AN: Thank you for all the feedback. Elizabeth's choices for her actions are explained in Part Three. So hang on.
Please leave your thoughts as a review!
X—x—x—x—x
The Setting Or The Rising Of A Sun.
Part Two
'Some Time'
Two Years Later.
Coincidentally it is the same cabbie as this day two years ago who takes Secret-Keeper Elizabeth, Young-Elizabeth and James across London that morning. Their eyes catch each other's as Elizabeth helps the two children into the back seat. He isn't able to remember Elizabeth's eyes after all. He has fallen into a deeper trap whereas, with the birth of James, Elizabeth's life is now half full. They were headed across town, to one (of a small chain) of bookshops which Elizabeth owns. They all call it the 'capital' – as it was the original shop her father owned before Elizabeth took over and he settled into a comfortable retirement. People always wonder if Elizabeth took over because she wanted to, or because she couldn't displease her father. She had wanted to. It gave her space, time, and a whole lot of distraction.
Things had been harder since James was born (He was a month early, unexpected. Elizabeth had to do it alone. Everyone is left alone) The company had been expanding – they had opened a new shop in Meryton the day he was born. Elizabeth had heard that he was visiting family the next town over. She waited, knowing it was impossible, for him to visit and cradle their child to his chest.
He never came.
Of course not.
As the cab rumbles down the London streets – the light snow licks the windows, and young-Elizabeth (Orphaned for the weekend as her parents lie in the lingering Italian sun) presses her hands against the smeared glass. Years of fast food grease, sweat, and things Elizabeth didn't even want to think of cloud the view. Setting the men in long grey coats and windswept umbrella's in a hazy blur on the pavement. Elizabeth turns her head towards James. He sits quietly as usual – the live-in Elephant in the room of her every conversation. His origins… unknown expect to her. People tend to like him; people tend to like all babies at first. But they always comment on one thing… he's so quiet. He reminds me of… then they can never find the right person. Elizabeth is secretly relieved they can't.
His calmness seems to frustrate other parents – he sits silently and observes, whilst other off-spring scream and exhibit. There's nothing rushed about the gently wavering of his dark brown eyes.
X—x—x—x—x
However warm and inviting the bookshop is in comparison to the snowy streets, it doesn't dim Elizabeth's frustration as she calls up a supplier, and is left dangling on hold for a half hour. At least the music is calming Dvorak: Song To The Moon. She suspects they searched 'calming cello pieces' and it was the first answer to bound back at them. She doesn't mind it, but as the crescendo sends slight chills up her back for the third repeating time, she can't help but think she's been here before. Been in this dead end situation before. Elizabeth watches the customers come and go silently. The shop is warm. The walls are maroon and framed by large dark oak bookcases. There is a leather sofa by the till. Young-Elizabeth is settled into the worn brown sofa, tracing the folds and creases of her book with her fingertips. Her eyes are flickering as she falls into her own world. (A world Elizabeth wishes she could follow her into). She's as tender and sweet as a three- year old can be, her sun streaked ringlets sit on her shoulders and her pale lips fold themselves over words which she whispers to herself like secrets. She's at the holding on age – Jane and Charles are aware of this every time they look at her. She's starting school next September. She'll be starting Junior school after that. Senior School. Sixth form. University. Job. Husband. Children. 50… etc.
Looking at it like that, it all seems to happen in blocks, but it never does. Everything always twists together until even you, you the protagonist, can't disconnect one thing from the next.
Antecedent and Consequent.
James sits resting on a cushion on the floor, he has a profound distaste for chairs; but no one really knows the reason why. Elizabeth wonders if it's a genetic thing. She holds onto that hope, as it gives her son something to connect to his father with. He located a stack of post-it notes fairly quickly, ripping them off and sticking them to the warm leather. He's playing a game with himself; how many post-it notes can he keep stuck up at once. Customers join him occasionally – he doesn't say anything; but Elizabeth can tell by the heavy look in his eye that he thinks they're helping him cheat.
"Excuse me… I was wondering if you could – oh" It's the first time a customer has spoken to her since she's been on hold. Her back is against the till as she gazes idly into the spare room at the rear. She jumps slightly and turns around.
If the earth could stop rotating on its axis then it would have then. Fitzwilliam Darcy.
Fitzwilliam Darcy.
(Don't look at him. Just don't. It will be okay. It will be okay. He'll leave – then it'll be over)
There he stands, his dark coat wrapped around a suit, which Elizabeth can tell is tailored to fit him perfectly. She thinks of his birthmark suddenly; wondering if it's still hers.
"I didn't expect… ever to –" She shoots a quick glance towards the sofa. Her eyes hastily drift back to his, which are wide and brown and the same colour as his hair right now. The warm lights in the shop lighten it through – the locks thick and could never look out of place.
"No, I didn't realise you worked –" He turns his head and gestures around him; Elizabeth watches the light against his hair like lightning. It's been two years, but she still can't forget.
But she still can't possess him.
If only he knew.
"I own"
"Oh… it's good – great in here"
Just as they both feel themselves falling towards each other they are thankfully pulled away.
"Fitzy! Fitzy!" He turns and sees young- Elizabeth wriggle off the sofa, toeing towards him with a wide smile. He bends down and receives her into his arms. He catches movement out of the corner of his eye, and they flicker to James.
Elizabeth wonders how one second can change everything. Most people think a single second is insignificant – it passes and it's gone. Vanished. Forever. It's not like that, she realises. A second is everything. A second can change more than a thousand years can. A second can kill someone, raise someone, ruin an empire, and raise a new one. A second can spark an idea. A single idea that would ferment and change everything.
In that second it completed someone – even if they didn't know it.
Darcy dropped his eyes away and turned back to the girl in his arms. Why would he keep his gaze on the small boy? He didn't mean anything to him, after all.
"Hey, Lizzy. It's been so long. Have you grown? You must have" His voice was the sort of voice you would speak to a child with – it was light and pleasant, but it wasn't patronising. Elizabeth's heart warmed at that.
"I haven't grown. You must have shrunk"
"You may be right. I'm very old" Darcy hears Elizabeth stifle a laugh and he turns to her. His expression quickly drops to one of confusion.
"We had a stock crisis; Charlotte asked if I could come in. My babysitter… her husband was rushed to A&E. I had to bring in Elizabeth and James"
"James?"
"Yes" She nods towards the small boy with the post-it note still on one of his fingers. The small boy who bridges the gap between them. "My son"
"Your – oh. Okay"
Darcy allows himself to be led over to the sofa, closer and closer to the truth, by young- Elizabeth. He bent down, his knees getting slightly marked from the floor, and turned his attention back to the child. He couldn't help it – he had to look. He had to stare him straight in the eye, the thing that was causing his dreams to slowly slip away. Wickham's child. Darcy hadn't even been aware of him – it hurt him in some way.
James sits very still, stiller than Elizabeth has ever seen him sit before. Something rises high in her throat. She regrets showing James pictures of Darcy, she couldn't help it – he at least deserved a father. Even one who must never know. She is terrified, terrified that James will open his mouth and say the one thing that would bring her dimly constructed life crashing downwards.
There's a silence, which even young-Elizabeth can feel as she shuffles, in which the two surviving male Darcy's silently confront each other. The father judging son, not with cold indifference, but an expression that doesn't hold any love. Son gazes up at his father, into the eyes he inherited exactly, with a look which almost makes Elizabeth crack.
Finally Darcy turns away back to young-Elizabeth.
"Now…as your aunt is busy working, would you like to help me chose a book for my sister?"
"Can James come?" Darcy glances at Elizabeth who just nods.
"… Of course" He picks up James in his arms, who folds himself immediately against his neck – Darcy steps away with them to the corner of the shop as the bell rings. He doesn't want, need, this child clinging to him. He doesn't want to think of the way the child is able to fold himself against his chest – the way his forehead sits perfectly into the curve of his neck.
Elizabeth sighs and finally hangs up, she needs to watch this scene unfold, and she needs to know if James speaks up. She can only watch in horror (in awe), never thinking Darcy so handsome, never been so protective over her son.
There's an elderly woman approaching Darcy now, like death creeping up behind someone unexpected; and Elizabeth is left in a suspended silence to watch the last few moments of Life As We Know It (for that is what it is). The realisation of what she is going to ask hits Elizabeth like a train. And there is no way she can dive across the shop in two seconds – so she does all she can do. Stare and wait. Elizabeth knows she is going to ask Darcy if James is his son, she's going to completely rule out young- Elizabeth (because she looks nothing like Darcy and James does on an alarming level), and Darcy is going to say no. No, this child is not my son…yes I am sure, I would know if he was.
She sees him now shaking his head, but she also notices the way his grip against James tightens a little by instinct; Elizabeth locks that image somewhere deep in the back of her mind labelled: 'What Ifs…'. Elizabeth turns away from the scene and leans against the counter for support; because honestly, what else is she supposed to do? Everything she has tried to hide from the blaring white lights of reality (the sterile room of sanity) is now dangerously close to being revealed. As if her body is finally overturning an unwanted wound and working it to the surface of her skin.
She feels sick and relieved – as if the secret is slowly starting to drag her under.
And it is.
It is without Darcy.
"The boy is definitely his son" The old woman is directly behind Elizabeth now. She clutches a book about cooking, or gardening, or knitting; Elizabeth doesn't take it in because she doesn't need to care about that right now. She turns back to serve the woman, who is the type of slightly-bug-eyed-off-the-wall old pensioner who could, quite reasonably, approach you on the street and pull a dead pigeon from her handbag.
Even though she looked slightly inhuman in her insanity and really shouldn't know anything on the matter, Elizabeth feels comforted by her words. As if all this time she had been living a lie, she had taken a susurration of a rumour (and there had been rumours, the most heart gripping one , and ridiculous in their opinion, being that James was a Darcy) from the wind and moulded her story around that. As if until today no one believed her secret. Now someone did.
"I know he is" Elizabeth murmurs as she scans the book and keeps one eye on Darcy who is bent down talking to young-Elizabeth. Secret-Keeper-Elizabeth wonders if he's purposefully trying to break something in her chest, something she is fairly sure is called a heart. If ever there was an epitome of father figure, Darcy would fit the bill. He is engaging himself in conversation with her niece, and listening hard; which Elizabeth knew must be hard because he's watching her gesture, something she only does when it's truly ridiculous, with a frantic flickering in his eyes. James, on the other hand, is taking the opportunity to study the-man-who-he-knows-is-his-father-but-hasn't-realised-yet with a violent interest. His hands are working themselves in Darcy's hair at one side causing it to stick up. Darcy turns to him, entrapping James' eyes with his, with a sad sort of smile and runs his thumb across James' hairline gently until he, in return, stops tormenting his hair.
Elizabeth turns back to the woman when Darcy looks up and catches her eye. She realises later (much later at 1am when she's cried too much) that she must have looked like his eyes had burnt her. And they did.
"Well he doesn't know it" The woman continued accepting a small logo'd bag Elizabeth has slipped the book into and tied it tightly closed in a messy teal bow. She knows the woman is only hanging around to get more information on the drama she has just inadvertently stumbled upon. Elizabeth knows the woman knows this too.
"It's complicated" Was all Elizabeth gave in response until the woman left the shop. Darcy continues to look over at her, both of them aware what damage, what ideas, that woman had sparked off in their minds.
Darcy can't place his finger exactly on how he feels; but after flicking through the back catalogue of emotions he decides its pity. He is James Wickham: Son of a cad. He always will be known by that title, it was inevitable.
Little did Darcy know that in being James Darcy, he had already been raised a little higher in the world.
Darcy pays slowly, after leading the two cousins back to the sofa, shuffling his fingers against the crisp notes in his wallet for longer than necessary. He doesn't want to leave this shop – but he knows he can't bear to stay and face the child again. Something sinks deep down in his chest and he feels like all chances are ruined. He didn't know what he had thought when he saw her here, that Elizabeth would want him? Even after she left him that night two years ago? (Not just alone. Empty) Now, because of that child – all his hopes were ruined. He could never understand how one single human could ruin another with no recollection of ever doing so. Ruin another by simply existing.
"He's handsome" Darcy remarks softly, throwing his eyes towards were James was curling and unfurling his fist around a pillow; his dark locks falling across his pale forehead. Darcy doesn't wait for Elizabeth to answer – he can't bear to listen to what praise of Wickham (His Father) would fall off her tongue. That tongue that had explored him. With one last look of a man losing everything he's gone.
X—x—x—x—x
"Darcy! Darcy wait"
Darcy turns at the call of his name, and sees a man, the very man he never wished to see again stepping towards him. "Oh. Hello, Wickham" He replies, instead of doing what he really wants to do and stabbing him in the leg.
"Is that how you greet an old friend?" Wickham hadn't changed much in two years – perhaps his hair is a little longer, cut in a certain different way. Darcy doesn't see any change in his countenance which speaks father to him.
"Last time I saw you, you had gate crashed my Christmas party"
"Touché" They stand in silence for a few moments, Wickham rubbing his hands together against the cold and stamping his feet softly to keep moving. Darcy knows that Wickham wants him to make the next move, to speak or move on, but Darcy isn't in consequence to pleasure him. "Have coffee with me, there's a place around the corner that does the worst tea"
"I'm headed back to the office" He replies bluntly.
"I called there first; they said you were out for the afternoon. I've been trying to find you"
"What do you need me for?"
"Tea first? Please?" Even Darcy can't avoid the pleading tone in his voice. He nods once and Wickham juts his head in the direction of a side street, silently asking Darcy to follow him. The place is small, but surprisingly nice. They both order and find a table together towards the back. Darcy feels uncomfortable – the woman behind the till looks at them separately with hope, and then again with disappointment as Wickham pays and Darcy glares. He didn't like being mistaken as being friends with Wickham, let alone being in love with him. He supposes it is plausible to the stranger's eye – you could cut the tension between them with a knife.
"I need something from you" Is the first thing Wickham says as they sit down, Darcy rolls his eyes and stares intently at his tea.
"Like you haven't already taken everything else which is rightfully mine" He mutters as he swirls his cup.
"What does that mean?"
"You know what that means"
"Look, if we're talking about your sister again then I –"
"I don't mean that. I meant James"
They fall into silence and Wickham recoils slightly in his seat. He has seen Darcy angry, furious, before – but… never like this. He has never looked so torn before. So open and ragged.
"Darcy… what – I have no idea what you're talking about"
"Just admit it, Wickham. I know. I know you've probably been waiting for me to stumble across your happy little family just for this moment. Just for the moment where you have everything I ever wanted"
"Listen. I honestly don't know what you're talking about. I just need money from you, that's it. Trust me if I had something to use against you, and this sounds pretty big, I would slap you in the face with it so hard you would bleed"
Darcy stands quickly, a familiar pair of dark brown eyes, familiar curve of the eyebrow swimming in front of him. He tugs on his coat and Wickham can only stare indignantly.
"Where are you going? What about the money!"
"Get a loan" Darcy calls behind him as he sweeps out of the shop.
x—x—x—x—x—x
To: Charles Bingley
Message: I need you to get me invited to dine with your in-laws. Don't ask any questions. Just do this for me? – FD
x—x—x—x—x—x
The invitation comes sooner than Darcy expects. It comes the weekend after the dreaded day in the book and coffee shop. Darcy hadn't been able to walk down that road ever since… since that moment. He doesn't feel at all prepared as he stands on the Bennet doorstop with a bottle of expensive red-wine in his hands that he once saw at Elizabeth's and really hopes she enjoys it. It's ridiculous how undone he feels; because he's a Darcy. And Darcy's are always composed. But then again, he doesn't suppose any of his ancestors had to come to terms with something like this. Come to terms with the fact something which is half his, and half the woman's he's been in love with for longer than he cares to remember, has settled into the world for two years.
The door opens suddenly, and he comes face to face with Elizabeth. They stare at each other for a long moment until Darcy hands her the bottle and almost trips over himself when she remarks that it's her favourite.
They both manage to remain calm and civil during dinner, although it is a matter of time before one of them comes undone. They are seated opposite each other at the table and occasionally their feet press heavily; they both know it's the other, as their eyes meet quicker than lightning, Mr. Bennet notices this – he also notices his grandsons eyes in Darcy's face. Although, he noticed that a long time ago.
Darcy is polite and charming during dinner, and Mrs. Bennet falls in love with him a little bit more over the gravy dish between them; but Darcy doesn't notice any of that. He notices the folded pram in the hallway, he notices the half-finished drawings on the side. He knows his son is here.
He discovers that Elizabeth talks about him a lot, and he also discovers that he knows nothing about his son. He is left hanging onto every word that Elizabeth says when she recounts anecdote after anecdote. He feels so out of place. If he was a true father he would be sat beside her, one arm across the back of her chair and throwing in the occasional comment which makes Elizabeth want to laugh and throw her drink over him at once. He wants to be that person, more than anything. He needs to see his son.
x—x—x—x—x
The opportunity comes at 8.30. (As planned before hand with Georgiana) his phone rings at the exact time and he slips out of the room, whispering his apologies and throwing in a joke about work which everyone laughs at. Elizabeth notices that he purposefully shuts the door behind him.
The long creep up the stairs was painful, he kept to the edges – trying to remember which steps make a groan and which didn't. He counts all fourteen steps in his mind and stands at the top of the hallway. The air is cool and unsettling – he feels as if he's about to stir something which has been lying dormant for a long time. He knows which room is Elizabeth's because he's been there before and he treads into it and shuts the door behind him.
It takes a few minutes for Darcy to turn around and face the room. His breath is quick and painful and his heart beating against his throat – it's a feeling that makes him want to run and hide but he can't. He wouldn't be able to live with himself if he did. The room is dark, lit by the moonlit window which is framed by gentle chiffon curtains which pull back to nestle into heavier ones if wanted. The cot is on the right hand side and he can hear the sway of James' breathing before he is close enough to see his curling figure. He drops to his knees, like a man praying before a shrine, and something reflective catches his eyes, he slides his fingers through the bars and drags out a photograph.
It's a photograph of him. Taken the night where it happened. It's worn around the edges and Darcy can tell James has the image imbedded into his memory by now.
Darcy's fingers knocked against James as he pulled the photo out and he begins to stir. Darcy holds his breath and pleads (please please please) with him silently not to cry. He needs more time alone with him, and if someone, anyone, hears him they'll take this moment away from him. Darcy stands up sharply as James rolls over and stares at the darkened stranger in his room, he slowly opens his eyes wider and pulls himself up sleepily.
Nothing concerning sleep passes across James mind as his eyes focus back into the figure. His father stands before him for the second time in the flesh. James has tried, tried so hard, to keep the secret in. He can't do it anymore. Not while his father was alive, smiling and there.
"Dadda?"
"Yes"
End of Part Two