Mrs Reynolds looked up with a frown when the kitchen door was shut with considerably more than necessary force. "Tilly," she started to chastise the young maid, but Jon the footman was already on his feet.

"Tilly, what happened?!"

Tilly tried to stem the flow of her tears with her apron. "What a horrid lady that is! And now I've lost my position, and all I did was asking what room she meant…!"

"What horrid lady," Jon demanded with a frown.

"Here. Have a cup of tea." Cook planted her on a chair and handed her a hot cup.

"Was it perchance Lady Catherine de Bourgh?" Mrs Reynolds asked, with a weary edge to her voice.

"Yes. I believe that was her name." Tilly swallowed a sob and took a sip of her tea.

"Oh Lord…"

"Jon!" Mrs Reynolds warned him. "Watch your tongue."

A sigh. "Sorry, Mrs Reynolds. But that lady does bring one to cursing."

"I'll second that," Cook agreed. "What's she doing here anyway? That condolence do is not until Saturday."

They all looked questioningly at Tilly.

"Well, she… she came in and ordered everyone about. She insisted on seeing the Master immediately, and when Mr Graham said he wasn't available, she was 'seriously displeased', she said. And then she ordered me to take her daughter up to her 'rightful rooms', as she called it. I had no idea what she meant, but when I asked, she got frightfully cross with me. She said she couldn't abide stupidity in her servants, and said I should consider myself dismissed on the spot..."

The tears were flowing freely now, and Jon pushed his handkerchief in her hands. "She can't dismiss you," he muttered angrily. "She hasn't got the right."

"Indeed she has not," Mrs Reynolds confirmed. "The Master and I are the only ones who can dismiss people around here. So don't you worry, dearie. You've done nothing wrong."

"Oh, but I have!" the girl wailed in despair. "It turned out… it turned out she wanted me to take the young miss to the… to the mistress's suite! And she is so fearsome, I didn't dare to argue! Ooh… The Master is going to be so cross with me! I'll lose my position for sure!"

"Well, have I ever…!" Cook burst out.

Mrs Reynolds thought quickly. "So Miss Anne is in the mistress's suite right now?"

"Yes." Tilly hiccupped. "Together with her companion."

"And Lady Catherine?"

"Mr Graham said he'd take her to see Lord Matlock."

"Alright." Mrs Reynolds nodded tersely, and stood. "I'll sort this out. And don't you worry about your position – the Master will understand that you had no choice but to obey." With that, she marched out of the kitchen, leaving the other three to commiserate together.

"Who is that lady anyway?" Tilly sniffled once the door had been shut behind the housekeeper.

Cook sighed. "The Master's aunt from Kent. She'll have us running off our feet all week with the most outrageous demands."

"Yeah, I remember the last time she was here," Jon chimed in.

"When was that?" Tilly wanted to know. "I've been here for nearly three years, and I've never seen her."

"Oh, it must have been five years ago at least. She doesn't travel much; her daughter is quite sickly, as I recall."

"Yes, she was awfully pale," Tilly said.

"But she's a dear girl." Cook smiled fondly. "Nothing like her mother. Such a shame that she's so sickly."

Tilly frowned. "But why would that lady insist on the girl having the mistress's… oh!" She blushed a fiery red. "Is she going to marry the Master?"

Cook sighed again. "I sure hope not. If that happened, we'd probably end up with Lady Cat living here permanently and taking over the estate."

Jon stood. "If that happens, I quit!"

Tilly gulped. "Well, she did demand to have the rooms next to the mistress's suite for herself…"

Jon looked absolutely horrified.

But Cook shook her head. "Mrs Reynolds will sort it out. She's not afraid of anyone. And even if she should fail, we still have the Master."

Jon snorted. "Fat lot of good that will do. From what I've seen, the boy is as green as grass."

"I think he's nice," Tilly said quietly.

"My point exactly: he's nice. He's a pup. He's never gonna be able to stand up to the Dragon Lady. And before we know it, we'll all be slaving under Lady Cat's rule."

Another sigh from Cook. "Let's give him the benefit of the doubt, shall we? He has hardly had a chance to prove himself."

Jon chuckled. "Well, he's certainly proved one thing already: he sure makes for a funny drunk…!"

"Just lemme die in peace…"

It sounded so dreadfully pathetic, that Fitzwilliam almost chuckled. Almost – if it hadn't been for the herd of horses galloping around in his own head.

"You're not dying, Darce. Just hungover. What you need is coffee. A lot of black coffee. And hot food."

Darcy retched at the mention of food, and nearly threw up whatever little was left of his accounts after that previous bout of vomiting. "No food," he pleaded. "I beg you – no food…"

"Well, you can't stay here." Cautiously, flinching at every slightly too abrupt movement, Fitzwilliam rolled off the hay and on to his feet. He stood swaying for a minute, with his eyes closed, waiting for both his head and the barn to stop spinning. Once he felt reasonably sure he could face the room without falling over, he opened his eyes and reached for his cousin. "Come, Darce."

It was like pulling an uncooperative ragdoll to its feet. But at long last he succeeded – only to end up with Darcy hanging in his arms, which nearly toppled them both over again if it hadn't been for that support beam his back bumped into. "Oww…!" he yammered at the unexpected additional pain.

For a few minutes, they just hung there against that beam, moaning and whimpering and catching their breath.

"Can you stand?" Fitzwilliam panted at last, feeling he lacked the strength to hold up his cousin much longer.

Another whimper. "My head…"

"I know. Mine too. But can you stand?"

Moaning frightfully, Darcy fumbled with his legs, and somehow managed to get his feet under him. He was still leaning heavily on his cousin, but at least his own feet were supporting him now.

They took a moment to once again catch their breath, before Fitzwilliam pressed, "Come on, Darce. Can you walk?"

Darcy merely moaned. "Just lemme die in peace, Fitz…" He began to lower himself to the ground again, and Fitzwilliam groaned under the effort of keeping him upright.

And dropped him into a meowling heap at his feet in order to grab his own poor head at the violent sound of a dog barking nearby.

And it got even worse: a door opened, letting in far too bright daylight and a voice chuckling at an unbearable volume, "Here they are."

"Cathy!" Lord Matlock exclaimed in not entirely happy surprise. "What are you doing here already? I hadn't expected you until the end of the week."

Lady Catherine huffed. "When the report of George's death reached me, I instantly set off for here. We must see to it that the transfer of Pemberley is done properly."

"It is," Matlock assured her. "Young Darcy has…"

"Where is my nephew?" his domineering sister demanded, emphasizing every word. "He ought to be on hand to greet me!"

Matlock smirked. "Which one?" It was always fun to rile up his sister.

She glared at him. "Darcy of course. I want to speak to him. He…"

She was interrupted by a knock on the door.

"Enter!" Lord Matlock called.

The door was opened, and two bedraggled and unsteady scarecrows were ushered into the room. "Your son and your nephew as requested, my Lord," an apologetic footman announced before closing the door behind the two pitiful young men.

Lord Matlock looked stern; Lady Catherine's eyes widened dangerously in dismay, and she even couldn't stop her jaw from dropping momentarily.

"Well!" she barked, making the two scarecrows wince. "Is this to be the master of Pemberley? This… this… vagabond?! It shall not be! Look at you – you're filthy! And what is that awful stench?!"

Actually, that was pretty obvious: when Darcy had thrown up his accounts before, much of it had landed on his front.

"I see I did not arrive a moment too soon! You are not fit to be seen! What will the servants think? Do you honestly expect them to respect you after an escapade like this?"

"Not so loud," Darcy pleaded in a whisper. "Please…"

"I will be as loud as I please, young man! You deserve no better. What would your good father say – God rest his soul – what would he say if he saw you like this! A disgrace to the Darcy name – that's what you are!"

"Cathy," Uncle Matlock tried to interfere.

But his sister charged with full steam ahead. "Are the shades of Pemberley to be thus polluted? It cannot be – I will not stand for it! There is but one solution: I will have to take over Pemberley, until you, Nephew, can prove to me that you have gained sufficient sense and responsibility for that monumental task!"

"Cathy!" it came from an indignant Lord Matlock.

And even Fitzwilliam managed to voice a half-hearted protest. "That's not fair."

But, "I will decide what is fair and what is not!" his aunt thundered, making the two young men cringe in agony again. "You are nothing but a pair of good-for-nothing loafers, a scandalous blot on the respectability of the Fitzwilliam name, a…"

"Cathy, that's enough!" Lord Matlock snapped. "Boys, you go to your rooms; I'll talk to you later."

Darcy and Fitzwilliam gratefully slunk out of the room, with Darcy literally cradling his head in his hands. Before the door closed, Lord Matlock saw that the same footman was rushing forward to meet them. They would be taken care of, he knew. So with a dark scowl, he turned to his still fuming sister. "That went a bit far, don't you think?" he reproached. "You taking over Pemberley… It is his family's estate, his inheritance. Not yours."

"The boy is not fit to be master of a pig farm," Lady Catherine stated imperiously. "He is obviously not ready to take on the task: he is far too young. And far too irresponsible to be master of anything."

"That may be so," Matlock granted, "But that does not change the fact that he is the lawful master of Pemberley. And how he manages that task is his responsibility – not yours. He's got a good steward. And he is intelligent. He will learn."

His sister huffed in obvious disdain. "I will believe it when I see it." And with that, she stuck her nose in the air, turned on her heel and regally strode out of the room.

Darcy flinched at the sound of a door creaking open, and a rather high-pitched voice asking, "Mr Andrews?"

"Yes?" came a man's reply. His valet?

He whimpered, and tuned out the conversation as best he could. Could they really not have their debate elsewhere – anywhere else?! The bath and the food and the coffee earlier had made him feel human again, but that horrendous headache still thundered in full force in his skull.

The next thing he noticed was a herd of elephants tiptoeing closer, and the same hesitant voice pronouncing his name. "Fitzwilliam?"

He groaned in agony at the sound. Too loud!

A pause.

"Are you alright?"

Well, that he was able to answer. "No… Just leave me alone…"

Another pause. Longer this time. Did the owner of the voice indeed go, bless him?

No. "Are you… you're not going to die, are you?!"

He winced painfully at the shrillness of the voice.

"Fitzwilliam?" Even worse…

"Fitzwilliam?!" Two hands grabbed his shoulder, shaking him... Heaven have mercy; he practically curled up in agony...!

"Fitzwilliam, talk to me!"

"Miss Darcy."

"Fitzwilliam!" Practically in tears. "You can't die! You promised!"

Oh no… Georgiana.

And he was all she had now.

"Fitzwilliam, please!"

"Miss Darcy, come. Your brother is sleeping."

With superhuman effort, he managed to force an eye open at a slit. "I'm here," he croaked, flinching at the vibrations of his own voice in his head.

"Fitzwilliam!" she cried in utter relief, only to fling herself at him in her happiness that he wasn't dead (yet).

Darcy gasped, and positively howled in pain as knives seemed to suddenly carve up his brain.

"Fitzwilliam!?" She sat up, shocked. "What is wrong?!"

"Miss Darcy." He felt how someone – Andrews? – pried her off of him. "Your brother has a terrible headache," the quiet voice explained to his sister. "It's nothing awfully serious though – he will be right as rain tomorrow. But I think we had better leave him in peace now."

"But he is not going to die, is he?"

"No indeed. It's just a bad headache."

"Are you sure?" The awful shrillness…

"Yes, I am."

"Really sure?"

"Positively. Now come."

"But I need to ask him something!"

"I think you had better leave that till tomorrow."

"But it's urgent!"

A sigh. "Well, you can try…"

A hand grasped his.

"Fitzwilliam?"

A grunt.

"Fitzwilliam, Aunt Catherine says… She says I have to come and live with her, because you can't take care of me, she says. But I don't want to – I really don't want to!"

He winced painfully – the shrillness factor was rising to unbearable heights again.

"Do I have to, Fitzwilliam? Please say that I don't! She says I can't stay here with you, but you promised, remember? Please don't make me go live with her – she's… she's…!"

He flinched as he heard his father's voice echoing in his tortured brain. "Don't let your aunts take Georgie."

The headache was getting progressively worse under his sister's prattled plea, but he knew this was important. So he limply squeezed her fingers. "No. You stay here," he croaked unsteadily.

"Really? You promise?"

"Yes."

A squeeze and a little high-pitched squeal (did she have to do that?!) in return. "Thank you! Thank you, thank you, thank you! I'll go and tell her right away!" Quick footsteps thundering out of the room, a door falling shut with an awful bang…

And Darcy cradled his poor head in his hands and groaned.