I stared down at my legs in horror, wondering why I had done such an insane thing with Mr. Darcy of all people. Forget propriety, I was well into wanton territory now, far beyond Lydia's worst behavior on her worst day, and I could not possibly fathom what had come over me. Perhaps I just needed to counter his stubbornness, as he seemed like a man that was going to be hard to get rid of once he had the bit in his teeth. However, what was done was done, so I let him get a good look. I had no idea why I wanted him to understand, but since he was the only person who truly tried to reach me in the past year, maybe I was just desperate to have some impact on somebody and he was a convenient target. I thought perhaps this might compel him to finally leave me in peace, not that I had much peace in the past year anyway.

After a few moments, the horror of the whole thing sank in, followed by mortification and embarrassment. I could not look at him at all, so I just let the dress fall back down, repaired my stone face and asked brightly, "Would you care for some pie, Mr. Darcy? It is the last of the apples from my cellar."

Without waiting for an answer, I jumped up from the chair and practically ran down the stairs to the kitchen. I was standing there shaking like a leaf when I felt a hand land lightly on my shoulder. He did nothing more than that, not even so much as placing his other hand on my other shoulder. For once, I thought his propensity for silence served him well, as I could not stand the idea of any words at this time in this place. He seemed to be willing to just offer the most basic of human reactions, sympathy and concern; and for the first time, I appreciated his presence, which was paradoxical since he was just helping fix the problem created by his own questions. It was most confusing.

At long last, after what seemed a long time but was probably only a minute, I turned without speaking, picked up a pitcher of milk and handed it to him. It took an effort of iron will to move my eyes up to meet his. Relaxing my mask was well beyond my capacity, but I did just for the briefest of moments consent to share a little bit of my pain with him, and he seemed to accept it with a brief nod.

I turned back to the table to pick up two plates left earlier for this purpose, and he seemed to jump a bit when my knife appeared suddenly in my hand. I would have to remember that not everybody was Sergeant MacDonald, and most people would be shocked by my behavior. I had practiced it so often over the past year, it was quite automatic now and I had completely forgotten that gentlewomen, or any women for that matter, usually did not carry knives on their person. As I thought back to all he had heard in the past four days, I reflected the gentleman must think I had murderous tendencies. After cutting two generous slices and cleaning and replacing the knife; I nodded towards the stairs, and we walked back up to the parlor to continue the meal.

By mutual consent, we somehow avoided any possible topic that was not related to either pie or milk until the meal was complete. I explained how I had learned to cook.

"My parishioners have sufficient widows with time on their hands that quite enjoyed treating me as another wayward granddaughter, Mr. Darcy. All I needed to do was ask politely, and they were happy to share their wisdom."

He nodded and said, "I can well believe it. I have learned more than a few useful things from such people."

I sheepishly added, "My former mother always claimed she set a fine table, but I doubt she could even light a fire if her life depended in it. What Mrs. Bennet actually meant, was she could bully the cook into doing what the cook would have done anyway. The only thing truly distinguishing the table at Longbourn was the mistress' propensity to overspend her budget. I never understood that until I had to light my own fires and knead my own bread, but I must admit to a certain satisfaction in my self‑reliance."

He said, "I am certainly impressed by it," and we tucked back in to the pie.

When that was gone, without a word we took the dishes back to the kitchen and cleaned them together. For the first time in ages, I felt the camaraderie of a simple task shared with someone other than Mrs. Hewes or Sargent MacDonald. Surprisingly, for perhaps an hour, I did not particularly dislike Fitzwilliam Darcy. I was surprised he seemed to know his way around a kitchen, and which end of a rag to use, but that just showed how little I knew the man in the end.

Once the dishes were clean and the kitchen was tidy, we retired to the parlor where I rummaged around in the cabinet for my last bottle of port and poured two small glasses.

Finally, at long last, I could avoid it no longer, so I said, "Mr. Darcy, I must apologize for my…"

I had barely even begun, before he silenced me by holding up his hand with a glance of perhaps compassion and understanding. I suspected he now knew that the subject of marriage was not to be canvassed again, and so I believed we had an understanding on the topics that might be entertained.

He said the oddest thing, "Elizabeth, if any apologies are necessary they are mine to give, but I am unconvinced either of us were particularly in the wrong in this case, although my past offenses are many. May we just allow it to pass?"

It seemed for the best, so I nodded my acquiescence.

He asked, "Will you hear me out now? I will stand by our agreement of this morning, but I would very much like to be heard."

I had almost forgotten the original purpose of the supper, but simply nodded. He walked to the entry hall, to return a moment later with a roll of parchments left there with his hat and coat.

Taking the first set of notes, he said, "Elizabeth, I believe your fath… er… Mr. Bennet is correct. There is no legal way to break the entail in your circumstances. I have sent letters to several solicitors in London to see if there is any method or procedure I am unaware of, but at the moment it does not look promising."

I felt just a little bit of curiosity about several things, not the least of which was why he was embroiling himself in my affairs, but I thought I might defer that question. Perhaps it would answer itself one day. I went back to the matter at hand and asked, "I have heard of entails being broken before. Why is this one different?"

His practical nature took over, and he seemed satisfied to have a topic requiring some intellect, or perhaps he was just happy I had made an entire sentence without censure.

He explained, "Because Collins is the heir presumptive. Were he the heir apparent, there is a procedure called a common recovery that uses a few complicated steps between the owner and the heir apparent who must be of age and able to represent himself."

He noticed my puzzlement, so he further explained, "The heir apparent is the heir who cannot be displaced. If your father had a son, he would fill that role. Only his death or your father disowning him would remove him as the heir. An heir presumptive, such as Mr. Collins, is the one presumed to be the heir, but should your father have a son, he would displace Collins. For example, should you mother die and he remarry a younger woman, he would be likely to succeed within a few years."

That made sense, so I read through the first few parchments which were a combination of his own notes, and extensive notes from his solicitor in town, wondering just what was driving the man. To have done this in four days required quite a lot of work on his part, and some considerable expense for solicitors and express riders; not to mention completely neglecting whatever he came here to do for his aunt. These parchments probably represented at least a year's income for the parsonage, and he apparently did it just because he felt guilty about eavesdropping. He was a most perplexing man.

I asked the next question, which probably made me sound even more violent, "Should Wickham meet an untimely demise before Bennet, is my former father correct? The estate would have to be split up?"

"Yes. It could be put back together given time, money and both agreement and representation among the heirs, but it rarely works well. You would have to deal with all of your sisters, and any husbands they might have, as well as your mother, which I imagine would be a real sticking point. Each would have to give up definitive ownership of a portion of Longbourn in exchange for an unenforceable promise of an allowance from the reassembled estate, and it is usually difficult or impossible to find agreement since it is trading certainty for uncertainty. Any one heir can disrupt the process, since it is generally not in the interests of the ladies or their heirs to put themselves at risk. The best they can hope for is that if the final owner is generous and kind, they might get the portion they already had, and it's easy enough to end up with nothing. At least some pieces of the estate usually end up being sold off to neighboring estates or speculators at a fraction of its value so the daughter can have something to live on. There are also frequently squabbles about how to fairly split things. How do you split a horse or carriage? Is one field worth more than another of equal size? Is one tenant more diligent and productive than the next? It is easy to descend into argument, even if you have two or three reasonable people. I hate to say it, but of the women left in Longbourn there are a large number, and not all are reasonable."

I sadly nodded in reluctant agreement, and said, "So, the problem is still as I thought it was this morning. Absent me producing a son, Longbourn will cease to exist as a viable estate, unless Wickham manages to sell it whole, or chooses to lease it for a steady income. Neither seems like something that can be relied upon."

I sighed in resignation, thought through it for another few minutes while Mr. Darcy waited patiently, and finally said, "I thank you for what must have been considerable effort and expense on my behalf Mr. Darcy. I doubt I can repay you, but I do appreciate knowing my fate is not just a figment of Bennet's imagination."

The man looked affronted for some reason. Perhaps he had no idea how to deal with simple gratitude, not that anything between us had ever been simple. He gave half a lopsided grin and said, "Elizabeth, I am as you know an arrogant and presumptuous man, so will you simply accept it as part of my character that you once tried to sketch; when I say that those are the last words about repayment I ever wish to hear from you. I do what I wish, and I wish to help you. I will not allow you to think yourself beholden. I have my own reasons for what I do."

I gave up all pretense of ever understanding the man, and simply nodded in acceptance. I imagined that he was feeling some guilt over his failure to check Wickham, and perhaps he thought this was his due. Or maybe he liked to think himself the knight in shining armor, or maybe he was just bored and liked the challenge. Maybe it was as simple as his desire to have an excuse to escape Rosings, which must be tedious beyond belief for a man like him. If it would make the man happy, I thought I should just accept it in good grace.

Thinking the logistics of the entail had been sufficiently canvassed, he asked somewhat sheepishly, "Do you still intend to go along with Mr. Bennet's plan?"

I replied quickly, "Of course"

He looked like he thought there was no of course about it, but perhaps he thought he should try to understand before expressing his own opinions. He then asked, "May I ask why? While I'm at it, could I ask if you would still comply should all of your sisters abruptly attract suitors?"

I looked at him with a bit of a lessening of the mask I had carried most of the night, wondering if he was bored enough to just go back to town and bring back four suitors. I had to chuckle a little bit at the idea, and he watched it curiously but had enough sense not to ask what I found amusing. I could just picture him dragging four gentlemen behind him like a mama bear leading her cubs off into the woods.

I finally got my thoughts back to his question and replied, "A few reasons, really. Firstly, I will not punish the residents of Meryton for Bennet's indolence. Longbourn collapsing would have material consequences for people I have known all my life; although to be honest that would not be sufficient motivation to make me undertake the endeavor."

He seemed impressed that I would even think of tradesmen and villagers, but simply nodded in acknowledgment, so I continued, "I am of course also doing it for my sisters."

He nodded a bit, although I was not at all certain he agreed with it. I looked down a bit and added, "You probably think my youngest two are not worthy of any sacrifice after nearly destroying us with an ill‑planned attachment to a rake. Yes they are young and stupid and selfish, but they are my sisters, and as I told you two days ago, I was nearly as fooled as they were; and I did not have the excuse of youth and ignorance. Also, I'm not entirely certain Bennet will not do to them as he did to me, and I cannot imagine four more marriages like mine. Bennet appears to have been touched in the head. He is not the man I thought he was."

With an opening like that, apparently the man felt like he had something to say. He started talking, and I just sat listening in fear of what he might have to say about my sisters, but he surprised me yet again.

"Elizabeth, your sisters are not the first of my acquaintance to try to elope with George Wickham."

I looked at him carefully to see if any further details might be forthcoming. With Wickham's propensity to prey on young and ignorant women, it was not all that surprising Mr. Darcy would know another. Whether he would say any more or not was in question though, as he was looking quite pensive, staring at something only he could see. He finally, with a shudder, decided to continue.

"When I met you at that assembly where I acted so abominably, I was in a most foul mood. It does not excuse what I said about you, but it might help explain it. You see, Wickham had just a month previously tried to elope with my fifteen year old sister, and like yours, she had agreed. Like your sister Mary, I only stumbled on them by accident; but unlike your sister, I was supposed to be her protector. I knew all about him, but never suspected he would try that particular ploy. He had no affection for Georgiana; just an affection for her dowry of £30,000. We are a lot more similar than you may have thought."

I gasped in shock, and could only think of one question, "Is she all right?"

He looked back at me, and replied, "I believe she is now. Would you allow me to introduce you to her so you might judge for yourself?"

I was surprised again, and did not have the vaguest idea how to react to that suggestion, particularly as I had no idea if I would even be in his company again after tonight, so I said, "We shall see."

The man nodded, and said, "Another time I will tell you the rest of my history with the man. That is the worst of it, but what came before is truly terrible as well."

I nodded as well, and felt the topic could be closed at least for the moment, and began to wonder at what point I had begun to believe there might be more moments after tonight.

Darcy looked as if he was ready to leave the topic, but he added one last thought, "If my plans come to fruition, Wickham's future will be much more constrained. I have neglected my duty long enough."

I wondered why now he thought Wickham was his duty when he had not thought so after the scoundrel went after his sister well over a year ago. Perhaps last year he was obsessed with protecting his sister, so was constrained in his actions. I had to admit I might have acted the same way given the same provocation. After all, I assume my family made no attempt to warn the people of Brighton about the man. In fact, they would have done everything within their power to keep it quiet so as not to affect my sisters' marriage prospects. I did wish he had seen fit to warn us though, but that was water under the bridge,

The question of Wickham had diverted Mr. Darcy from our original discussion of my plans for the future, and I had no idea if that was for the best or not. I was feeling exhausted though, and thought perhaps it was time to bid him adieu, but was strangely reluctant to do so. I still had one question to answer for him, but thought perhaps the next day might be a better time.

Darcy looked like he was not perhaps ready to revert to the earlier discussion, when were somewhat rudely interrupted.

Thump! Thump! Thump!

I assumed it must be an express rider, and feared for what it would contain. Perhaps Bennet had not even survived the trip back to Longbourn, or had changed the terms of our bargain again. Of course, it could also just be Lady Catherine looking for her wayward nephew, but that idea seemed farfetched.

There was only one way to find out, so I moved the port glasses out of sight, and signaled Mr. Darcy with a nod to either leave through the kitchen or upstairs through the quilts. His curiosity apparently got the better of him, as he chose the latter and I went to open the door.