Longbourn
Hertfordshire, England
Elizabeth sat, packed tightly into the family carriage, between her younger sister Mary and Jane, the eldest. Across from her, her mother and her smugly smiling youngest sister were lounging in relaxed repose. She bit her cheek to keep from snapping at Lydia. The urge to say something (or perhaps direct her eldest sister to throw something) that would wipe the self satisfied grin from her face was strong.
Too strong.
She looked out the window to avoid the temptation, only to be drawn further into emotional turmoil by glimpsing her family home, slowly becoming smaller as they left it behind. Her mouth formed into a slight frown at the sight.
She had been excited to come back. Excited to see her beloved family, and especially excited to visit with her father. But her excitement at being home had diminished the minute she stepped across the foyer. The immediate feeling of being a stranger (even a slightly unwelcome one) within her childhood home had come as a shock. More odd than painful, it made her unable to relax, unable to entirely unwind. And after the carriage incident and her incessant worrying over the Duke, the inability to feel comfortable, even amongst her own family, was draining her dry.
It was her father who had actually hurt her, though.
He had yet to say anything to her. At all. He left his bookroom only once since she had arrived the day before. At breakfast that morning he had walked into the room, hair unkempt, dark circles under his eyes, his empty left sleeve pinned haphazardly to his shoulder, and offered her a polite nod. The same sort of gesture offered to strangers and, maybe, acquaintances with whom one had no desire to speak.
Now, regardless of the fact that all the furniture was the same, down to the table she hid under as a child. Regardless of her ability to recall, in perfect detail, the grain of the wood under her little hands as she squeezed the table leg tight and giggled waiting for Jane to find her. Regardless of the fact that everything was the exact same as it always had been, she was different.
She was a stranger.
The carriage came to a stop in front of the assembly hall, pulling Elizabeth from her bleak thoughts.
"Oh, Lydia." Her mother sighed happily. "How radiant you look." Her youngest sister preened and smiled to her three elders, before reaching into her dress and pulling her already ample cleavage as high as it would go. Her mother nodded to her in approval and pulled her sleeves down farther as well. "You are sure to find a husband in that dress, don't you think so Jane?"
Jane's smile was flat but at least she managed to put one on. Elizabeth wasn't certain she could have conjured any facial expression besides open mouthed gawking. Her sister was very nearly entirely bare up top.
"Do you not think a tucker would do nicely, Mama?" It was Mary who managed a statement first.
"Oh, don't be such a bore, Mary." Lydia tilted her chin primly and puffed out her chest.
"Mary." Her mother chided. "Lydia looks perfect the way she is. I daresay she's the only one of you able to save me from the hedgerows." She looked lovingly at her youngest before shooting a glare to her three other daughters across from her.
The three sisters sharing a bench shared an eyeroll.
"Mama, Kitty has already married very well, I doubt-" Jane was cut off when the footman opened the door and Lydia lunged for it, shoving their mother out of the way and into Elizabeth's lap.
"Lydia!" Her mother whined before using Mary's shoulder to push herself upright, muttering something about a 'lively girl' before throwing herself at the door and exiting in a huff.
The three Bennets left in the carriage stared at one another.
Mary leaned over and squeezed Elizabeth's hand. "They have only gotten worse, Lizzie, but it is good to have you back." She smiled at her, a sweet truly loving smile, and Elizabeth felt her heart soar.
She needed that.
She took a deep breath before looking up at the facade of the Assembly hall, looking far more imposing and far more grand in the torchlight than she remembered in the light, and she smiled.
Whether forced or voluntary, shallow or soul-deep, everything could be different given the right light.
She would just need to find hers.
/
Darcy was staring down a squat man clearly wavering in his resolve to approach. Every time the poor man would move closer to him he would narrow his eyes, training his intense gaze at him and the little fellow would stop cold, eyes wide and wandering as he obviously internally debated his chances of survival. Darcy was beginning to question why the man insisted in continuing with this pantomime but it was the best distraction he had found all evening. And he was currently in need of one.
Finding out that the man involved in the carriage "accident" was staying at Netherfield, and if he read Bingley correctly, more than likely indefinitely, and that the man in question was a French duke was more than he had any desire to keep to himself. He had attempted to tell his friend that the man may not be all he seemed but he was unsure as to what to do otherwise. Should he tell him they suspect he's a murderer? Even without proof? His Grace was not a man to waver in his decisions and his current predicament was excruciating.
He needed to speak to Elizabeth. He needed to warn his friend he was housing a murderer. He needed to find Wickham so he could find his father.
But, right now, the only thing he needed was to make sure Miss Elizabeth was still safe.
Also, he missed looking at her.
"Cousin, you are blocking that poor little fellow from the refreshment table." Richard had sidled up next to him, looking entirely nonchalant for all the fuss he caused earlier when he stormed into Darcy's room in a huff over tying a cravat.
Darcy looked to the little man, shaking slightly, probably in thirst, and moved to the side. The man rushed the table, grabbed a glass, downed its contents and took up a second before walking very quickly, very far from the two men watching him.
"What an odd fellow." Darcy commented dryly.
"The only oddity here, Mr. Darcy, is your coat. Good God, man, are you even trying to blend in?" Richard reached back to get a glass of punch, bringing the glass to his lips slowly, warily, as though he somehow already knew it was going to be bad. He spit the punch back into his glass with a sour face. He looked back to the table, a servant manning the refreshments shrugged but didn't make eye contact. "They're deliberately poisoning us." He muttered.
"What is wrong with this coat?" Darcy looked down at his deep blue coat, offended for the article of clothing.
"You look like a fop."
"These are cloth buttons you imbecile."
Richard shrugged. "Fop."
"Gentlemen! You've tried the punch!" A rotund, jolly man had somehow surreptitiously snuck up on the two while they bickered. Richard nearly choked and Darcy spun on his heel to face the interloper.
"Yes." Richard sputtered before coughing.
"It is my wife's recipe, you know." The red cheeked man held up his hand. "I can not divulge the recipe, do not ask me to."
"We wouldn't dream of it." Darcy deadpanned.
"Allow me to introduce myself, gentlemen. I am Sir William Lucas." He bowed rather nimbly and with an incredible flourish. "I am the host for this evenings festivities." He smiled proudly and expectantly to the men.
"Richard Fitzwilliam, at your service." Richard bowed.
"Fitzwilliam Darcy." Darcy inclined his head regally before realizing himself and bowing.
"Capital! I hear tell you gentlemen are in trade? I myself was in trade before being knighted by His Majesty." He chuckled to himself as though he had shared a joke. "What is it you do?"
"We are in trade. The both of us." He motioned between he and Darcy and nodded seriously. . "Tradesmen."
Darcy nodded as well. "Yes. Tradesmen." He spoke slowly as though explaining something basic to a small child.
"Ahhh, men of mystery, I see. Capital!" He touched the side of his nose with a conspiratorial wink. "My primary was tea, I ran my ships out of India but I dare say I took whatever else I could." He chuckled again, his belly rising and falling with the movement.
"Indeed." Darcy stated blankly.
Richard shot him a warning look before smiling to Sir William. "The buying and selling of goods is our specialty, isn't it cousin?" He nudged Darcy in the arm ever so slightly.
"He's not very good at it." Darcy inclined his head towards his cousin and shook his head in mock sadness.
Sir William guffawed loudly and happily before noticing something at the entrance.
"I am very good at it. The... best...even." Richard answered, distractedly and suspiciously wistfully. Darcy didn't bother turning to look at him, he simply looked in the direction his cousin was ogling and was not disappointed to see Miss Bennet. His not being disappointed was followed very quickly with his becoming heavily disappointed not to see Miss Elizabeth near her.
Or anywhere, for that matter.
Instead, standing menacingly in the entryway was St. Orange. The murderer. He had only seen the Duke briefly at Netherfield as the man had stayed well confined to his rooms but he saw the calculating look in his eyes as he scanned the room.
He spun on his heels, searching frantically for a mess of curls or large brown eyes or even a small glimpse of her too sharp chin.
Nothing.
His breathing started to become labored and his chest heaved as his mind immediately went to the multitude of horrific scenarios which would keep his Elizabeth from him.
He stumbled forward, in the opposite direction his cousin and the jovial gentleman seemed to be facing but his sight was narrowing and blurring around the edges so much that he wasn't actually sure.
Where is she?!
If that man did anything to her he would burn the world and then kill him slowly.
He pushed through a crowd of people, unseeing, before something grabbed his coat sleeve and led him to the side of the ballroom and around a tall urn holding a bedraggled, but luckily also tall, fern.
"What are you doing?!" He knew that exasperated whisper. "Oh, no. Breathe, Your Grace, breathe, everything will be fine." Her calm, gentle tone made him want to fake illness so she could tend him.
He blinked to clear his vision and looked down into the chocolate depths of his Elizabeth's too large eyes. His breathing began to slow as air seemed to flow more smooth when she was around. He smiled wide, not missing her sharp intake of breath.
"Good evening, Miss Elizabeth." He was still breathless so the words came out clipped. "I've missed you." The very true statement was out before he could hold it back but he didn't care at the moment.
She, however, did not seem to notice. She was now scanning their surroundings, but, and he took great comfort in this, also still holding his coat sleeve.
Small triumphs.
She finally looked up at him and flashed a small smile. "You are far too charming, Mr. Darcy."
"Only with you."
"Do you see the balcony over there?" She ignored him and indicated a direction with her head but a few stray curls had come loose and Darcy was unable to focus on her words.
She let out an annoyed sound before demanding he follow her.
He kept the scent of lavender in his nose, wondering how it was he hadn't noticed before she wore his favorite scent, as he followed her blindly through the crowd. She stopped before a set of large double doors and looked at the set expectantly. He stared at her, grinning brightly, before she widened her eyes and looked again towards the doors.
Ah.
He chuckled to himself and turned in a smooth motion to the doors, the cool night air sobering him from his drunken giddiness at having her near.
"What were you-" Elizabeth was back to furiously whispering but, behind her he could see the French Duke obviously searching the room.
He grabbed her hand and pulled her close, further into the shadowed side of the balcony, cutting off her protest with a gentle hush, just as the Frenchman peeked his head outside. He turned his head side to side as though searching but was forced back inside by loud exclamations and clamoring for introductions.
Darcy smiled. The hunter was also being hunted. He had never been so happy to be pretending to be someone else.
Just inside from their position they could hear the loud, excited exclamations over the unexpected arrival of a French nobleman.
"Oh, my Lydia! Oh, my dear! Come here, quickly, yes yes. Where are your sisters?" There was a murmured response Darcy was unable to hear. "No matter. Puff up your chest, girl, it's your greatest asset. Yes. There. Now, smile. Shoulders back. Farther. Good... Do not disappoint me, Lydia." The last was said with so much threat Darcy cringed. He could see Elizabeth tense and he assumed she was as appalled as he was.
"That was a disgusting display." He whispered, trying to commiserate.
He was quite sure he saw her eyes shine with unshed tears.
"That was my mother." She whispered, nearly directly into his chest.
If he thought she would accept it, he would have pulled her back to him and assured her it was fine, that we weren't defined by our parents or somesuch.
Instead he patted her shoulder stoically.
"How… horrible, Miss Elizabeth."
Her face fell further and he cursed himself.
He had no idea what he was doing but he could tell he wasn't doing it well.
/
Mortified.
Positively, inexpressibly, mortified.
She would have been mortified even if His Grace had not overheard the conversation. She had, for so long, assumed the relationship between her mother and her youngest sister to be harmonious. They certainly seemed to be of one mind when it came to most things. But hearing the way her mother treated Lydia had been shocking in its incongruity with her perceptions.
Elizabeth shook her head and tried for a smile. There was no point in allowing the Duke to see her upset.
"We need to speak, I believe, but I am not sure now is the best time." As though on queue, someone exited the ballroom and made to move onto the balcony only to be pulled back in by a giggling lady. Elizabeth cringed and sent a silent prayer that it was not one of her family members. She could only deal with so much embarrassment at any given moment.
"Let us attempt a public introduction, Your Grace, as far as anyone else is concerned we are strangers. Then we may move on to finding ways to plan… And finding Mr. Wickham." She turned quickly, very ready to quit the balcony as soon as possible but he held her back.
"Miss Elizabeth, the passenger of the carriage we found is French." Her eyes widened in shock. "Not only French but apparently a Duke...And he is staying at Netherfield." Elizabeth's face drained of color and her mouth hung open.
She had a terrible suspicion of who this man might be and it frightened her.
Her fright must have manifested itself rather apparently as the Duke clutched her hand tighter.
"Who is he?" His voice was gruff and commanding. Angry, almost.
She looked up into his shadow covered face and had the overwhelming desire to cling to him and hide, if only to feel secure for a moment.
She swallowed hard, trying to find her calm so she could speak without a quavering voice.
"I don't know for certain." She licked lips that had gone dry in an instant. "But, he may be who I have been gathering information... from."
She looked away, her mind turning over everything she had learned, only to have a gentle hand nudge her chin to bring her, once again, face to face with His Grace. He looked at her for a long moment, worry apparent in his features.
"I am here. Let me help you." Those whispered words were the sweetest things she had ever heard. She smiled, truly smiled, even amidst the danger.
"Thank you, Your Grace."
He cleared his throat. "Mr. Darcy."
She giggled, the strain of the moment making her giddy. "Yes, Mr. Darcy. Thank you." She squeezed the hand she still held. "Now. Let us go procure an introduction and find your Mr. Wickham and steer clear of the Frenchman."
He quirked an eyebrow high. "Is that all, Miss Elizabeth? I daresay we will be done by the third set."
/
Miss Mary Lavinia Bennet tried her very best to blend seamlessly into the large fern occupying the space next to her. If the fern hadn't been half dead she might have succeeded in her task, so fervent was her effort.
She tried to recite some of her favorite lines from Fordyce but was unable to bring them forth with any great ease. Were she truthful, she would admit that she had all but given up hope for finding her way through the world being led by the reverend's words. Like most everyone she had venerated, they failed when she needed them the most.
The feeling of being directionless, of having no one and nothing with which to show her the way through life, felt akin to stumbling through a room floored with pins and needles and having everyone around her laugh when she inevitably fell.
Every attempt she had ever made to be what she assumed everyone wanted her to be had failed, usually spectacularly. She eyed the pianoforte in the corner of the room and cringed.
She just wanted someone, anyone, to tell her what to do and let her make them proud. Give her the chance to succeed. She wanted that more than anything in the world but all her previous tries had either ended in ridicule or sneers.
It made her want to hide by ferns.
It made her feel small and meaningless and forgotten and that was in the best of times.
It made her want to scream for someone to tell her what the bloody hell she was expected to do with her life.
She blushed at the mental curse, feeling a small, guilty, rush of excitement at uttering a foul word in her mind.
"What has you blushing, Mary?" Jane had finished her dance with Mr. Fitzwilliam and the two made their way to her hiding spot. Had she not just uttered such language she would have cursed the ferns inability to stay alive when she needed it the most.
"Ah, nothing Jane." She smiled, what she hoped was an innocent smile and definitely not the smile of a woman tainted by the use of bad words.
"Miss Mary" Mr. Fitzwilliam bowed to her and looked as though he might ask her something before he was cut off.
"Richard!" A handsome man with fiery red hair and an easy smile patted him on the back. "You and Mon-" He cleared his throat lightly "er, Darcy, were smart to have left early, we only just arrived, missed the first set, I see." He smiled wide at Jane who answered with a demure nod. "Introduce me, old man."
Mary watched as Mr. Fitzwilliam's jaw muscles undulated briefly. "Of course, Bingley. Allow me to introduce Miss Bennet and Miss Mary Bennet. Ladies, this is Mr. Charles Bingley." Bows and curtsies were exchanged. Though Mr. Bingley had spared her a short glance, he had yet to take his eyes from Jane. Mary completely understood, Jane was the most beautiful woman to grace most the rooms she entered. Though the girls shared the same cornflower blue eyes, Mary's stature was shorter and fuller. She had large breasts, she tried desperately to hide and wide hips she tried desperately to counter with baggy dresses. In short, she looked very much like a potato at the moment.
"Miss Bennet, would you have the next set free?" Mr. Bingley smiled wide, looking ever so slightly dazed.
Before Jane could respond, Mr. Fitzwilliam did so for her. "Sorry, Bingley, she promised me the second, did you not Miss Bennet?"
Jane looked up to Mr. Fitzwilliam and gave him a tender smile, not the demure, sweet smile she offered to almost everyone but a smile which conveyed some further emotion Mary could not yet name.
"So I did, Mr. Fitzwilliam, shall I hold you to it?" Mary was rather shocked to hear such tease in Jane's voice. Shocked but happy. The two looked rather besotted with each other, for having been introduced not a half hour prior.
"I should hope so, Miss Bennet." The music started and the two made their way to the set not breaking eye contact and not taking leave of the two left standing next to the shriveled fern.
Mr. Bingley watched as they walked away and sighed audibly. He very nearly jumped as he turned his head and realized Mary was still standing next to him.
"Miss Mary, would you do me the honor?"
And that is the moment Mary's mind abandoned her.
Just like the fern.
/
Bingley watched as the most angelic woman he had ever encountered walked away from him on the arm of Richard.
He sighed and cursed his sister and her necessity to be fashionably late. He shook his head and nearly audibly gasped when he noticed the other sister next to him.
What was her name? Ah! Mary!
"Miss Mary, would you do me the honor?"
She looked momentarily stunned, her blue eyes widened and her eyebrows met her hairline as she gaped at him.
"Me?" Bingley looked around them and then pointedly between her and the fern.
"Yes, Miss Mary, I would hope it were you and not that poor excuse for greenery." He chuckled.
She looked fearfully between him and the fern before smiling wide, transforming her face entirely. Her already blue eyes brightened to a shocking color and Bingley couldn't help but stare.
Blue always had been his favorite color.
"Yes, Mr. Bingley, let us… dance. We will dance. Yes." She rambled a bit and his smile widened at her rather adorable, and painfully apparent, nervousness.
She was a delightful surprise and Charles loved surprises.
Well, mostly.
They took their places and his face fell as he caught the eye of the first surprise in his life that actually gave him a bad feeling. His current, unexpected (which is usually the best kind but not in this case), guest at his home was looking about the room in a calculated manner and it filled Bingley with foreboding.
He had absolutely never, not even a little bit, felt a foreboding.
"You do not have to do this, Mr. Bingley, I am more than happy to sit this dance out." Miss Mary spoke to him in a low, nearly defeated voice.
He startled slightly, feeling terrible for his inattentiveness.
"Miss Mary, I apologize." He shook his head. "I am… troubled..." (just saying the word was odd for Bingley) "...by something and I am unsure what to do about it." He smiled wide. "I assure you, I am happy to be dancing with you right now."
She brightened at that, her eyes glowing for their incredible shade of blue.
"I know the feeling well, Mr. Bingley. Can I be of help?"
He quirked his head to the side and looked at her before circling, keeping to the dance steps. As his hand grazed her waistline, he noticed the odd bunching of fabric. Ladies fashion made no sense to him.
When they were brought back together, he continued. "I thank you, I can not tell you the particulars but I am having difficulty deciding on a course of action." He looked confused for a moment. "Or whether action is needed at all."
She smiled wide and had she not had the most earnest look to her he would believe her to be laughing at him.
"I understand entirely, Mr. Bingley."
"You do?"
She nodded enthusiastically. "I have spent years trying to find a, well… a something that would tell me what I should do, or give me some sort of direction." She smiled into his eyes and he felt it in his gut.
"Have you found it?" Bingley's voice had suddenly deepened.
"Well, no." His face fell. "But, perhaps I could help nonetheless?"
"I would like that very much indeed, Miss Mary." He opened his mouth to continue but stopped when a man in red regimentals walked in the door. The sound of a lady gasping felt a bit over the top but he supposed the gentleman was handsome. He looked to Miss Mary, who was still intently looking at him and smiled, glad her head wasn't also turned by a red coat.
He found himself enjoying the woman currently holding his gloved hand lightly.
Blue and surprises. She had embodied two of his three favorite things in the world.
Now, if only… He looked down to her chest and had to hold back his delighted gasp.
Breasts.
Large breasts.
Bingley was in love.
/