Disclaimer: Not mine, don't own, etc.

Summary: See Previous Chapters.

Review Response to Guest: Replying here, since I couldn't do so via PM. While I respect your extremely passionate opinion, please tone it down. I was not "Dumping on Bingley", as you put it, but as a woman in the Regency Period, where marriage meant that your husband gained control of your money, any property, and you, and divorce was not only nearly impossible, but carried immense social stigma, Jane HAS to think about these things. She likes Bingley very well, but as Charlotte points out, they don't know each other on any particularly deep level, and while that isn't a pre-requisite for marriage, it should be.

Chapter Seven

It was not that Colonel Fitzwilliam had intended to ignore his cousin's increasingly-urgent summons.

In other circumstances, he might have dallied a little, especially when it became plain that a good deal of Darcy's concern was due to him being a well-documented disaster when it came to women he was actually attracted to. Fitzwilliam had always found it a source of entertainment; Darcy could be the most confident and eloquent man in the world in the presence of those he deemed 'mercenary social-climbers', no matter how beautiful they were, but he became taciturn and quietly panicked around women he admired. Sometimes he managed a battle of wits with them, but it was a rare woman who did not immediately retreat from the field when she perceived herself insulted by a social superior, and those few that remained failed to see the flirting for what it was.

Fitzwilliam was very used to his cousin's social fumbling, and as a result, quite practiced in smoothing ruffled feathers, while getting in a jab or two at the same time. Unfortunately, he currently had greater concerns demanding his time and attention.

Wickham, for instance.

At least his cousins had finally agreed that the scum should be dealt with permanently, whether by having him charged for his crimes and shipping him off to Australia or in… a more permanent fashion. Fitzwilliam was a soldier, and knew which option he preferred. Darcy and Georgiana still clung to the request of a beloved father and childhood memories… or they had, until Ramsgate.

Wickham had written to Georgiana as her childhood playmate, begging another chance to prove himself worthy of the regard Uncle Darcy had once held him in. Georgiana had not been so innocent as to believe him without question… not after the three of them had fought a poltergeist in the old Wickham cottage, the result of the wretch's stewing resentment and greed and malice. Not after proof that Wickham had spent his bequest stirring up supernatural trouble all over England, as well as wracking up debts in the Darcy name.

(Darcy was always furious whenever yet another merchant or angry father turned up at his door with a bill, but was too honourable to let them suffer for the sake of trusting a practiced liar.)

They had meant to lure Wickham into a trap, but they had reckoned without the betrayal of Mrs Younge. She'd come highly recommended, and all of her references swore blind that they had no idea of her acquaintance with Wickham. They could not have; no well-born family would hire a companion who associated with such a man, especially unmarried. Still, there was nothing to be done for it now, except hope that Mrs Annesley did a better job of helping Georgiana recover.

Speaking of whom...

Soft, unsteady footsteps sounded in the corridor outside his study, followed by a quiet knock. "Come in Georgie."

Georgiana entered, still limping noticeably, but the bruises had faded and most of her injuries were healed. "Have you heard from Fitzwilliam, cousin?"

He handed her the latest letter, and watched carefully as she crossed the room to the fainting couch and sat down to read, relaxing at the sound of her soft, musical giggles. "Oh, my poor brother! He really is hopeless, isn't he?"

She had defended herself admirably against Wickham, along with neatly thwarting his plans to harness the energy of a recent shipwreck, doubtless to no good end, but Georgiana had still been a girl of thirteen, against a grown man used to bar brawls, and the resulting injuries had left her in low spirits. It was good to see her recovering.

The Colonel tried not to smirk too obviously as Georgiana returned the letter. "I did not say so, but I suppose Darcy must have some flaws."

His young cousin smiled at the prevarication and re-settled herself. "How goes the hunt for Wickham?"

Jasper started, too surprised at her directness to deny the question. "How did you -?"

Georgiana fixed him with a stern stare that she must had copied from Darcy. "You are not the only one with sources of information, dear cousin."

How did she make that sound like a threat? Jasper tried to school his face to calmness as she continued, "Not knowing will distress me more than hearing his name spoken."

She would be the best judge of her own recovery, he would admit. Darcy could be upset with him later. "Slowly, I fear. We have tracked him to having joined up with the Militia, and now must narrow down which regiment. I've sent letters to my fellow officers, but it will take time to hear back."

Georgiana nodded slowly. "Thank you for telling me."

Taking two steps across the room, Colonel Fitzwilliam pulled her into a hug. "Either you are our third and we trust you to know your limits, or you are a child to be sheltered. We cannot have it both ways."

Darcy regretted ever mentioning his admiration for Miss Elizabeth in Miss Bingley's hearing. Now, he was put in the awkward position of listening to her disparage the lady at every opportunity. At least when she was not in the room, having retired back upstairs after dinner to tend to Miss Bennet "-and her petticoats not doing their office!"

Darcy would rather not think of Miss Elizabeth's petticoats. That was a dangerous line of thinking. Such thoughts led to dwelling on how well the dark red of her bonnet complimented her flushed cheeks, and... other things.

Oh, yes, Miss Bingley and Mrs Hurst were awaiting an answer. Thankfully, Bingley was an old hat at stepping in when Darcy was distracted or otherwise unwilling to converse. "While your picture may be very exact, Louisa, this was all lost upon me. I thought Miss Elizabeth looked remarkably well when she arrived this morning. Her petticoat quite escaped my notice."

Darcy had seen that quietly reproving tone halt an impending brawl at University, the culprits shaking hands and slinking away to seperate tables. But, much like Georgiana was immune to Darcy's glares, Bingley's sisters allowed his tone less impact than a light morning mist. "You observed it, I am sure, Mr Darcy! I am inclined to think that you would not wish your sister to make such an exhibition."

Perhaps if he answered, the conversation could end? "The park at Pemberley is three miles around, and I should never forbid Georgiana from walking it, but if she were going to Lambton or a neighbouring estate, I hope she would take a carriage."

Miss Bingley paused, perhaps discarding several more remarks about the distance, so as not to appear to criticise his estate. Unfortunately, she still had many things to say about Miss Elizabeth. "And alone, quite alone! What could she mean by it? It shows a very abominable sort of conceited independence, a most country town indifference to decorum."

Darcy was happier in the country than the town, and while Darcy could afford extra horses for riding and the carriage, who mostly earned their keep through stud fees, most estates needed every horse they had on the farm, particularly at Harvest time.

Of course, explaining as such would be a waste of time, and probably only encourage Miss Bingley to further criticism. At least Bingley understood, even if only from their brief weeks of riding the estate together, and he frowned at the two women. "It shows an affection for her sister that is very pleasing."

Miss Bingley huffed, but would not quit the field without one parting shot, "I am afraid, Mr Darcy, that the display may have quite ruined your enjoyment of her fine eyes."

Oh, enough! The last thing he wanted was Bingley realising his struggle and attempting to help. "Not at all, they were brightened by the exercise. Bingley, Hurst, do you fancy a game of billiards?"

The men withdrew from the ladies' company, and Darcy sighed in relief at the respite. Georgiana had spoiled him, she was always careful toward the comfort of those she conversed with, while Miss Bingley cared only that she carried her (often misinformed or spiteful) point.

Briefly, Darcy wondered how Longborn was managing without it's two most sensible occupants.

Meanwhile, at Longborn, Mama had gone upstairs after a long day of gossiping with Lady Lucas about what prodigous good care Jane was surely recieving at Netherfield. Pray that the quietly-fuming lady didn't think to try a similar tactic with Maria! Charlotte, at least, was safe, even Lady Lucas had all but given up trying to marry off her eldest daughter, and appeared to be angling toward the idea that Jane would make a fine companion for whichever of the Bennet sisters married first.

Papa had retreated into his bookroom shortly after lunch to escape the same, leaving the three girls still at home to their own devices.

Their own devices, after Lizzy had sent home a note requesting some changes of clothes for both sisters (there had been a brief squabble over whether or not to include a dinner dress, which Lydia won on the basis of the trunk having more than enough room to fit them in) and very little else in the way of useful information, had turned to the topic of scrying spells.

Now, Lydia and Kitty were crowded into Mary's room, Lydia setting up an assortment of purloined items according to Mary's precise instructions, while Kitty used her best drawing charcoal to copy sigils onto the floor. Chalk would have been preferable, according to the text, but Mama had kept that under lock and key, reserved for balls, ever since her daughters had outgrown the tendency to draw on the walls. Charcoal, purified by fire, was the nearest available substitute that wouldn't require awkward questions.

Cook had nearly caught Lydia when she snuck downstairs into the storeroom for dried herbs. It had been a close thing; Lydia hadn't thought herself still capable of folding herself into the space between wall and shelf, and she was sure that there was a cobweb in her hair! Carefully stepping back out of the drawing, Lydia reached into her reticule, swapping hairpins for a comb, running it through her hair before twisting her hair back up into a simple bun, the only hairstyle she knew how to do herself.

Finally, Mary sighed and opened her eyes. "It wasn't very clear..."

Kitty frowned, tossing her head. "But it worked when we looked in on the Brown girls earlier!"

Lydia had even walked to the Brown cottage to confirm that the youngest girl, who had been suffering a cold, was indeed getting better! Mary frowned at them both. "Before, we were not trying to spy on Netherfield! It was like walking to the hermitage at night without a lantern, or seeing the bottom of the brook during the rain. You can make out general details, but a clear picture is out of the question."

An argument would help nothing. "Well, then what did you see?"

Mary softened her posture, a little. "Jane is genuinely unwell. Elizabeth is concerned for her, and currently engaged in a battle of wits with Mr Darcy."

Lydia blinked; had the man not declared Lizzy only barely tolerable not a month ago? Of course, not everyone experienced Lizzy's verbal sparring in the same way. Lydia and Kitty exchanged glances, before Kitty asked delicately, "Did he see it that way?"

Mary shrugged, probably not caring whether Mr Darcy was enjoying himself or being verbally flayed alive. Although, the one did not necessarily preclude the other, if some of the novels from the lending library were anything to go by. "Miss Bingley is feeling some frustration at the focus of Mr Darcy's attention, and someone or something is watching our sisters. Beyond that, all is shadow."

Lydia sighed. "Well, there is no help for it. If we do not hear further by tomorrow, we will persuade Mama to visit."

Hopefully, Mr Bingley liked Jane enough that being subjected to Mama directly did not send him running for the hills.

...If scrying showed things as they happened, did that mean that Lizzy was still crossing metaphorical swords with Mr Darcy or Miss Bingley, or possibly both? Lydia glanced thoughtfully at the set-up, the copper wash-basin of clear water still sitting inside the sketched symbols. Beside her, Kitty eyed it with a similar speculative glance.

Mary sighed dramatically. "Well, as long as we have it set up... I will sleep in Jane and Lizzy's room, as neither of them are using it, and you will be sure to clean up after yourselves before you sleep!"

Gleefully, they rushed to the basin, moving just slow enough to ensure that they did not smudge anything.

Perhaps Netherfield was enjoying the show, too, or at least seeking a weakness, because the image that formed was not as unclear as Mary's attempts to see Jane. "I am no longer surprised at your knowing only six accomplished women; I rather wonder at you knowing any!"

"Are you so severe upon your own sex as to doubt the possibility of all this?"

Lizzy hadn't fallen into such an obvious trap since before Lydia could remember. "I never saw such a woman. I never saw such capacity, and taste, and application, and elegence as you describe united."

Mrs Hurst and Miss Bingley cried out against such an unjust claim, and exasperation flashed across Mr Darcy's face. Elizabeth rose, collecting a book from the couch. "I challenge you this, then: An accomplished woman should be able to run her home, care for those within its walls, as well as appearing to her best advantage and improving her mind. Where is she to find time to learn and master all those arts and graces as well?"

Mr Darcy opened his mouth, paused, and closed it again. Lizzy smiled in triumph, walking toward the door, likely to return upstairs to Jane. "Accomplishments must be generally applied, or the state would be entirely out of reach."

Lydia had to clutch the stand to keep herself upright, and she didn't dare look at Kitty, for fear that she would never stop laughing if their eyes met. It took several moments to catch their breath and return to the meditative calm state of mind needed for scrying, by which point Miss Bingley had rallied herself. "Miss Elizabeth Bennet is one of those young ladies who seeks to recommend herself to the opposite sex by undervaluing her own."

"Oh, quite so, Caroline," cried Mrs Hurst, apparently also needled by Lizzy's statements, "I daresay with many men, she might succeed. But in my opinion, it is a paltry device, a very mean art."

"Undoubtedly," observed Mr Darcy, who was both the clear addressee of this mark, and obviously losing patience, "there is a meanness to all the arts which ladies sometimes condescend to employ for captivation. Whatever bears affinity to cunning is despicable."

Footsteps sounded in the hallway, and both sisters jumped, feet accidentally scuffing the markings on the floor. The herbs, which had been lightly smouldering, flared and fell to ashes, and the images in the water faded. Lydia sighed, but if they were to persuade Mama that she need not connive to have Jane stay at Netherfield a fortnight complete, they would need to be well-rested.

Lydia began to haul the basin back to the wash-stand. Mary's room had been Great-Aunt Celia's, until the old Maiden Aunt had died, and the wash stand was a fixture not only of a bygone era. Made of wrought iron and attached firmly to jointure of two walls, it would have been counterproductive towards any spells, even if it had not been entirely unwieldy.

By the time the basin was back in it's usual setting, and the tripod that supported it back in the opposite corner, Kitty had found the ash pan and brush that the maids used to clean the fireplace of a morning, and swept up the floor. Kitty looked at Mary's empty bed. "Should we see if Mary is still awake?"

They had not been so very long at cleaning, but Mary was much like a sleeping bear when woken abruptly. Besides, soft snores could be heard through the walls, if one listened closely. Lydia shook her head. "No, let her sleep. Mary rises with the dawn, and can sneak back into her own room before the maids wake us."

Would it be lonely, sleeping alone? Lydia had never spent a single night without one of her sisters with her, even during that dreadful month when Kitty had coughed so hard she bent double, and Mr Jones had required that she be kept seperate from the rest of the family, for their own health. Lydia had cried herself to sleep in those weeks, fearful of losing her sister and best friend, and her other sisters had taken turns soothing Lydia to sleep during that time, and thus their own worries about Kitty.

Pulling up the counterpane of their own bed, Lydia snuggled up to Kitty's back, and did not yelp at the familiar chill of Kitty's feet warming themselves against Lydia's calves.

Surrounded by the warmth of home and family, Lydia fell quickly into slumber.

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A/N: Typing or writing while on a bus to and from work is harder than it looks, and it's way too easy for a speed bump to make you accidentally highlight and delete / scrawl over an entire page.

Yes, that is an unusually specific example. So was the idiot drowning themselves in enough body spray that I nearly threw up my breakfast when they decided that on a nearly-empty bus, only the seat right in front of me would do.

PSA: Public transport is public, Try not to be the person everyone else complains about as soon as they get off.