A/N: We continue. Love to hear from you when you finish the chapter.

Pride, Prejudice, and Pretense

Chapter Eight: Whirlwind

Lizzy got back to her apartment and quickly changed into sweats.

She went into the bathroom and washed her face, using cold water to help revive her.

The afternoon and evening with Wickham had drained her.

As she dried her face, she reviewed their conversations. It had gone well, she thought, as a piece of her mission. She needed to lure Wickham in, to make him sure Fanny was succumbing to his charms. But Fanny needed to succumb step-wise, little by little. And there would have to be a moment or two of her stepping back, trying to pull herself out of Wickham's gravitation, in order for it to seem real to him, in order for it to tantalize him enough.

The fire banked in his eyes when they parted had been the surest sign of Lizzy's success. Wickham had already begun to imagine what he aimed for, and involving his imagination was the crucial thing: the way to a man's heart was not through his stomach, it was through his imagination — good guy or bad guy, Lizzy took that to be a fundamental fact. To leave fingerprints on a man's imagination was very likely to leave fingerprints on his heart. She wasn't so concerned with Wickham's heart, but mission success would require involving Wickham with her as deeply as possible, entangling him.

But Wickham presented two problems, not counting his dangerousness.

First, he was observant. He was not a man whose obvious self-satisfaction rendered him oblivious to the truth about others and made him see what he wanted to see. No, he was clear-eyed for all his conceit, and that made her job much more difficult.

Second, he was in the States, and at Lady Catherine's for a reason, and that meant that he had a timetable, some schedule to keep. He was patient enough during the day, but for how long could she string him along before he would simply disappear? He would not wait forever, that was sure. However strong his lust might be, however much stronger she could make it, she was certain he would keep to his schedule, even if it meant losing the chance to bed her. He did not seem like a man whose womanizing would trump his terrorizing.

She hung up her towel and walked to the kitchen, to the marble counter, and opened her laptop. Stifling a yawn, and rubbing her eyes with one hand, she touched a button with the other. A moment later, Darcy was facing her from the screen. When he saw her, he looked relieved. But he launched into talk, his tone professional.

"Bingley's following Wickham on the traffic cam. I wanted to know if he went back to Lady Catherine's or somewhere else. Given the direction he's traveling, he does seem to be returning to Lady Catherine's."

Lizzy nodded. "Should we have a second team here now that we're established, one that can watch Rosings in person?"

"Eventually," Darcy said, nodding, "probably, but we don't want to do that too soon. It won't be easily done without being detected. And right now, Wickham shows no sign of leaving Chicago, and I doubt anything is being done out of Rosings itself. Wickham's too careful for that." Darcy paused. "Besides, he now has something else to occupy…his mind." Word by word, Darcy's tone grew edgy, almost surly.

His tone grated on Lizzy, she fisted one hand out of range of the laptop's camera. "Did I do something wrong, slip up, or make a mistake?" she asked. She could think of nothing and she felt a sharp twinge of exasperation, driving her extended list of disjuncts.

Darcy shook his head, retreating, hands up. "No, no, — you were, so far as I could hear, pitch perfect. And so far as I could see, Wickham responded exactly as…we…hoped." Another pause, his hands had dropped. "Did he kiss you?"

She wasn't sure what to make of Darcy's question. "Yes — you know he did. You saw." She imagined what the necklace might have shown, the limits of its point of view. "Well, maybe not saw where. On the cheek. A good sign. More than a handshake, less than a lip-to-lip lock. About where we want him, I'd say. His lips, anyway," Lizzy chuckled trying to tease away Darcy's manner.

Darcy scowled. "Yes, right. Do you have anything in particular to mention, anything that stood out? We should compare notes."

"His reaction to Mary Poppins was striking. Do you know anything about his childhood? It might be something I should know. He pulled back a bit, grew distant for a minute…"

"No," Darcy said, shaking his head, "I…MI-6 doesn't know anything, no intelligence service knows anything about his childhood. That comment was the only insight into it I've had. I don't know what to make of it, or that gnomic comment, 'everything worth happening already has'."

Lizzy made a soft sound of agreement. "That was puzzling. Say, do we have the full MI-6 file on Wickham yet?"

"Yes," Darcy answered, "surprisingly. I received it today while you were at the Robie House. I will forward it to your computer when we finish. It's not likely to enlighten you very much." He shrugged as if apologizing for his Agency. "It's mostly movements and dates, a few names of contacts, but most of it is circumstantial or speculative, attempted coordination by MI-6 analysts of Wickham's supposed travel with the claimed or reputed activities of the Wicker Man. Not much more. It starts a few years ago. Farther back than that, we just don't know. Wickham seemed to spring into existence unborn and unhistoried. As if he was hatched a fully grown man.

"Anyway, Don't trouble yourself about it tonight — but we can discuss it tomorrow after you've had a chance to look at it if you have questions."

"Okay. Anything else?"

"Is Wickham as charming as he believes?" Darcy smiled tightly.

Lizzy spoke without reflection. "Oh, yes, he is. He's pretty, and his…um…person is graceful, his manner attentive."

Darcy blinked. "His person?"

"You know," Lizzy said, blowing out a breath and speaking frankly but without looking at Darcy, "wide shoulders, small waist, tight ass. He puts me in mind of a ship's captain. Or maybe a…matador." She grinned at her choice of word, imagining a type of character in a Hemingway short story.

She did look at Darcy then. His face was flushed, his lips a thin-pressed line. "But you can handle him, handle yourself around him?"

This again? Lizzy asked herself. "Agent Bennet isn't…enough."

"Of course, I can handle myself. What about today or yesterday suggests I can't?" She leaned toward the screen, pointing at it, at him "You asked me the question, Agent Darcy; I assumed you wanted an honest answer.

She leaned back and put her hand down. "I'm not in any danger from Wickham in that way, but I understand how he's done what he's done, his womanizing. He's a man it would be effortless to like; he's compelling, he affects every woman in a wide radius; and the woman who is with him, so long as she didn't know who and what he was, would think she was the happiest of happy women. That's my guess, at any rate."

"I see," Darcy said. His frown was deep and his voice sad, "Good to know. I acknowledge he has a gift of self-presentation, easy conversation. Prophet. Cantilevered roof. And he insinuates himself and his wishes like a serpent."

"But you helped with that," she reminded Darcy, "sending that text from Ned. You knew that would force us to talk about him and give Wickham a chance to tear you, I mean Ned, down."

"It was important to make sure that he had a chance to suggest that you'd be better off with him. Someone less gentle, less piano."

"Someone whose favorite book is not Wives and Daughters."

"Right," he said but without humor.

Darcy's expression became more somber, funereal.

Lizzy found it frustrating but, even exhausted, her courage rose. She was not going to be intimidated or made apologetic by his severity.

Darcy would find that she could be more stubborn than he could.

She was tired and had expected praise, an acknowledgment that the day had gone well. Instead, Darcy made her feel like it had gone poorly, making her feel as if she lacked self-mastery, was intemperate. As if Wickham could tempt her into actually wanting him.

As if instead of Darcy acknowledging her, she should apologize to him. Darcy had transmuted her success into failure — that's how it felt.

"You know, Agent Darcy," she started slowly, the words coming to her, "I'm too damn tired to deal with your bristling rectitude, your strange, immovable prejudice against my ability to do what this mission requires. But I remind you: I am doing it. I spent the afternoon and evening doing it.

"I'm blonde. I may not be voluptuous, but obviously, what there is of me, my subtler curves, entice Wickham. As I suspect, so does my subtle mind, although perhaps Wickham hasn't quite realized that yet — although he does find me funny." Unlike you.

"Being funny, Agent Bennet, is not a mission requirement, and none of my intel suggests Wickham is especially drawn to wit in a woman." His words were clipped. "What you call my 'immovable prejudice' I call 'professional caution.' Kellynch warned me that you can be ironic, given to humor even at serious moments, and that was another reason I was…hesitant…about his choice of you." Darcy straightened himself in his chair.

"This is a serious business, Agent Bennet. At some level, you must know that, and I am trying to make sure you do not shelve the knowledge, or lose track of it in the snowstorm of Wickham's charm. He has managed to entice clever women who had strong suspicions of who and what he is, and sometimes those suspicions actually made them more susceptible. No doubt in your training at the Farm, you were warned how often the seducer becomes seduced. The matrix of seduction is unstable, the power structures can shift like sandbars in a strong river."

"I was warned. Repeatedly. Take me as freshly re-warned. Now, I'm tired; I need to sleep. Is there anything else?" She made her exasperation with him unmistakably audible.

"Just one thing. Wickham didn't mention Collingwood visiting your building, did he? I didn't hear it but there were a few moments — especially on the water," Darcy's lips tightened for a moment as if he were containing a rebuke, "when the mics were fuzzy."

"No, it never came up. Do you think Wickham knows?"

Darcy shook his head and shrugged simultaneously. "Hard to say. They don't seem to like each other. I'm assuming Wickham doesn't. Maybe Collingwood will call again."

She leaned toward the screen again. "Do you need to warn me about the gay priest?"

Darcy locked eyes with her from the screen. He was insulted, and angry, but controlling it. "No, no warning there. And no more warnings from me. I've said my piece. Goodnight, Agent Bennet."

"Agent Darcy."

She closed the laptop softly but then clenched her fists, suppressing a cry of anger and frustration. Patronizing, pompous ass.

Huffing, she stood and paced slowly for a few minutes, using the cadence of her steps to calm herself, an old trick, feeling the heat and color slowly drain from her face.

She hadn't realized how much anger she had shown. A long sigh stopped her pacing.

Glancing around, she noticed Wives and Daughters atop the small stack of books on the coffee table.

She picked the book up and went to the bedroom, clicked on the lamp, and, after a deep breath, stretched out on the bed to read for a few minutes, distracting herself.

"To begin with the old rigmarole of childhood. In a country there was a shire, and in that shire there was a town, and in that town there was a house, and in that house there was a room, and in that room there was a bed, and in that bed there lay a little girl…"

Lizzy woke up the next morning feeling less stretched but still sour, Gaskell on the bed beside her.

Yawning, Lizzy made a bowl of cereal and ate while staring at the closed laptop.

Since she was still in a sour mood, she decided pre-emptively to call her mother. If Lizzy didn't, her mother would undoubtedly call her, ignoring Lizzy's instructions, and leave long, complaining voice-mails. Her mother refused to text.

Lizzy rinsed out her bowl and put it in the dishwasher along with her spoon.

Her personal phone was in her backpack in the closet. Off, of course. She retrieved it from the bag and turned it on. She put in her password and looked at her notifications. Luckily, her mother had not called her. But, someone had.

Jane.

No text, no voicemail.

That was peculiar. Jane had never called Lizzy when she was on a mission.

Very rarely, when Lizzy felt it was safe, and when she was especially lonely or demoralized, Lizzy would call Jane: talking with her for just a few moments would center Lizzy, encourage her.

But Jane never called Lizzy. Jane knew better; she had been an analyst. So why had she called, and so late last night, well after Lizzy had fallen asleep reading Gaskell?

Lizzy wanted to know.

Her first thought was that there was some emergency, although if that were it, Jane would likely have kept calling. Jane had no family; she had grown up in an orphanage. Lizzy could return the call from her apartment. Neither Darcy nor Bingley was supposed to be surveilling it at the moment.

But even so, Lizzy thought better of it. She hadn't made coffee yet, so she would go buy a cup at a coffee shop. There was one nearby, she'd seen it when she went for her pedicure, a Starbucks. The call could be returned from there.

She still had on her sweats, so she slipped on her shoes and grabbed her leather jacket.

She left the building with a wave at the security guard and hurried to the shop. A few minutes later, she was seated with a latte in a corner booth, back to the wall, facing the door.

She called Jane.

The phone rang and rang, no answer. Lizzy ended the call and sent a text.

Is everything okay? Text me a Yes or No. I'll call again when I can

She decided to go ahead and call her mother since she was out of the apartment and still had coffee to finish.

She pressed Mom on her list of recent calls. The phone rang once, twice, then her mother answered. "Elizabeth, Lizzy, is that you?"

At least her mother sounded sober. "Yes, Mom, it's me. Just checking in."

"I didn't expect to hear from you so soon."

"No, I know. I'm working but I had a minute and thought I'd touch base with you. Is everything okay?" The same question she'd texted Jane.

"No. The shop's not doing well. Your Aunt Gardiner is driving away business. I had an idea for an amazing window, very trendy and edgy, just the kind of thing she doesn't comprehend."

Lizzy's stomach sank. "What did you do, Mom?"

Her mother's tone became proud, defiant. "I went to the shop one night after hours and put a couple of half-price gowns on mannequins, then I splashed bottles of Day Glow paint all around, all on the dresses and the mannikins. I put a black strobe light in the window. It looked spectacular. People stopped their cars to look. One man was so entranced he rear-ended the car in front of him."

Lizzy could imagine. The shop stood next to a busy intersection in town. The flashing lights and fluorescent paint must have made a dangerous, confusing spectacle. Her mother would be lucky to keep from being sued. No doubt liquor had played a role in her mother's late-night staging of an impromptu bridal rave.

"And the next day, when I came in — late in the afternoon — it was all gone. Gone! The dresses in the trash, the paint scrubbed off the floor, and the window glass, the strobe gone. Christine will not talk to me. We're back to a virginal white window."

Her mother made the last comments in her most aggrieved voice, obviously expecting sympathy and for Lizzy to take her side.

"Mom, who is supposed to want a Day Glow splashed bridal gown? Who's going to be married under a black strobe light?"

Her mother huffed. "Forward thinkers like me, Lizzy, customers who want to interject life and color into non-chromatic tradition."

Sometimes Lizzy forgot that her mother was a clever woman. Not as clever as Mr. Bennet had been, and certainly not as quick. But when she wasn't addled, she could talk. Lizzy knew she had inherited a large portion of her native verbal gifts from her mother, even if they had been tutored and made faster by her father, his demanding, give-and-take conversation. Her mother was not made for conversation. She lectured or she complained. Monolog was her meter; she never quite managed to address anyone but herself.

"Mom, are you at the shop? Is Aunt Gardiner there?"

"No, she's not here. I'm at the church, helping prepare a luncheon for a youth group."

"You should have told me, Mom. I'm sorry to interrupt you."

Her mother scoffed. "They can do without me for a minute. The soup won't burn just because it's not being stirred."

"Mom, I'll call you again. But go stir the soup, please."

"Alright. Have you met anyone on this trip, any man?"

She thought of Darcy and of Wickham, a lie that was responsive to the facts: "Yes, two, but one's too full of himself and the other can't be trusted."

"How can you know that already; you haven't been there long."

"Sometimes a woman knows, Mom. Talk to you soon. See about the soup. Don't do any more late-night windows without talking to Aunt Gardiner."

"I'll do as I like with my shop, Elizabeth."

"Okay, Mom. Bye. The soup, stir it."

She ended the call hoping that the church did not burn along with the soup.

Lizzy put her phone away and sipped the last of her latte, shaking her head. She looked at 'Fanny' in black marker on the side of the cup.

The name seemed not hers and yet hers, somewhat the way 'Elizabeth' seemed hers and yet not hers. All the lies that are my life. She'd had so many names that her own name no longer seemed quite hers, the way her own life seemed not quite hers.

Too long undercover. If you pretend to do something for long enough, when do you simply start to do it for real?

She started to stand and looked up from the name on her cup.

Bingley was standing next to her table. He glanced around and then put his finger to his lips. He was wearing a White Sox cap pulled low, the collar of his jacket standing high. He looked like an ESPN version of Dick Tracy.

Lizzy was momentarily annoyed with herself for losing focus. She should have seen Bingley come in. This is why personal business in the middle of a mission was trouble.

He slid into the booth, glancing around again. "I'm waiting for coffee." He gave her a look that made her worry, that big favor look people got just before they asked for one.

"Have you talked to Jane?"

Lizzy sat back. "Jane? You know Jane?"

Bingley gave her another look, a different one, but she understood it immediately too. "Oh. Oh!"

Bingley smiled briefly, the smile watery, worried. "I can't get her on the phone today. We talk each morning. If you talk to her, please ask her to call me. I'm worried I did something stupid that I don't realize I did."

"She tried to call me late last night," Lizzy told him. "Early this morning. But she didn't text or leave a message."

Bingley's face paled. "That's not good. Should I be worried

A barista called out. "Two Venti black coffees to go!"

"That's me. Tell her to call me. I'll tell her to call you. I can't imagine she won't call one of us soon. Please?"

Lizzy scanned the Starbucks. No one was watching them. She reached out and touched Bingley's hand, resting hers on his for a moment. "I'm so happy for you both. I'm sure it's nothing." She wasn't but it seemed like a moment for comfort.

Bingley smiled, relieved. "Don't mention this meeting to Darcy. He'd be pissed."

Bingley grabbed the to-go coffees and left. Lizzy waited, then left a few minutes later.

She waved again at the security guard and went upstairs to Fanny's apartment. Her apartment. For now.

When she was inside, she threw her jacket down on the couch and opened the laptop on the counter. She touched a button. As she expected, the MI-6 file on Wickham was there, as Darcy said it would be.

Lizzy carried the laptop to the armchair and sat down. She started reading it. After a few minutes, she looked up at the ceiling, frustrated.

The file was exactly what Darcy had told Lizzy it was. It reconstructed Wickham's travels starting three years ago. Since then, there had been a number of terrorist attacks either claimed by or attributed to the Wicker Man. In almost all the cases, Wickham had been in the city or close enough to have traveled to it. But in no case was there actual proof that Wickham had been involved. It was all, as Darcy said, circumstantial. But, assuming the coordinations of the terrorist actions and Wickham's travels were more than coincidences, and there were enough of them to make that seem unlikely, Wickham had been busy. And brutal. A number of the attacks had been bloody, carefully planned explosions in public places, random victims. The photographs were horrible, stomach-turning, even for someone who had seen as much death, as much variety of cruel death, as Lizzy had. Still, there was no proof that Wickham was involved in any of the attacks. They did not occur on any discernible schedule, but most occurred within weeks of one another.

Lucy stopped on the final entry, the last attack. It predated the Wickham file that Darcy had shown her on the plane by several months, predating Berlin, the city where Darcy's file began.

The last attack had happened in Spain, near the coast. Wickham had been in Barcelona. He had traveled with a woman but she had never been identified. There was one photograph but it was from the rear, and otherwise only a couple of brief descriptions. The woman was described as tall, blonde, statuesque (of course), and much younger than Wickham. The photograph only confirmed the hair, blonde, long, and straight. She wore a red jacket, only the collar visible. In the photograph, Wickham is gazing at her, although her head obscured half of Wickham's face. But even seeing only one eye was enough for Lizzy to see the fire banked there. She had seen that look last night, directed at her.

She was about to start at the beginning of the file again when she got an alert on the computer. It was Bingley. She moved the cursor and clicked on the alert, and Bingley appeared on the screen. "The priest is back. He's sitting on the bench outside the lobby. He's made no move to enter. He has a book and a coffee; looks like he's planning a long siege."

Darcy appeared next to Bingley. He had a Starbucks cup in his hand. "You can leave him there, see if he leaves before Wickham arrives. That will be a while, hours. Try to wait him out. Or you could pretend to leave the building, let him see you, and find out what it is that's moved him to invest so much time and effort to talk to you in person when he could simply call. One visit might be an in the area, just stopped by happenstance. Two visits testify to action by the Holy Ghost."

Lizzy wasn't sure, but she thought Darcy had made a joke. That was strange after the morning, his complaint about her sense of humor. She let it go — she had to decide what to do about Collingwood.

"I'll dress and go downstairs. It'll take me twenty minutes. I want to look like I'm on the way somewhere. Can you see him from your window?"

"Yes. Binoculars."

"Let me know if he leaves. I'm going to shower quickly, dress. I'll tell you before I head downstairs."

Darcy simply nodded once. Lizzy closed the laptop and hurried to the bathroom, shedding her sweats on the way.

Lizzy was dressed (necklace and earrings included) and ready to go downstairs when she opened the laptop again and touched the button. A few seconds later, Darcy was on the screen.

"Is Collingwood still there?" Lizzy asked.

"Yes, reading and watching the door."

"Okay, I'm going down. I'll find out what he's doing here."

"Press him for information on Wickham and Lady Catherine, anything he might know. Bingley will be downstairs, nearby."

"Good. I will."

She went downstairs, taking a moment on the elevator to compose herself, her story about where she was going.

She passed the security guard who was intent on the computer screen in front of him. This time there was no wave. She saw Collingwood outside, through the glass doors. She took a deep breath and went outside, Fanny's phone in her hand. Lizzy was careful to be looking at the screen.

"Fanny!" Collingwood called, "Fanny!"

Lizzy stopped and turned. "Robyn Collingwood? Father Robyn?"

The priest was running toward her, dog collar beneath a black coat, coffee in one hand, and an open book in the other. When he reached her, he gave her a big smile and a half-bow, breathing hard from the short burst of God's speed.

"Sorry. Sorry to…disturb you, waylay you, like this, Miss Prince, but I visited the city today on minor business, " breath, "and it took less time than I anticipated," breath, "so I thought I might sit here and read my book in the sun," two breaths, "as good a place as any, and that, if I was lucky," a long breath, his breath finally caught, "I might also see you and get a chance to talk to you."

Lizzy smiled at him for a moment. "So, you did see me. I intended to call you later today; the security guard gave me your card from your first visit."

"Ah, yes," Collingwood's smile decreased in size, "that guard. Not helpful at all. I understand this modern mania for privacy, particularly on the part of young women — but I am a man of the cloth."

Lizzy nodded sympathetically. "Had I known you were coming, I'd have made sure you were told my apartment number."

He shrugged and took a sip of his coffee. "Yes, well, I should have called, but I believe in the personal touch, and both visits have been more whim than plan."

"I was out for a walk, taking advantage of the sun too, and a vacation day," Lizzy said. "Would you like to walk with me? Or we could go sit somewhere…"

"A walk would be fine." He looked skyward. "We won't have this weather, this sun, much longer. Soon the gray skies and winter Lake wind will whip us all indoors. Could you hold this for a moment?"

He extended his coffee cup toward her. Lizzy took it by its bottom. A Starbucks cup with 'Robyn' on the side. As she held it, Father Robyn relocated a bookmark from the last pages of his book to the spot at which he held it open, then he closed the book, Personæ, by Ezra Pound.

He took the coffee back.

"Reading Pound?" Lizzy asked, partly out of puzzlement and partly because it seemed the appropriate question for Fanny to ask.

They started to walk and Father Robyn laughed. "Yes, the man was a loon, but a most musical loon. When you have the task, as I do, of composing weekly homilies, and so caring for the souls of your parish, you need mentally to restock, to fill yourself with musical language, so that it can sweeten the presentation of the gospel."

Lizzy had gotten a touch of Father Robyn's rhetorical exuberance at the party, but only a touch. "So, what was it you wanted to talk to me about?"

He slowed, requiring Lizzy to slow too. His countenance became serious. "To be frank, Fanny, I came to warn you."

"To warn me?"

"Yes," he nodded, "and I know this is…officious of me, intermeddling, but I liked you immediately at the party, and I saw, when the two of you weren't looking, I saw how well-suited you and your boyfriend are to one another. Such a lovely couple. I believe his name is…Ned?"

"Ned, that's right. Thank you, but I still don't understand."

He stopped walking altogether and drew closer to her. "I want to warn you about Wickham. I have had the chance to know things about him…his habits…and I also saw him interacting with you at the party, and I overheard him later talking, spatting, really, with Lady Catherine. He is…interested…in you and I believe will be in touch with you soon."

Lizzy was unsure how to react, how Fanny should react. Demur denial? Reveal that Wickham had already contacted her? That they had gone sightseeing, gone to dinner, were going to dinner tonight?

Her unsureness played in her favor. The delay in response caused Father Robyn to continue. "I have tried to convince Lady Catherine to break with that man, but he has an occult hold on her — and that's why I'm here, my worry about you."

"Father?"

"Women are Wickham's…hobby. He collects them, to put it bluntly. I know he has charm, a gift for making a woman feel as if he is sensitively heedful of her, that he is not objectifying her, much the opposite. But that's only because he objectifies slowly.

"Let's say that he's an expert at being friendly, making friends, but that he keeps, that he can keep, only a few friends if any — particularly women." Father Robyn searched Fanny's face. "Do you understand?"

Lizzy nodded hesitantly. "But what about Lady Catherine?"

Father Robyn frowned. "He keeps her because she continues to be useful and because she's so rich. And because she's foolish. He stays at Rosings, uses her influence, her car and driver — and often, he uses her and her resources to pursue other women."

Lizzy mirrored his frown. "Wickham did…call me. We went…sightseeing yesterday, and had a quick dinner. But it wasn't a date. Ned was supposed to spend my vacation days with me but was called back to New York. Wickham only invited me along on his architectural tour. It wasn't a date." Lizzy made sure Fanny hesitated and stumbled.

Father Robyn nodded, shaking his head. "I feared I was too late. I should have called, but I find this deeply distasteful and feel it is wrong to make it easier for myself, to slough off any difficulty connected to my decision, my dilemma. Attacking another man's character is not the Christian way, but neither is standing idly by and watching one person abuse others…"

"But Father," Lizzy said, pleading a little, since the mission required her to carry on with Wickham, "I'm in love with Ned. Wickham's been attentive, yes, but I'm in no danger. I know who I am and I know who I love." The conversation was beginning to bother Lizzy. It was too much like last night's debrief with Darcy — and too much like her earlier musings about her name, her names. She'd blame men if it also wasn't her own voice being echoed.

Father Robyn studied her severely. "Good. I trust you are not overestimating yourself or underestimating Wickham. What a person knows and what she feels do not always interact reasonably. But you're a rational creature, a librarian, after all, so I'll leave off the warnings. What architecture did you see?" he asked, an abrupt shift of topic.

"Marina City and the Robie House," she told him.

"Ah, two terrific choices. I lack Wickham's formal training but I humor myself by believing I equal or exceed his aesthetic taste. Which did you like best?"

They began to walk again. "The Robie House. Something about how it appeared so closed and so open at the same time, so heavily itself and yet so lightly integrated into its setting."

He faced her, thinking. "Yes, I understand. I understand..." They walked on, chatting more about the House and about Frank Lloyd Wright, and then about the beauty of the cool, sunlit late morning.

Lizzy parted company with the priest outside her building.

She went inside and up to her apartment. The laptop remained closed; she wanted a minute to herself after a whirlwind of a morning. Jane, Mom, Bingley, Father Robyn.

And that debrief last night!

Her stretched feeling had returned and the sourness had never left her.

But Fanny's phone rang. Lizzy looked at it, her shoulders sinking.

It was Wickham.

A/N: This chapter became long, so I've decided to continue it as a separate chapter. More next time.