end up making the decision anyway," Fitz said.

Will flipped a page. "Read the screenplay then."

Fitz made a face. "I tried. It's crap."

"Of course, but we still have to read it," Will said.

"Why?" asked Lizzy.

"Aunt Catty thinks it's time we debuted in Hollywood," said Fitz.

"Don't do it," said Lizzy. "You'll be joining the ranks of Britney Spears and Hilary Duff."

"And Elvis!" Fitz said indignantly. "And Frank Sinatra!"

"Don't do it," advised Lizzy sternly.

"We still must read the screenplay, regardless of our decision," Will told his cousin.

"You wanna read it, kiddo?" Fitz asked Lizzy.

"Fitz," warned Will.

"You wanna read about the Burundian refugee camps in Tanzania?" Lizzy asked surprised.

"Sure, we'll switch," Fitz said.

"All right," cheered Lizzy, and the book and folder changed hands.

"Maggie will know," Will threatened.

"I'm on Panel 20," Lizzy told Fitz.

"Panel? You mean it has pictures?" said Fitz, flipping through pages.

Lizzy laughed. "You wish."

They spent a few more minutes in silence. Will and Lizzy were reading, but Fitz had taken Lizzy's pen and was doodling in the margins. When he was done, he jabbed Lizzy in the foot, saying "Look!" It was a girl stick figure in heels and a cape; underneath was the label SUPERMODEL.

Lizzy smiled. "I wasn't a supermodel."

"No, Supermodel," Fitz corrected. "Like Superman, but prettier. Fighting lechery and fashion fuck-ups everywhere."

Lizzy laughed.

"How's the screenplay?" Fitz asked.

Lizzy wrinkled her nose. "Terrible."

"Told you," said Fitz.

"It's about you, isn't it?" Lizzy guessed. "You and Maggie? The love story of a rock star and his manager?"

"Yeah, that's why the studio offered it to us first—to keep us from suing," said Fitz. "But I want you to know I never said, 'Your eyes are like two deep mountains.'"

Lizzy grinned. "I don't think I've gotten there yet."

"You've been spared," said Fitz. "Put the screenplay down and get out while you still can."

Lizzy turned a page with a rebellious grin. "Maybe it'll get better."

"Will, you're near the end. Does it get any better?" Fitz asked, and when Will didn't reply, Fitz told Lizzy, "That means no."

"You two are forgetting one very important thing," Will said shortly.

To Lizzy, Fitz whispered, "Fasten your seatbelts, kiddo. We're in for a guilt trip."

"By all means, enlighten us, Mr. Darcy," Lizzy said, smirking.

Scowling, Will said, "Someone worked very hard on this screenplay."

Fitz raised two fists in the air. "Called it."

Will flipped to the title page and found the name of the screenwriter. "One Melanie Rosebud."

"Well, that's a pen name if I ever heard one," commented Fitz.

"Pen name or not, this is the labor of much blood, sweat—" started Will.

"Don't give us that shit, Mr. Darcy," said Lizzy. "This is a cookie-cutter romantic comedy: Girl meets Boy, Girl and Boy fight, revelation of oh-my-God-I-can't-be-with-you secret, and a Big Kiss finale. Throw in a little rock star glam into the mix, and you've got yourself a success at the Box Office. If you pick your opening weekend right," Lizzy added as an afterthought.

"Why'd they have to make the love interest into the lead singer?" Fitz grumbled. "The drummers always get shafted."

Will glanced up from a stack of potential album covers. "The demise of the shiftless clown, who draws cartoons and passes off his work rather than do it himself—"

"Mr. Darcy, who died and made you Asshole-of-the-Month?" Lizzy said sharply.

"It's fine, kiddo," said Fitz.

"It's true," Will told Lizzy.

"Well, you—" Lizzy snapped.

"What would you like me to say?" said Will with a lot more temper than Lizzy had seen from him in months. "He won't work, so we can't finish this and I don't want to be here."

"Well, that's not obvious," said Lizzy grinning. "So you haven't managed to go back to England yet?"

Will scowled. "They keep throwing one bloody thing after another at us, and I just want to bloody well go home."

"Then go," said Lizzy. "You're a grown man. There is nothing stopping you from taking the next plane to London or wherever."

"I told you; the paparazzi—"

"Get over it; if the Darlington-Darcy deal is such a problem, just tell people. All of this is your doing, so stop whining," snapped Lizzy.

Will looked thoughtful, eyebrows raised and jaw slackened.

"Wanna borrow my cell?" Fitz asked Will.

"I have my own. Thanks," Will said in my much more pleasant tone than usual. He reached toward Lizzy, who jumped away, but Will just stuck his hand inside the pocket of the canvas jacket she was wearing and drew out a flip phone. He was half-smiling when he stood and walked to the other side of the pool.

"What's he doing now?" Lizzy asked suspiciously.

"Getting reception. You get more bars over there," Fitz said, but when Lizzy gave him an exasperated look, he added, "He's calling his travel agent."

"You're kidding," Lizzy said.

Fitz grinned. "No."

"None of that ever occurred to him before?" Lizzy asked.

"Will's very dutiful. He takes himself for guilt trips everyday," Fitz explained.

Lizzy stared at him over the width of the pool, examining the shining dark hair, the long legs, lean stomach, and the scowl that was slightly lessened now that he was booking a flight over the Atlantic. "He's the most ridiculous person I've ever met."

Fitz laughed. "More ridiculous than Collins?"

"Yeah, because Collins can't fake people out the way that one does," Lizzy said, pointing at Will. "Everybody thinks Dar's just cool and moody."

"You know what would make him just piss himself with joy?" said Fitz with a grin. "Us picking out an album cover before he gets back."

Lizzy wasn't sure if she wanted to make Will Darcy piss himself, but going through proposed album covers was way more interesting than Purity and Exile. "Looks like he's on hold, so we have some time," Lizzy commented. She pulled out the stack and shuffled them like cards. "We've got our choices, huh?"

"Twelve; it's Maggie's luck number," Fitz explained, taking one from her—an Andy Warhol style print with each face of B.F.D. in a every brightly-colored square, leaving the last square for the band name and the album's title, Love and Other Accidents.

"Maybe we can narrow it down some," suggested Lizzy. "What kind of poems are you guys singing this time?"

Fitz raised one red brow. "We are not authorized to reveal that information to the public, Miss Bennet. Suffice it to say that we hope to have the album in stores by August 12—"

"Fine, stop parroting your aunt already," Lizzy grumbled. Pointing to the Andy Warhol-esque cover, Lizzy added, "Not that one."

"It's quirky and original," Fitz said.

"I hate to break it to you, but it's kind of been done," Lizzy told him.

"By who?"

"The Dandy Warhols," Lizzy said.

"You made that up," Fitz protested.

"Did not," said Lizzy. "Google it if you don't believe me."

"Then how 'bout this one?" Fitz asked, showing her another. Lizzy snorted, and Fitz said, "What? What's wrong with this one?"

"It's just a bunch of blue squiggles," Lizzy said laughing.

"It's cool," Fitz said.

"Trust me," said Lizzy grinning. "In a few years, your toddler's going to produce squiggles that'll impress you a lot more." (Lizzy smiled to see the word toddler brought a grin to Fitz's face.)

"This one?" asked Fitz, presenting Lizzy with a portrait shot of Fitz, Bing, and Dar sitting on stools and looking into the camera. Above their heads, Love and Other Accidents B.F.D. was written in script.

Lizzy wrinkled her nose and shook her head.

"Come on. It's classic," Fitz protested.

"It's boring," Lizzy said. "Anybody flipping through the CD section at Borders is just going to pass that one by. Besides, it doesn't show any of your personalities, except for maybe your various tolerance levels for photo shoots."

"Yeah, look how pissed off Will looks," Fitz said, tapping his cousin's face on the photograph.

"Better watch out," said Lizzy. "He'll scare off all your real groupies."

"I've been trying to do that for ages," Will said. Lizzy jumped at his reappearance, and Will grinned and sat back down. He'd put on a shirt (which Lizzy thought was a shame), but the smile made up for it (Lizzy decided it made for a nice change). "I'd like to hear any suggestions you have in that regard."

"Aww, Will—you know your asshole demeanor only makes you more mysterious and alluring," Fitz said, slinging an arm around his cousin's shoulders.

Will didn't see fit to honor this with an answer, but at least he was still smiling. "Have you made a decision yet?" he asked.

"Nah," said Fitz.

"This one," said Lizzy, slapping one down, the one with the black background with white cut-outs of all three band members in profile.

"When the hell did we decide this?" Fitz asked laughing.

"Just now," Lizzy said. "It's simple and distinctive, and it kind of has a neo-cameo look to it, which ties into the mostly 19th Century Lit that you have going in this album."

"Fitz," Will scolded, much more good naturedly than usual, "you're not supposed to hand out our song list."

"He didn't," Lizzy said grinning and pulling a sheet of paper from the folder. "I asked, he refused, and then I found them all nicely printed out on this page." Will took it from her and placed it face down on the top of his folder. "That's not going to do any good. I've already seen it," Lizzy said. "Good choice on the Walt Whitman by the way, but 'She Walks in Beauty Like the Night'?—so cliché."

Fitz was still looking at the silhouettes on the album cover. "Can you even tell who's who?"

"Yeah," said Lizzy; she tapped the figure on the far left. "That's you."

"That's easy," said Fitz, patting his distinctive crest of red hair.

"Yes, I believe the drumsticks quite give it away," agreed Will.

"This is Charlie," said Lizzy, tapping the one in the middle.

"The short one," said Fitz.

"Yeah, and he's also kind of hunched over," said Lizzy.

"Charlie's always had bad posture," Will said.

"Yeah, you're always giving him grief about it too," Fitz reminded him.

"This one's you," Lizzy told Will, holding her finger over the one on the far right.

"By process of elimination," Will agreed.

"That, and you're the angry one," said Lizzy laughing. "Look at how far your chin's jutting out."

Fitz laughed too, and Will said stiffly, "It was a rather long shoot."

Lizzy shook her head, snickering. "You guys need to use better photographers if poor Mr. Darcy can't endure those 'rather long' shoots. The best ones know exactly what they want and can get you in and out of there in an hour. Or they at least give you a break and let you move around some."

"You know, kiddo—you're pretty good yourself," Fitz said. "If you ever needed any help or wanted me to put a call in—"

"No," said Lizzy flatly.

"I'm just saying—" Fitz started.

"I believe Miss Bennet wishes to succeed on her own," Will explained with a small smile.

"Oh," Fitz said. "One of those types."

"Besides, I already have my own contacts," Lizzy said.

"Who?" said Fitz.

"Diana Gardiner," said Lizzy.

"The head of the Keefe-Moore Agency?" Fitz sputtered. "That's one of the biggest modeling agencies in the country."

"I know," said Lizzy smugly.

"I thought she was your agent," Will said.

"She was…five years ago, when she was affordable," Lizzy said, wondering how he knew that.

"Diana Gardiner was your agent?" Fitz repeated. "She's tough. You should've seen the trouble she gave Maggie."

"She probably thought Mrs. de Bourgh was trying to swindle her and was probably right," Lizzy said, "but if she gives you trouble again, give me a call. She owes me a favor." Lizzy grinned. "I introduced her to her husband."

"Diana Gardiner got married?" Fitz said.

"She is Mrs. Diana Gardiner," Will pointed out.

"But who'd want her?" Fitz asked, mouth gaping.

"Uh, my uncle," said Lizzy. "Accidental Wall Street tycoon, and resident black sheep of my mom's family. They're my favorite relatives."

"Shit," said Fitz, and luckily, the sound of congo drums interrupted the awkward silence that followed. Lizzy jumped and looked wildly around.

"You're so jumpy," said Fitz, as he got up and walked away. "It's just my cell phone." He picked it up off the tabletop and answered it. "Hello, Fitz here; how can I be of service?" He was grinning as he walked over to the other side of the pool. "Well, I'm not doing much, just sitting out here poolside, surrounded by beautiful women." He paused for a second, listening, and laughed.

"You think that's Maggie?" Lizzy asked Will.

"Yes."

"All you need is love!" shouted Fitz loudly into the phone; Lizzy laughed in surprise. "I was made for loving you baby; you were made for loving me…Just one night; give me just one night."

For a moment, Lizzy didn't know why Fitz's yelling sounded so familiar until he got to "We can be heroes…just for one day"; when she figured it out, she laughed again. "Is he going to go through Moulin Rouge's 'Elephant Love Medley'?"

Will grimaced. "Probably. It's a ritual of theirs."

"We should be lovers, and that's a fact!" Fitz said.

"Aww."

"It's not aww if you've already heard it eight hundred times before," Will told her. "And he's got a voice like an elephant."

"Don't be such a snob; not all of us have voices like yours," Lizzy said. "Besides, it doesn't matter. There's not a girl in the world that doesn't have a secret dream of being sung to." Lizzy thought of Jane, and her smile became ironic, but Lizzy refused to be unhappy when she was on vacation. "Remember that for when you fall in love, Mr. Darcy. With your voice, you've got it made." Lizzy grinned, as Fitz threw his fist in the air with enthusiasm. "You know," she told Will, "I like him."

Will glanced at his cousin, who was busy telling his wife, "We could be heroes, for ever and ever!"

"He's married," Will told her flatly.

"Well, duh, Mr. Darcy," Lizzy said grinning. "That's probably why I like him. His sarcasm might get on my nerves if he didn't love his wife so much. After Collins and Charlotte, it's nice to see..." Lizzy couldn't finish her sentence, because what could she say? A functional relationship? A happy ending?

Will was silent for so long that Lizzy glanced over to see his reaction. She found he was watching her with such a steady stare that her breath caught in her throat.

"Lizzy!" called Fitz, walking around the pool. "Hey, the little missus wants to talk to you."

"Sure," said Lizzy, smiling and flattered.

Fitz said into the phone, "Hold on, Mags. I'm going to put you on speakerphone."

He sat down on the end of Lizzy's lounge chair again and held the phone between them. It beeped and a voice said, "Hello? Am I on?"

"Yeah, Mags; you're on," said Fitz.

Maggie Fitzwilliam's voice crackled through the bad reception, but she sounded still sharp and lively to Lizzy. "Great, so where's the non-groupie?"

"Here," said Lizzy, leaning toward the phone. "I'm Lizzy. Nice to meet you."

"Nice to meet you, Lizzy. I'm Maggie," the phone said. "Don't worry about Mrs. de Bourgh. If she doesn't meet you in a suit, she assumes you don't value yourself. Besides, you don't sound like a groupie."

Lizzy grinned. "Thanks. Have you known a lot of groupies then?"

"A few," said Maggie. "Fitz had a groupie problem back in the day."

"Maggie!" Fitz cried, putting his hand to his cheek and managing to look scandalized.

"Well, you did," Maggie said. "A new girl in every city, and God, they were annoying."

"Mags, you know I always had a soft spot in my heart for you," Fitz said, grinning.

"Good thing I scared them all off then," Maggie said smugly.

"She threw a tantrum in Charlotte, North Carolina," Fitz explained to Lizzy. "I had all these girls around me, and she cusses them out, climbs on my lap, and kisses me hard."

"They were offering you drugs," Maggie protested, "and nobody gives drugs to my band members when I'm around. Kissing you was the easiest way to distract you."

"We've been together ever since, kiddo," Fitz told Lizzy.

"Hey, he called you kiddo," said Maggie delighted. "He doesn't do that unless he really likes a girl and doesn't want me to get jealous."

Lizzy beamed, and Fitz said, "Mags, you know how much I love it when you get all possessive."

"Yeah? Well, if I hear from Lizzy that you've been misbehaving, I'll show you a side of possessive that you don't like," said Maggie, and Fitz looked so brow-beaten that Lizzy laughed. "Lizzy, you have a nice laugh. I like you already. Now, tell me: is my husband behaving himself?"

"Yes," said Lizzy, at the same time that Will said, "No."

"Who's that?" said Maggie. "Will? Have you been there all this time?"

"Yes," said Will.

"You're so quiet," Maggie scolded.

"Can't get a word in edgewise," said Will dryly.

"Neither can Lizzy, I bet," said Maggie. "Okay, Lizzy—next question: Has Fitz been doing his work?"

"Yeah," said Lizzy smiling. "He's picked an album cover and everything."

"The black one," said Fitz. "With the people—the cut out people in white—"

"Number 8," said Will half-exasperated.

"Shit, there are numbers on them?" Fitz asked, turning one over. "Where?"

"Bottom right-hand corner, Fitz," Maggie said. "Yeah, I like that one, too. Will, what's your take?"

"Yes," Will said, looking at Lizzy, "that's the one."

"Lovely," trilled Maggie, sounding more like Catherine de Bourgh than Lizzy guessed the assistant manager suspected. "I'll make that call next. Oh, ow. Ow-ow-ow."

"What is it?" Fitz said, clutching at the phone. "Is it contractions?"

"No, just a papercut," Maggie said. "So, what'd you think of the screenplay?"

"Pissed me off so much that I had to stop after the fifth page," said Fitz.

"It's 'cause they made you into a singer, right?" asked Maggie.

"Drummers always get shafted," Fitz grumbled.

"I know, honey," said Maggie, and Lizzy heard the smile in her voice. "Don't read it; go ahead and spare yourself."

"Motherhood is making you soft, Maggie," Will said.

"Shut up, Will," Maggie said sweetly. "You're just pissed because you've already finished it." Will frowned, and Lizzy grinned, guessing that Maggie kept the tour bus very well-run. "Well, I finished it too, and I think I have enough to call that studio and let them think lawsuit."

"Is this normal?" Lizzy asked.

"Depends on your definition of normal," said Fitz grinning, "because Mags is like this all the time."

"Well," said Maggie slightly mollified, "it doesn't exactly happen often, and I never actually mention the word sue—"

"No, I meant with the screenplay and album covers," said Lizzy. "Most musicians kind of shunt those responsibilities to their agent or someone, right?"

"Yeah, but Will played hardball on the signing table," said Maggie. "He wouldn't sign anything that didn't give him complete artistic freedom. He also bargained a lot of the percent revenue into B.F.D.'s favor. Frankly, I don't know how he got signed in the first place.

"Brilliant business sense," said Will.

"You were damn lucky, and don't you forget it," Maggie said sternly. "Anyway, the doctor told me to keep off my feet, so I'm sitting like a beached whale here and bored out of my mind. What's going on over there?"

Fitz grinned. "Will decided he's going to hold a press conference and come clean about his British roots."

"What?" Maggie yelped, and Fitz laughed.

"It isn't true, Maggie," Will said quietly.

"Fitz," Lizzy snapped. "What are you trying to do? Induce labor three weeks early?" Fitz was still laughing. "I seriously almost peed in my pants."

"I am going back to England on Saturday, though," Will told Maggie.

"Finally," Maggie replied. "It's about time you stopped moping and booked yourself a flight."

"You shouldn't hold a press conference anyway," said Lizzy with a grin. "Wait for a talk show, where the host is needling you about something you don't want to talk about. Switch to a British accent suddenly, and I guarantee you'll distract them."

"That's awesome," said Fitz laughing. "And Will, you owe me by the way. Those pictures of me and Mags in our undies, remember?"

"Charlie owes you," said Will. "That was his idea, not mine."

"Wait a minute," Maggie said sharply. "Who told Lizzy that Will's British?"

"Nobody," said Lizzy. "He mentioned Pemberley, so I looked it up on the internet."

"I didn't say a thing about Pemberley," said Will. "That was bloody Caroline."

"God, that Caroline can't keep a secret to save her life," said Maggie irritably. "Is she there? I need to talk to her."

"She's not here," Fitz said.

"This was at Netherfield," Lizzy explained. "At Vickroot. That's where we met."

"Oh," said Maggie knowingly, "so you two have history."

"That isn't where I met you," Will told Lizzy.

"Well, I guess there was the Harvest Ball," said Lizzy slowly, "but I wouldn't call that meeting so much as me yelling at you."

"I met you this summer," Will reminded her. "In my dressing room. After a concert."

"Oh, so you went to one of B.F.D.'s concerts?" said Maggie. "I like you even better."

"You went to Will's dressing room?" asked Fitz. "I thought you said you weren't a groupie."

"I'm not, but he thought I was," Lizzy said, pointing at Will and scowling. "What is it with you and your family and me being take for a groupie?"

"Hey," said Fitz, "when did I ever call you a groupie?"

"Okay, honey, you just did," Maggie said.

"Damn," said Fitz sheepishly.

"What were you doing in Will's dressing room?" Maggie asked.

"Throwing up," said Lizzy simply. "I'd eaten some sketchy shrimp before the concert so I spent the whole second set emptying my stomach. My drunk sister found a door behind a poster, and the room attached to it had a toilet in it. So she left me there, and then this guy shows up and starts saying stuff about security."

"I would like to point out that Miss Bennet didn't recognize me," Will said, but he was smiling.

"I'm not seeing how that's worse than you calling me a drunk groupie," Lizzy said.

"The evidence suggested—" Will started.

"I told you the truth," Lizzy reminded him. "You still wanted to call security, but luckily, you didn't find your cell phone. So, I started telling you what I thought of the concert—"

"You trashed it," Will said.

"I did not," Lizzy said. "I admit, I said some negative things, but—"

"Wait, you're that groupie?" Fitz said and laughed.

"This explains so much," Maggie said.

"I'm not a groupie," Lizzy said sternly.

"No, kiddo, do me a favor and open Will's wallet," Fitz said. "It should be in the left inside pocket of that jacket you're wearing."

"Whoa, she's wearing Will's jacket?" Maggie asked.

"Um, no," Lizzy told Fitz quizzically, but Will seemed to understand what Fitz was after and reached toward the jacket and Lizzy. Lizzy shrank away, and Fitz grabbed Will's hand and twisted it behind his back.

"Ouch, Fitz," Will snapped. "Let me go."

"Go ahead, Lizzy," Fitz told her.

"No, don't," Will said, reaching for Lizzy with his other hand.

"I won't; it's not mine," Lizzy said stubbornly.

"Fine, I'll do it," Fitz said, and catching Will offguard, he shoved his cousin in the pool, shirt on and all. As Will came up, cursing for air and sputtering, Fitz reached into the jacket, pulled out the wallet, and retrieved a piece of folded paper—dirty at the edges and torn at the creases—which he tossed in Lizzy's lap.

Lizzy knew she really shouldn't look, but curiosity got the better of her.

"Is she reading it?" asked Maggie excitedly.

"She's opening it, Mags; give her time."

Young woman, early twenties, in dressing room. Puking. Either drunk or violently ill. Might have been attractive, if her smeared makeup didn't make her look garish. Might have been a groupie if she wasn't so intelligent.

She had this to say about our concert:

-mocked our name; said she thought B.F.D. stood for Big, Fat Dumbass (mature woman, this groupie).

-The second album exploits the literature-as-lyrics notions a bit too much (nothing I haven't thought of myself)

-"Play On" should be rewritten. Something tragic, rather than a dancing tune. (Would Aunt Catherine even allow us to try the same song twice?)

-On "Fire and Ice: "The second album just doesn't seem to feel as much as the first one did. I mean, 'Fire and Ice'—I know everyone says this and I enjoyed the jovial secrecy of 'Listener' as much as everyone else, but I needed to hear 'Fire and Ice.' I'm not the only one, I know; they call it the 9-11 anthem, but I was in New York when it happened. I'd been in the World Trade Center the day before; my roommate had gone there that morning. She hadn't actually gone in; she was about to but then the plane crashed into it, and then she couldn't get back. I called her over and over again; she hadn't charged her cell phone, but I didn't know that. I spent the whole day running to the roof to get a better look and running back to my apartment to see if she had come back. The whole day was waiting and watching and being so helpless and bewildered that things could never be the same; even when she came home, covered in dust, we just held each other and cried. You aren't the same after that; none of us were.

"So, when 'Fire and Ice' came out, just a week later—with a lone a cappella voice singing, Some say the world will end in fire, something in us all clenched. When Bing joins in, you're remembering those moments when you were reaching for each other, and during the round, that beautiful crescendo of a round, you've got those disjointed moments of searching for meaning or unity or something and coming up short—I think I know enough of hate. And then, there's the anger of the next couple rounds—where Dar is just so angry, he's got that open-eyed rage that we all knew we'd feel—and if it had to perish twice, and then, there's Bing, echoing him—a little more gently, a little more cynically. Then, there's the end—where the guitar solo has calmed us down, Dar mourns for us once again, it's just…

"I think we needed that song, or a song like it. We needed something to remind us to feel. I was just angry for a long, long time. I hadn't heard the song; they released it on the internet. I hadn't had a computer then, so I hadn't heard it. My sister burned it and sent it to me, and when I listened to it, I…couldn't help but feel what happened all over again. I needed to feel that, I think; I needed to remember."

"But what is this?" Lizzy said uncertainly. "It's all true, but how did you get this?" Lizzy asked Will, who pulled off his wet shirt roughly and dove under the water.

"That's what you said to him that night," Maggie said, and the grin was back in her voice.

"Did I?" asked Lizzy.

"You don't remember?" Fitz said.

Lizzy shrugged. "I was pretty sick. I think I tried to block it out."

"Will wrote it all down when he got back on the tour bus," Maggie said. "It seemed like he got it word-for-word."

Fitz picked the paper out of Lizzy's hands. "Will said this is what keeps him in show business."

"Will did not say that," Maggie said. "He just reads it whenever he's had a terrible day."

"But why?' asked Lizzy.

"Come on, kiddo," Fitz said grinning.

"What's Will doing now?" Maggie asked.

"Laps. Freestyle," Fitz said,

"He's probably blushing like crazy, too," said Maggie. "Honestly, I don't know if his emotional maturity got stunted at five or fifteen, but most of the time, he's just like an awkward little boy."

Lizzy watched Will tear through the water, sending up spray down the length of the pool, stopping with a flip turn, and starting over again.

"What's Lizzy doing?" Maggie asked.

Fitz grinned. "Blushing like crazy."

Lizzy turned to glare at him. "Aww, she's so cute," Fitz said, grabbing her around the head and pulling her into his chest for a hug. Lizzy fought for her freedom, but Fitz was stronger than he let on. "Maggie, can we keep her?"

"I think we need to work on this baby first; then we can adopt more if you want," Maggie said. "I can only handle one kid at a time."

"Mags, I miss you," Fitz said.

"I miss you, too."

"No, I miss you more—"

"No, I miss you more—"

As Fitz and Maggie argued about how much they missed each other, Lizzy watched Will swim back and forth in the pool, the worn page of her thoughtless words and his neat handwriting in her hands. It occurred to her with a little guilt and some remorse that she didn't know the one called Dar at all. She would've never thought him capable of this.

5.

Lizzy found the perfect excuse to skip a trip to Rosings the next day: she caught a cold. At dinner—between the appetizer course and the soup course, she developed a cough; just before the entrée was served, Lizzy excused herself and walked the half-mile down the driveway back to the Collinses' carriage house. By the next morning, she was feverish and could announce that she wouldn't be going to Rosings.

Charlotte pressed her hand against Lizzy's forehead, and Lizzy could feel the cool metal of her friend's wedding ring. "Well, it's no wonder," Charlotte muttered. "Those boys kept you outside in the cold for hours yesterday. I don't know why you didn't tell them that you needed to go inside and get warm."

"I didn't feel cold at the time," Lizzy grumbled and coughed into her fist.

"Sure, she says—just as she hacks up a lung," Charlotte said, but her frown was concerned.

"Charlotte!" cried Mr. Collins from the front entryway; he had his coat and Charlotte's over his arm. "Darling, we really must go. They're set to deliver the marble statues of Artemis and Apollo at 9 o'clock. Beautiful pieces; $6000 each, worth every—" He continued muttering to himself, but Charlotte told Lizzy, "I don't want to leave you."

"You just don't want to go," Lizzy replied. "I'll be fine. I'll just finish off your orange juice and sleep all day."

"Charlotte dear, really—" Collins called.

"Coming!" Charlotte said. To Lizzy, she said, "Call me if you need anything, I mean it. I have my cell phone." She kissed Lizzy's cheek and was gone. Lizzy settled herself on the very cushy loveseat. She considered dipping into the Collinses' DVD collection, but the man of the house had a thing for Humprey Bogart and Lizzy wasn't in the mood to watch any tearjerkers, even if they were classics. She amused herself with her laptop, but she must've fallen asleep because the next thing she knew there was a man—dark-haired and very tall—looming over her.

She yelped and flailed around, her laptop sliding off her lap, and Will caught it with one hand and steadied Lizzy with the other. "Are you quite all right?" he asked.

"You scared me," Lizzy said, and her voice was hoarse with sleep and sickness. "This couch is too small."

"You should be in bed," Will told her.

"This is much more cushy than that thing upstairs," Lizzy said. "What are you—" Lizzy started, but Will was frowning at the screen of Lizzy's laptop—at the window open to a pen-and-ink drawing of a teenage girl with spiky hair and unnaturally large eyes.

"You read Japanese comic books?" Will asked, a grin growing on his face. "You're twenty-one years old."

"So? I'm sick," Lizzy said defensively. "I only read it when I'm sick."

Will was laughing; it was a warm laugh—kind of deep and booming, but Lizzy was pissed that the first time she'd ever heard it was when Will Darcy was laughing at her.

"Leave me alone," Lizzy snapped, snatching the laptop out of his hands and slapping it shut. Will blinked at her with such wide, dark eyes that she felt slightly guilty for being grumpy, but he was the one stupid enough to make fun of a sick person. Lizzy sighed and set her computer on the coffee table before walking off.

"Where are you going?" Will asked.

"Kitchen," said Lizzy gruffly. "Gonna get some orange juice."

"Where's your inhaler?"

Lizzy turned around and stared at him. "My what?"

"Inhaler," said Will, and his eyes were still wide. "For your asthma."

"It's in my pocket," Lizzy said frowning and sticking her hand down her pajama pocket to check. It was still there, but suddenly Lizzy was very self-conscious to be wearing black flannel pajamas in front of Will Darcy. Covered in hot pink polka dots, no less.

Lizzy hurried into the kitchen and was annoyed when Will followed. She was even more annoyed when Will stopped her from closing the refrigerator after she'd pulled out the orange juice and started to peruse its contents (after all, it wasn't his house; he wasn't a guest here). She was more than a little miffed when he pulled out a can of ginger ale and opened it, but she was genuinely pissed off when he reached around her with an unnaturally long arm and poured the can of ginger ale into her orange juice she'd just poured herself.

"What are you doing?" Lizzy cried, horrified and staring at the glass of fizzing orange juice.

"When you mix orange juice and ginger ale, it tastes like Orangina," Will explained.

"But I didn't want Orangina; I wanted orange juice," Lizzy told him.

"It's good," Will told her.

"Why didn't you ask?" Lizzy said.

"Try it," Will encouraged.

"You didn't even say anything," Lizzy protested. "You just poured it right in there."

"Try it," Will said with a frown, sternly like she was a bratty child.

"Fine," Lizzy snapped and chugged down three big gulps, but some of it went down the wrong way and Lizzy had to put the glass down to cough. A lot. Because she was sick, it sounded a lot worse than it was.

Will handed her another glass, this one of plain water. "If you don't like it," Will said quietly, "I'll drink it, and you can have orange juice."

"I can't. We're out," said Lizzy hoarsely, tossing the Florida Natural carton in the trashcan under the sink. "Besides, it is good," she admitted grudgingly. "But you still should've asked," she added quickly, but it was too late. Will was already looking smug again. Lizzy rolled her eyes and reluctantly took another sip of the ginger ale-orange juice mixture. She snuck a glance at her visitor, noticed he was watching her again, and quickly looked away. She adjusted her polka-dot pajamas primly and walked into the next room, one with three easels set up along the windows and various canvases leaning in stacks against the walls.

"What room is this?" said a voice behind her; Will Darcy had followed her again.

"Charlotte's studio," said Lizzy, going to the only stack of canvases covered with a tarp and peeling away the covering. "She was so excited when she showed me this. It's the only space that's entirely hers. You know, A Room of One's Own—the messed-up version. Collins isn't even allowed in here."

"Are we allowed in here?" Will asked, eyeing the canvases Lizzy was browsing with distaste.

"Well, I was invited already," said Lizzy, picking up the first painting—a landscape of a hill and a few trees—and examining it. "I'm still not sure what you're doing here, though. Besides, this is my best chance I'm going to get to come in here undetected."

"You're in danger of seeming a snoop, Miss Bennet," said Will stiffly from the doorway.

Lizzy turned to him, eyebrows raised and eyes steely. "Yes, I'm being nosy, Mr. Darcy," said Lizzy. "But if I'm a snoop, you're my accomplice. So, you might as well come over here; you can't see anything very well looking over my shoulder like you're trying to do now."

Will crossed the room, face blank. "What are we doing then?"

"Detective work," declared Lizzy, turning her head aside and coughing into her shoulder. "With a little bit of psychoanalysis thrown in.—When Charlotte showed off this room earlier, this was the only stack of paintings she didn't show me. When I asked to see her recent work, she showed me one of those over there. Funny thing though, I remembered wrapping up that painting for shipping when Jane and I were helping her move."

"So, you believe that this is what she's done here at Rosings?" Will asked, looking over a still life of three red apples in a wooden bowl.

"Yep."

"They're terrible," said Will.

"They're not terrible," said Lizzy irritably. "It's been a while since you've run around in circles with just amateurs, and you've gotten snotty. Charlotte's got a lot of potential for a young artist. Here," Lizzy said, putting down the landscape and picking up a painting from another stack. It was a three-quarter portrait of Jane, smiling her hesitant smile. "This is one of Charlotte's better pieces. She's got a fantastic sense of color; look at all the highlights she found in Jane's hair. And the boldness of her lines is really distinctive."

Lizzy sighed and set the painting back down on the top of its pile. "The problem's not with her talent," Lizzy told Will. "It's with Rosings. Working with Mrs. de Bourgh and Collins would be bad enough, but—I'm not sure, but Rosings itself is—"

"Dead," Will said again. "He killed it."

Lizzy looked at him appraisingly and then nodded with a small smile. "Yeah," said Lizzy softly. She coughed twice into her fist. "Well, I've seen what I wanted to see," Lizzy said, taking the still life from Will and replacing it; she covered that stack again carefully with the tarp. "When Charlotte gets over herself and admits this wasn't a great idea she thought it was, I'll just tell her to cut tail and run. I just hope it's soon."

She sighed and looked at Will, who was examining the painting-in-progress on the middle easel, a portrait of a young woman, tired and frowning with her brown, wavy hair blowing across her face. "Yeah, Charlotte started that the day I got here," Lizzy said. "It's better than some of the others, but I don't know who it is."

"It's you," said Will.

"No…" said Lizzy disbelievingly, examining the portrait again. "I don't look anything like that."

"You do, when you're sad," Will said quietly, and he was staring at Lizzy in a way that scared her, not frowning exactly but like he expected something from her. He took a step toward her, and Lizzy stiffened. "I—" Will started.

Both of them heard the lock turn and the door opened, and a second later, Charlotte called, "Lizzy! Where are you? I pretended I forgot something, so I could come back and check on you."

By the time Charlotte finished her last sentence, Lizzy and Will were back in the kitchen, the door to the studio firmly closed behind them. "We're in here," Lizzy called, her voice cracking. Then she had another coughing fit.

"We?" said Charlotte, walking into the room. When she spotted Will, her mouth fell open in surprise.

Will nodded tersely. "Good day, Mrs. Collins." He grabbed his coat—the same canvas one Lizzy had been wearing yesterday—and shrugged it on. "Goodbye, Miss Bennet," he said to Lizzy and left the room.

When they heard the door close behind him, Charlotte asked, "Lizzy, what'd you do to him?"

"Nothing," Lizzy said and took another sip of her Orangina mixture. "At least I don't think I did anything. Maybe he's just weird."

"Maybe he's in love with you," said Charlotte thoughtfully.

Lizzy laughed, but the laugh turned into a cough, one so bad that Lizzy almost reached for her inhaler.

"You sound shitty," said Charlotte, opening her cabinet and reaching for the Benadryl. "Let's get some cough medicine in you, okay?"

6.

Lizzy didn't remember much of the rest of the day; it passed in a haze of cough syrup, manga, and sleep. She hadn't realized she'd slept away the night and half the morning, until her cell phone rang on the nightstand right beside her bed. Lizzy jumped awake, looked around wildly, tried to remember where she was, noticed the phone, and reached for it. She flipped open, pressed it to her ear, and said, "Gahhh."

"Lizzy, you have to come home," said an angry voice. "Now."

"Wha—Jane?" Lizzy pulled herself halfway into a sitting position. "What's wrong?"

"Dad. He's gone insane," Jane snapped. She hadn't sounded this lively for months, and Lizzy wasn't sure if this was a good sign or not. "You have to come back and get him under control."

"You're really pissed," Lizzy said, throwing off the covers and standing. "What'd he do? Ask out one of your med student friends?"

"No, he dumped me in the shower. And turned it on," Jane grumbled. "I was fully clothed. I got soaked."

"Umm…" Lizzy said, rubbing the sleep out if her eyes.

"I was just sleeping in," Jane said, and Lizzy made herself comfortable for the oncoming rant. "It's Friday—I don't have any classes; I'm allowed to sleep in. But no, Dad had to bang on my door and ordered me to get out of bed. Ordered me, Lizzy—like I was seven again. He told me I'd pitied myself long enough, and he gave me until the count of three to get out of bed. Then, he actually counted, Lizzy."

Lizzy made a noise halfway between a snort and a gasp and clapped a hand over her mouth.

"It's not funny," Jane snapped. "He physically lifted me out of bed, dragged me to the bathroom, and dropped me in the shower. Then he turned it on—the cold water. Then he told me I was being a selfish brat and that he expected better of me. Who the hell does he think he is? He also said I had too much going for me to throw it all away because I got dumped. I didn't even actually get dumped. You have to be dating to be dumped, so—" Jane drew a loud, shaky breath. "At least I was spared that."

"What did you say to him?" Lizzy asked softly.

"I don't know. Some pretty terrible stuff actually," Jane said guiltily. "Stuff about him leaving us and then just expecting to come back into our lives.—But you know what else he said? He said that I had no right to sit around and mope and worry you so much when you were going crazy trying to figure out ways to help me. I mean, what the fuck? How dare he use you to guilt-trip me like that."

"I have been really worried about you," Lizzy admitted with her hand over her eyes.

Jane gasped, and Lizzy could picture her sister's wide, sorrowful eyes, her open mouth. "Lizzy, are you crying?"

"No," lied Lizzy, wiping her cheeks; she couldn't help it. Ben Bennet had done the only thing that Lizzy was unwilling to try in order to help Jane: to be cruel, to make Jane so angry that she snapped herself out of it. Lizzy decided her father deserved a big hug and kiss when she saw him next.

"Oh, Lizzy, I'm sorry," Jane said. "I'm so, so sorry."

"It's okay," Lizzy sniffed, telling herself she was only emotional because she was a little sick.

"You should've said something," Jane told her, horrified at herself.

"I couldn't," Lizzy said.

Jane sighed. "Well, darn—I've been terrible, haven't I?" Lizzy shrugged, and then remembered that Jane couldn't see her. Jane giggled. "Poor Lydia. You should've seen her face when Dad carried me screaming down the hall. I kind of wished I had a camera. She's doing fine, by the way," Jane told Lizzy. "She's spending a lot of time at Caribou. I think she's developed a crush on Jack."

Lizzy winced. "Great."

"It could be worse," said Jane. "You could still be into him, and then we'd have all those jealousy issues."

"Yeah, that would suck," Lizzy agreed.

"How's Charlotte?"

"Blonde," Lizzy said, and Jane laughed.

After another half hour on the phone with Jane, a shower, three cups of coffee, and several cough drops, Lizzy couldn't find anything better to do, so she walked down to Rosings. Not to stay probably, but Charlotte had left her cell phone on the kitchen table and would probably need it.

When Lizzy asked to see Charlotte, the butler nodded and led her ceremoniously through the dark house to the poolroom, where Fitz was setting up another game.

"Hey!" Lizzy protested. "I came here to see Charlotte," she reminded the butler, but he'd already disappeared.

"Damn, kiddo," Fitz said, taking careful aim and breaking. "Not even a hello for me, before you run off to find someone else."

"Hey, Fitz," said Lizzy obligingly.

"You feeling better?" Fitz asked, walking around the table.

"Much. Thanks. I'm still coughing some, though."

"You like pool?"

"Yeah," Lizzy said grinning, "but I don't play. I just like watching the ball arrangement the game makes. If I'd known you were in here, I would've brought my camera."

Fitz grinned and bent for another shot. "That's weird, kiddo," said Fitz, taking aim again and shooting. "Damn! Missed."

Lizzy shrugged and glanced around the room pointedly. "I feel like we're missing one. Where's your cousin?"

"Will's upstairs sleeping," said Fitz.

"Lazy—it's almost noon," scoffed Lizzy, who suddenly remembered that she'd woken up at eleven.

"Give him a break, kiddo. He's been having trouble sleeping here," Fitz explained, lining up another shot and knocking two balls into the corner pocket. "Score!" he cheered, a fist in the air. "So, did you have fun with him yesterday? When he came to visit?"

Lizzy snorted. "He walks into Charlotte's house, he laughs at me, he ruins my orange juice, he follows me around, and then he leaves," Lizzy said, leaning against the pool table and pressing her chin into her cupped hands.

"He was worried about you."

Lizzy made a face. "He was not."

"Sure, he was," Fitz said with a smirk, practicing a shot twice before hitting it and knocking another ball into the side pocket. "He said you were asthmatic and shouldn't be left alone."

"Why didn't he just say that?" Lizzy said.

"That's not his style," said Fitz. "He works the mysterious bit."

"The confusing bit," Lizzy corrected. "Annoying."

"Yeah, but don't be too hard on him, kiddo," Fitz said so lightly that Lizzy looked at him sharply, trying to guess what he was up to; he sank the 2-ball in the corner pocket. "Whether you ask him to or not, whether you want him to or not, he'll do anything in the world for you. For instance—you know Charlie?"

Lizzy crossed her arms and looked at the floor. "Yeah," said Lizzy, thinking of Jane. "I know Charlie."

"This fall, Charlie was in real danger of being taken for his money; there was this redhead," Fitz said, grinning across the pool table at Lizzy. "Charlie's always been a sucker for redheads."

Lizzy composed her expression carefully, lowering her eyes and tugging the corners of her mouth straight. "What did Will do?"

Fitz was still grinning, and Lizzy almost hated him for it. "Step One: Remove friend from sticky situation. So, Will took Charlie out of the area took him skiing, I think. They do that deal in Montana every year. Then, he took Charlie back home to Boston." He aimed for a yellow ball, hit, and accidentally sunk the 8-ball. "Shit. Oh, well. Anyway, Step Two: Make Charlie aware of girl's intentions. It was tough, apparently. He had to enlist the help of Charlie's sisters, and of course, they never let up. Step Three: Cut off all communication with said girl. Will took extra precautions this time. He even replaced Charlie's cell. Blocked the girl from online deals. Deleted her number—"

"Sounds creepy," said Lizzy sharply. "Sounds condescending and egotistical and idiotic."

Fitz shrugged. "It happens every few months. Charlie thinks he's found The One, and Will saves him."

Lizzy turned to Fitz, jaw set. "Saves him? Is he even happy?" She watched Fitz's grin fade, as he slowly realized he'd said something very wrong.

She left. On the way out, she heard a male voice call, "Miss Elizabeth Bennet" and whirled, expecting Will Darcy. From the doorway of what might have once been a ballroom, Collins stumbled backwards at her glare. Charlotte steadied him absentmindedly with a firm hand on his shoulder, watching Lizzy. Mrs. de Bourgh used a chandelier catalogue to fan herself and said, "Miss Bennet, I don't know of other Elizas who storms down the halls of her hostess's house as if she owned it."

Lizzy rolled her eyes, pulled the cell phone out of her pocket, and tossed it to Charlotte. "You forgot this."

"Lizzy, what's wrong—" Charlotte started to say.

"You're leaving already?" said Mrs. de Bourgh with a disapproving frown. "Miss Eliza, I tolerated your illness yesterday, but I fear my nephews were very bored in your absence—"

"Then don't keep them under house arrest," snapped Lizzy. "Send them home."

Mrs. de Bourgh looked scandalized. "Miss Bennet, your task was—"

"Save it, lady," Lizzy said sharply. "I'm not on your payroll." Lizzy took a brief satisfaction in seeing the fury on the de Bourgh bitch's face before she turned around and made her exit.

7.

There had been three times in Lizzy's life that she'd been so angry that she couldn't do anything. The first time was when she was seven, when she realized that her father's abandonment of her mother (which was understandable) also meant that he was abandoning Jane and Lizzy to be raised by that mother. The second time was her eighteenth birthday, when she came back to her New York apartment early from a weekend with Jane and found her boyfriend Greg in bed with a model that Lizzy vaguely remembered from her last shoot. The third time came when Lizzy found out that Will Darcy had deliberately forced Charlie out of Vickroot and catapulted Jane into depression.

Lizzy sat in the Collinses' living room, perched on the tiny, cushy loveseat, and tried to figure out what she would do. Part of her was ready to march back to Rosings, track that Darcy down, and tear into him, but she'd already cried once that day. She felt like any other sort of confrontation would also end in tears, and there was no way she was going to give that asshole the satisfaction of seeing her cry.

Asshole—that's what Will Darcy was. He wasn't the mysterious rock star with the tragic past, trapped in a double life; he wasn't the awkward, little boy that Maggie thought he was; he certainly wasn't the good and loyal friend that Fitz had made him out to be; he was just—

He was just standing in the middle of the room, Lizzy noticed with a start. And he was staring at her in the way she hated—all dark eyes and expectant intensity.

"Do you normally walk into somebody else's house without even knocking?" Lizzy snapped. When he didn't answer, she snorted and looked away, trying to get her bearings. When she turned back, he was crossing the room in long-legged strides, and before she had time to widen her eyes in surprise, he was kissing her.

Fitzwilliam Henry Darcy was kissing her. With such passionate tenderness that Lizzy wasn't aware of anything else at first, and then she felt his knee kneeling near her hip and noticed his hands fluttering around her—brushing her face, her hair, her back, her wrists, her shoulders. They came to a rest on the back of the loveseat on either side of her head, bracing Will's weight as he leaned closer, trapping her in place; Lizzy made a muffled noise of protest. "Please," he whispered, so softly that Lizzy wasn't sure he'd heard it; then he kissed her neck and she really wasn't sure of anything. "I love you," he said and returned his mouth to hers.

Lizzy reacted, flailing so wildly that she hit Will Darcy in the face and fell to the floor. "What?" she cried, scooting away and scrambling to her feet. "You what?"

"I love you," repeated Will Darcy, standing over her. Lizzy watched his dark-eyed gaze roam over her face and stop at her mouth. "There's nothing for it. Despite your horrific mother, your questionable friends, your scheming sister, and your own difficult nature, I love you, and I'll have you despite what anyone says."

He was reaching for her again, but Lizzy shoved him back hard. "You'll have me?" she growled. "Think again, pal."

"No, I've worded this badly." Will took a deep breath and tried again. "I love you," he said. "I can't help it. I can't stop myself. I need you with me. We'll work out the details later, but right now, I just—"

"No," Lizzy said scowling.

"No?" Will repeated slowly, a frown darkening his face as if he'd never heard the word before.

"No," repeated Lizzy. "What did you think? That all you had to do was tell me, and that I'd jump at the chance?" She saw by the sharpness of his scowl that was exactly what he thought. "You're so fucking full of yourself; you're as bad as Collins."

"I would've hoped that I would at least be better than Collins," Will Darcy scoffed.

"You're worse," snapped Lizzy, "barging in here and kissing me without any thought for what I want; Collins at least asked, even if he didn't listen."

"Then I'll ask you," Will said, as if he were humoring her. "Miss Elizabeth Bennet, will you consent to be my—"

"No."

Will stiffened. "No?"

"Absolutely not," said Lizzy, crossing her arms. "Right now, you're the last man on earth that I'd ever—"

"Last man on earth?" Will repeated infuriated. "And what have I done to deserve such a title?"

Lizzy's mouth was a sharp, thin line. "You arrogant shithead, do you really have no idea?"

"No, this arrogant shithead has absolutely no idea," Will said, gritting his teeth.

"Jane, you asshole," snapped Lizzy, and Will's face closed with a carefully composed scowl.

"There's no wrong in what I did for Charlie," Will said shortly "I was kinder to him that I was to myself."

"What do you mean by that?" Lizzy asked icily. "Huh? What the fuck do you mean by that? What I have ever done to make you believe that I was after your money? What did Jane do? She loved Charlie."

"Don't lie," snapped Will.

"She's going to be a doctor," Lizzy reminded him angrily. "She'll make her own money."

"It's a ruse," Will said, "to fool men into believing—"

"Ranking in the top twenty of her med school class is a lot of work to trick someone," Lizzy pointed out savagely.

"She never seemed interested."

"That's means she's very interested, idiot," Lizzy said, "and freaked out by her own attraction."

"She wouldn't sleep with Charlie at the Netherfield party," said Will. "Withholding sexual gratification is a classic technique of women who—"

"They went from first kiss to his bed in like five seconds," interrupted Lizzy. "Jane didn't want Charlie to think she was easy."

"She never said she loved him—"

"Neither did he," Lizzy pointed out.

Will started stuffing his hands into his pockets, found a small zipper on inside of his coat, and pulled out a small photograph of Charlie smiling. He threw it at Lizzy, so she could see the jewel-encrusted crown painted on it and the words Prince Charming scrawled at the bottom. "I found that in your sister's purse that night at Netherfield. Now what woman would carry that with her if she didn't have designs on a man's wealth?"

"That's Charlotte's handwriting," said Lizzy sharply. "This is Charlotte's Christmas present to Jane. She put in Jane's purse. It's a joke, and what the fuck were you doing going through my sister's purse anyhow?"

Will was silent, examining the photo again, his mouth slightly open.

"You coward," hissed Lizzy. "You can't even admit that you've screwed up—that you were wrong."

"What I did," Will said stiffly, "I did through concern for a friend. You would have done the same thing for Charlotte if it were possible."

Lizzy hated that he was right; she hated that he wasn't sorry. She searched her mind for something that Will Darcy had done that couldn't be excused. "At least I've never used my power over people to destroy their opportunities."

Will Darcy sighed angrily. "You'll have to be more explicit than that. I haven't a clue what you're trying to tell me."

"Jack."

Will looked at her sharply. "Wickham?"

"Yes," Lizzy said, smug that he'd already reacted.

"What did he tell you?" he demanded to know, grabbing her shoulders, hard and pinching with a guitarist's strong fingers.

"Ow," said Lizzy automatically, and when Will Darcy didn't loosen his hold, she snapped, "Oww—that means you let go." She wrestled away from his hands and shoved him roughly. "That's what I can't stand about you: you don't listen; you don't hear anything you don't feel like hearing. You're so damn arrogant about everything; you always assume you know better, and even when you know you're wrong, you won't stoop so low to admit it—" Scowling, he turned on his head and started for the door. Lizzy raised her voice and followed him. "You do everything without thinking how others will feel, and then you just justify yourself and your actions and your damn pride—"

At the doorway, he stopped, and Lizzy saw a man—very tall, very pale, very young—with one hand on the doorframe, looking back at her over his shoulder, scowling with an open and vulnerable mouth. Click—there was the first photograph that Lizzy had wanted to take since she got to Rosings.

"This is your opinion of me?" he asked.

"Yes," Lizzy replied very quietly.

He nodded to her abruptly. "Thank you for your time," he said swiftly and strode out the door. It had started to rain. Will stuffed his hands in his pockets and thrust his head into the wind. Watching him go, Lizzy was sorry, and she hated that he'd managed to make her sorry.

So she slammed the door after him and burst into furious tears.

8.

He came back the next morning. Lizzy knew this, because Mr. Collins loud exclamations about it woke her up ("Mr. Darcy! To what do we owe this unexpected yet languorously anticipated pleasure? And before breakfast, too.") and Charlotte knocked on her door softly to tell her that Will Darcy was there to see her. Lizzy rolled over in bed, pressed a pillow to her ear, and hoped that Charlotte would think she was asleep—or at least, pretend to think she was asleep. It must've worked, because Charlotte walked away and Lizzy woke up again two hours later, still not ready to face the day.

She walked downstairs anyway, made herself a balanced breakfast of Life cereal and coffee, and found a note from Charlotte, one with a lot of questions about Will Darcy and a postscript saying that Charlotte and Collins had gone to work on Rosings. Lizzy ate her breakfast and didn't think. Instead, she savored her anger, clutching to it before guilt pushed it away.

There was a knock on the back door. Guessing that Charlotte had come back to check on her again, Lizzy got up and opened it.

"Hey, kiddo," said Fitz, his hands stuffed in the pocket of his green hoodie. "Can I come in?" Lizzy glanced around behind Fitz suspiciously. "Will's not here. His flight home was an hour ago."

Lizzy opened the door wider and let Fitz pass. At least Fitz knocks like a normal person, Lizzy thought irritably.

"Thanks, kiddo," said Fitz, spinning a chair around and sitting on it backwards, legs splayed out.

"Well, if you're going to be here a while, do you want something to drink?" Lizzy said.

"Orange juice?" he asked hopefully.

Lizzy smirked. "All out."

"Just milk then," said Fitz. When Lizzy went to the fridge to pour it, he asked, "Why didn't you tell me Charlie's redhead was your sister?"

"Would you have told me that much if I had?" asked Lizzy, placing Fitz's milk in front of him and returning to her breakfast.

"Maybe," said Fitz.

"Maybe's not good enough," said Lizzy.

"Are you going to tell her?" Fitz asked.

"I almost did," Lizzy said softly, wrapping her hands around her warm mug of coffee. "I almost called her yesterday, but she's just started sounding like her old self. I don't want her to relapse."

Fitz reached into his pocket, pulled out an envelope, unfolded it, and placed it on the table between them. Lizzy saw her full name written on it in small, precise handwriting she didn't want to recognize. "Will came by to deliver this before he left," Fitz said. "Charlotte Collins said that you were still asleep and refused to wake you."

"I wasn't asleep," admitted Lizzy.

"I know," Fitz said. "He's real ripped up about all of this."

Lizzy waited.

"I don't know about Charlie and your sister," said Fitz slowly. "I wasn't there, but little Giana is my cousin. I'd like to know what that shit Wickham said about her and Will."

Lizzy examined Fitz's face; he was as serious as she'd ever seen him.

"What did Wickham say?" Fitz asked again, and Lizzy told him, watching Fitz's scowl darken with every word she said. When she was finished, Fitz was silent for a moment, staring into his milk. He looked up and said, "None of that is true. I'd like to tell you what really happened, but Will's made me swear not to say anything unless he or Giana give me the okay. I want you know though, that Wickham is a liar and an asshole, and I'd like to punch his face in if I ever see him again. Do you believe me?"

"I believe that you believe it," said Lizzy.

Fitz smirked and took a sip of milk. "You'll check it out for yourself," he said, and Lizzy didn't disagree. "Okay, kiddo—here's what I came for, and before you get pissed off, no—Will didn't send me; he'd probably break something if he knew I was here. Here we go." He folded his hands and spoke firmly and clearly as if Lizzy were a small child. "I think you and Will should be together."

Lizzy snorted.

"I've been trying to push you two closer all week," Fitz continued, as if Lizzy hadn't scoffed. "I think you two would be perfect for each other, and Maggie agrees. You see, kiddo—you're the most difficult person I've met in months; it's really no wonder Aunt Catty hates you."

Lizzy grinned in spite of herself. "Thanks. I consider that a compliment."

"Well, wait a minute, kiddo—it's not a good thing," Fitz said, and Lizzy looked at him sharply. "It means that whoever you end up with either has to be really, really good-natured or just as stubborn as you are."

"I'm assuming that you're saying your cousin's that stubborn," said Lizzy drily.

"And you're perfect for Will, because you don't put up with his shit," Fitz went on. "And he already respects your opinion. You don't know him well enough to realize how rare that is."

"And why should I care?" said Lizzy exasperated, putting a spoonful of cereal into her mouth.

"Because Will loves you," Fitz said.

"Does anyone care about how I feel?" snapped Lizzy. "I hate him, okay? I hate him."

"No, you don't," said Fitz quietly. "If you did, you wouldn't be so confused right now."

Lizzy scowled, pushing her cereal around and hating that he was right. "What do you want from me?"

"I want you to read that letter," Fitz said.

"Fine," said Lizzy harshly.

"I'm serious. Don't rip up after I leave," Fitz said.

"I won't," Lizzy said irritably. "I promise."

"Okay, then," Fitz said, downing the rest of his milk in one gulp and standing. "I'll just see myself out."

"Hey, Fitz?" said Lizzy, just as he reached the door; she looked at him and half-smiled. "Congratulations. On the baby."

Fitz smiled, with lots of teeth and a dimple on his cheek. It worried Lizzy that it reminded her of Will Darcy's smile. "Thanks," he said, opening the door. "And Lizzy, I just want you to know that Will can do some stupid shit, but if he's alive and she's alive, everything's still fixable, right?"

Knowing that Fitz was talking about Jane and Charlie, Lizzy shrugged and let herself smile.

"Hey, it worked for me and Maggie," said Fitz, walking out. "Bye, kiddo. Hope to see more of you someday."

"Bye," Lizzy said, but Fitz had already left and closed the door behind him. Lizzy lifted her coffee and stared at Will's letter, trying to gauge how long it would take before her own curiosity made her open it.

She held out seven minutes.

Elizabeth Bennet: Lizzy read.

This is not a love letter; do not misunderstand me again and put this letter aside without reading it to the end. Rather than humiliate myself and annoy you with what we should best put behind us, I merely wish to correct some misconceptions of which you made me aware this afternoon.

Regarding Jack Wickham, he has doubtless told you a horrific life story that is certain to be half-true, at best. This is the truth. For all my other faults, which you so kindly pointed out to me earlier, I have never lied to you, and I am nearly sure that the same cannot be said for Wickham.

Jack Wickham was born to a family who lived on the grounds of Pemberley. I believe his father was once our groundskeeper, but he died when Jack and I were quite small and I do not remember him well. His mother had a modest shop in town, a women's boutique, which supported her and Jack reasonably well. She did, however, have difficulty paying for Jack's schooling, and when she came to my father for a loan, his generous nature made it impossible for him to turn her away. Because of our proximity and our parent's friendship, Jack and I became playmates, sometimes along with my sister Giana, but despite the time we spent together, we were never close.

When I came of age, I was sent to Boston where my mother's family promised to supervise and finance my schooling. Although I wasn't aware of this at the time, my father was nearing bankruptcy; he was unable to pay for my own education. You see, it is quite expensive to maintain an estate as large as Pemberley, and inherited money dwindles through the generations. My father was raised with the notion that it is ungentlemanly to work; if he saw what I do now, his disappointment would be unbearable.

Lizzy rolled her eyes; a rock star's work was so hard.

Here in the states, I attended Ashborough Academy and Boston University with Charlie; I did not return home until my father's death in the spring of my sophomore year at BU. I found Giana had grown into a young lady and my home had fallen into disrepair; I was shocked when the lawyers presented me with my father's accounts. My father and I rarely spoke, you must understand; he had too much pride to admit his financial difficulties, even to his own son. Despite my father's posthumous debts, his will stipulated that the bills for Jack Wickham's education should still be paid; he felt he should still keep up appearances even after death. After a phone conversation to Wickham and his mother, we all agreed that the money should be paid in one lump sum so that the Wickhams could manage it themselves and I would be able to concentrate on my father's other debts.

I returned to Boston University, Wickham to the University of Kent. I was able now to return to England every break, and I used the opportunity to manage Pemberley as best I could. I made mistakes as youth often do. Wickham called me during one of these breaks, and when he explained that his money was depleted and asked for more, I refused and also lost my temper with him.

I believe his next acts were fueled by revenge. After dropping out of his university, he returned to his hometown and focused his attentions on my sister. She is a good girl, and an intelligent one, one who would normally be too clever to fall for Wickham's tricks, but she was lonely. Our mother left us when we were young, and I was sent away and my father died soon after. Pemberley is a large place to be alone in, so it was only natural that she would gravitate toward Wickham's charm. I should have found a way to transfer to a school in England after my father's death, but I thought…It doesn't matter what I thought; you are not reading this for a glimpse into my psyche.

During my senior year at the university, I flew home for one long weekend; I returned to find my sister and Wickham on the sofa in an advanced state of undress. My anger was considerable; blows were exchanged as well as threats. It would have been worse probably if there hadn't been Giana to tend to as well; I suppose I should add that she was just sixteen years old at this time.

Regarding your sister, I know there is nothing I can say to excuse my actions to you. I will only say this: I underestimated Jane's affection for Charlie; I did not believe that his disappearance would hurt her. Indeed, I am very sorry to have caused her any pain.

Lizzy's breath hissed between her teeth, and scowling, she thought that sorry wasn't good enough.

I do not have to inform you of the delicate nature of these affairs; my sister in particular would be compromised if word reached the wrong ears. I must ask you to destroy this letter when you have finished with it and beg you never to speak of this to anyone.

Good-bye, Lizzy.

Fitzwilliam Henry Darcy

Lizzy shouted in outrage, crumpled up the letter, and threw it against the wall. She sat for a moment, furious, hating that he'd apologized and that she couldn't hate him anymore with a clear conscience.

Then, she picked it up and read it again, wishing that she could talk to Jane, wishing that the Collinses had internet so that she could check some of this out, wishing that Will Darcy was still at Rosings so she could march up to him and make him explain himself better.

After the fourth reading, Lizzy turned on the oven's gas burner stovetop and watched the fire eat away at Will Darcy's words. Then she sighed and knew what she had to do.

9.

She got her opportunity the day she returned to Vickroot, when Jane asked Lizzy to pick Lydia up from Caribou so that their roommate didn't have to walk a half-mile to class in the rain.

"Lizzy!" cried Lydia, as soon as Lizzy walked through the door; the younger girl jumped up from her laptop and ran to give her a hug and Lizzy felt guilty for getting so annoyed with her before break.

"Well, well," said Jack, grinning behind the counter. "It's been a while since I've seen you around here, love."

"Aww, did you miss me?" Lizzy teased.

"Always," said Jack.

"Yes," Lydia said, with a pout. "Your dad kept coming around, and Jane and I couldn't do anything to stop him."

"I guess I'll have to talk to him then," said Lizzy smiling. "You ready to go?"

"I have to go to the bathroom," said Lydia with an anxious look.

"Sure," said Lizzy shrugging. "You mind if I check my email on your computer?"

Lydia shook her head, smiling shyly, and running off the back of the room.

"She likes you quite a bit," Jack said, as Lizzy slid into Lydia's chair and pulled up Google. "She talks about you all the bloody time."

"She's a sweet kid," Lizzy admitted, a little embarrassed. She typed Georgiana Darcy into the search engine and clicked go, hoping that Jack wouldn't walk over to her table.

"She says you've were at Rosings," said Jack. "Is that the same Rosings that Catherine de Bourgh owns?"

"Yeah," said Lizzy, wrinkling her nose and looking up at Jack. "Did you know her?"

"Met her at Pemberley once," Jack said grimacing. "God, she was terrible. Almost as bad as Darcy himself."

"He was there too," said Lizzy, scrolling past a flurry of Pemberley websites and coming to St. Helen's School—Awards and Honors. "That was a shock. I was hoping I'd never see him again."

Jack laughed, and Lizzy clicked on the St. Helen's site. "Has he improved any since you saw him last?"

"No, if anything, he's gotten worse," Lizzy said darkly, as she skimmed the webpage. Near the middle, she found Victoria Evans Orchestra Award (Piano)—Georgiana Darcy, Class of 2006. So that would make her what? Eighteen? Maybe nineteen? "You know what was really annoying?"

"What would that be, love?" Jack asked, grinning already—expecting a joke.

"His sister kept calling him with some crisis," Lizzy said, feeling the blood rush to her face and hoping that Jack wouldn't notice. She kept her eyes fixed on the screen. "Like every few hours. I mean, how old is she?"

"Well, I imagine she'd be nearing twenty-two, twenty-three by now?" Jack said thoughtfully. "Quite old enough to handle herself."

Lizzy looked at him, letting her face fall into a scowl. "Is that so?" she said sharply.

"Well, of course," said Jack laughing but sobered quickly when he saw her face. Lizzy would've said something then, something like you lying little shit or if you ever even touch my cousin…, if Lydia hadn't come running out of the bathroom.

"Sorry," she told Lizzy, stuffing her books into her backpack.

"Don't worry about it," Lizzy replied, closing all the windows she'd opened on Lydia's computer and shutting it down.

"Bye, Jack!" Lydia cried, turning around and waving as Lizzy guided her firmly out the door. When they were out of earshot and walking through the mall, Lydia gushed to Lizzy, "He's so hot! Oh, my God—that accent, and yesterday, he wore this really tight shirt and when he took off his apron…" She giggled. "It gives me tingles just thinking about it."

"Lydia, you've never told him that your father's the head of Citragal Corp, have you?" Lizzy asked.

"No," said Lydia, staring up at Lizzy with a confused frown.

"Good," Lizzy said. "Don't."

"Why?" asked Lydia.

Lizzy thought of Darcy's letter and felt sick—for what Jack did to Georgiana Darcy, yeah, but more for how Jack had fooled her. And how she'd thrown it all in Will Darcy's face and been very, very wrong.

"Just don't," said Lizzy sharply, and when Lydia pouted, she added, "Jack's just not a good person to advertise your trust funds to, okay?"

Lydia was quiet for a very long moment. "Okay," she said finally, and Lizzy squeezed Lydia's shoulder with an affectionate but troubled smile, wondering how long it would be until she could tell Jane.

Author's Note: I'm sorry this update took me so long. School's started again, and I'm sick and behind on all my readings—so it's probably going to be a while until my next update too (sorry for that). Anyway, thanks for reading, and thanks to everyone who reviewed.