Hello and welcome, loves. I am leaving this first instalment as an, ah, experiment, may you find it to your liking.

Please note that as a French speaker I may use certain words outside of their correct context in English, so please let me know if I do. I welcome all suggestions and enjoy the collabortive prospect of it.

Humbly, LightWright.

Chapter 1

"Can I recommend a delightful story of star-crossed lovers that ends in happy vows?" Caroline dangled a volume with negligent, affected elegance, smiling silkily at Elizabeth. "I cannot recommend it enough."

Elizabeth looked up from a passage on the alleged offense Amadeus Mozart's frizzy pet took against polka dot-clad unsuspecting victims, and met Caroline with an amused smile.

"I do thank you for your recommendation, Miss Bingley, and have no doubt of its quality, but you must forgive me, for I am entirely useless with romances that end in happy vows."

Caroline threw her head back with a rippling laugh.

"Do you hear that, gentlemen?" she fluttered her skirts to the abetting seat, where Mr. Bingley established his hunting plans for the week to a silent Mr. Darcy. "Miss Elizabeth does not care for romances that end in happy vows. Shall we tease her about it?" she turned to Elizabeth,"but before we do, pray tell us your reasons!"

Elizabeth studied her audience. Bingley sported his usual bemused smiled whereas Darcy resumed his reading, all but switching off the conversation.

"Do not let my reading preferences shock you, Miss Bingley, and please do not assume I object to happy endings as a rule."

"And do weddings not qualify as happy endings, Miss Elizabeth?" Caroline widened her eyes with mock surprise.

"A happy beginning, I should presume, if the match is well suited. I should think a romance that conversely begins with matrimony a far more instructive read," Elizabeth smiled. "If you do wish to humor me, I should say that such stories that only deign end in vows not only leave us none the wiser as to how felicity will unfurl after them, devoid of tribulation to feed the hitherto repressed sentiments, but they also bear characters whittled out of this one authorial intent, which I am not disposed to find verisimilar. Everything they do and say serves the purpose of the plot. It would be far more interesting if such characters could rebel against their predestined fate and take over with a will of their own. I should think it a worthy parody and thank the author profusely for it."

"Well!" Miss Bingley said, clearly dumbfounded, "What a peculiar idea!" She scowled over her shoulder at her brother, who blinked back at her with all that was innocuous and tempered. She then shifted her insatiate gaze to Mr. Darcy, who had gone to fetch another book by the mantelpiece.

"What is your opinion, Mr. Darcy?" Miss Bingley asked expectantly, as the bookshelf was within earshot.

"On what?" He was visibly not disposed to look up from his selection.

"On Miss Elizabeth's literary dispositions!"

"As Miss Elizabeth has not asked for my opinion herself, it is not my place to voice it."

"Please," said Elizabeth with intrigued humor, "I will not hold it against you."

"I share your inclination for instructive books." He began, pausing to scan a book cover etched with threads of gold, catching the sifted firelight. "And hold the rest of your remarks in good esteem. The problem with shallow characterization and authorial intent is one I recall discussing with a reputable London publisher. He might like your idea of a parody. Would you like to suggest it to him?"

Elizabeth, barely catching the disbelieving snort from Caroline, felt herself give a faint start of surprise. Whatever she had expected in daring him to speak his opinion, it was not this. He allowed his question to hang in the air unanswered before he turned to look at her.

"You could write to his office."

"I," Elizabeth paused, gathering her dismayed wit, "Are you suggesting I revolutionize fiction with a letter?"

Darcy smiled and returned to his book, lapsing into silence. Elizabeth blinked.

"What do you like to read, Miss Bennet?" Mr. Bingley asked in a warm, hospitable manner, "I can offer you a few recommendations, my library is certainly at your disposal. Poetry, science, the…er….the monuments?"

"Oh, no, do not trouble yourself on my account, you and Miss Bingley have suffered enough details on my tastes in literature. I shall find my pick silently and go back to Jane's room."

"Of course, she must miss your company." Bingley enthused, then looked at Mr. Darcy. "Darcy is still at the bookshelf, I am sure he can help you find something readable, if you will forgive the paucity of books in our newly furnished drawing room."

Elizabeth bowed gratefully to Mr. Bingley and walked to the bookshelf where she put back her biography and began searching for something with an edge; something pleasanter than the accidental entertainment she had derived from the vicissitudes of a pet's life. The idea of a ridiculous French play attracted her. She would read it to Jane in her surly old man voice and elicit a mildly remonstrative fit of laughter. The prospect pleased her enormously, as she now felt a deep protectiveness over Jane at Netherfield that she had never had cause to feel before.

"May I be of assistance?" Darcy asked a couple of feet away.

"I was looking for Molière."

"Le Bourgeois Gentilhomme?"

"Indeed! How do you—"

"You've established your taste for parody. Here," he extended the book toward her. When she reached for it and murmured her thanks, he picked up his own book and, bowing quickly, retired to his sleeping quarters for the night.

Elizabeth luxuriated in the garden with unpretentious victuals and early morning hours she wished she could sprawl onto a long walk; preferably back to Longbourn, with a recovered Jane under her arm. She had declined an invitation to accompany the Bingley siblings and Mr. Hurst on a stroll around the estate, though she thought, not without good mirth, that only Mr. Bingley had been sorry for it. Instead, she planned to coincide with the daylight under the shade of a potbellied oak for an hour and go back to Jane before she had woken up. She rested her head against the trunk, enjoying a sudden breeze.

That instant, Darcy came crossing the garden with a dark hound; back from the solitary ride she had suspected upon hearing a horse neigh at daybreak. He settled at a garden table by the rosarium and doffed his riding gloves. The hound reclined at his feet, looking up drowsily until it had drawn its master's attention, received a few words Elizabeth couldn't hear, and drifted to sleep contentedly.

Elizabeth sat up straight, peering behind her teacup. Her disguise had been poor, however, and Darcy spotted her the next moment. He performed a quick, solemn bow, and showed no intention of moving in her direction. She acknowledged him back and forged on with her drink until, when her eyes shifted back to the rosarium, she found neither man nor hound ensconced there.

The shrill laughter of Miss Bingley punctured a strange idea, so Elizabeth hastened back inside and clambered to her sister's room.