Everyone had just settled down with their tea and cake and fruit when there was a knock on the door, and Mr Graham announced, "Lady Matlock and Lady Hartwell, sir."

It was impossible to mistake the scowl on Hartwell's face. Or the long-suffering sigh from Uncle Matlock. Or the displeasure marring Aunt Catherine's features.

But the new arrivals didn't seem to mind: the matronly Lady Matlock confidently waltzed into the room, with the skinny Lady Hartwell immediately flitting past her as they both instantly homed in on Darcy.

"Oh my dear Mr Darcy, such a tragic loss!" Lady Hartwell. "And so unexpected, too! I understand your father was nowhere near his old age yet. It is such a tragedy, how some people just get up and die! So inconvenient as well!"

"Poor Darcy, what a blow! Will you ever recover?" Lady Matlock. "It is such a terrible thing to lose one's parent at so young an age. It is obvious that you are deeply suffering – my poor, poor boy! And to have to take over your father's estate as well! How are you holding up?"

"I…"

"And heart trouble to boot – how terrible! I hope it is nothing hereditary! The mere thought of my heart suddenly stopping makes me feel faint!"

"Tell me: did he suffer a great deal, before he died? I hope he was not in any great pain? Suffering excessive pain is simply so horrible…"

"He…"

"And now he has gone on to meet his Maker. Oh, I am sure he will be alright up there; he was always such a good man, you know, so conscientious and dutiful, such a devoted husband, such a loving father to his children…" A decorous tear was wiped away.

"And this must be little Georgiana – oh, you poor, poor orphan girl."

Georgie started back like a frightened rabbit, but Lady Hartwell took her by the hands to halt her escape.

"I have not seen you since you were a wee little lass in your mother's arms. And now look at you – how you have grown! A truly beautiful young lady you have become; such a tragedy that you had to lose your parents so young! Oh, what will become of you now? You simply must come and live with me in London; we will make the most accomplished young lady out of you that ever was seen!"

"Don't be silly, Agnes. You are just her cousin by marriage. Georgiana had better come and live with us at Matlock House. We are her aunt and uncle after all; we should have first rights to her." And to Georgie, "Don't you worry, dearie. In a few years, I assure you we will be able to launch you into society as the belle of every ball!"

"May I remind you, ladies, that I am the eldest of the Fitzwilliams, and the nearest female blood relation the girl has?" Lady Catherine cut in. "Therefore, I will be the one to take young Georgiana under my wing. There can be no two opinions about it."

"Actually, there can." Fitzwilliam was brave (or foolhardy) enough to enter into the fray. "If you ladies would care to take a look at the facts, you will find that it is Darcy and I who have been named Georgie's guardians. She is not going anywhere without our consent."

Suddenly, the three ladies were all falling over him instead, and Fitzwilliam sent Darcy a quick wink.

"Two young bachelors as guardians of a young girl? Preposterous!" Aunt Catherine pontificated. "She must come and stay with me at Rosings. It is only proper!"

And, "Don't be foolish, Richard. You know nothing about girls and the demands placed upon them by society. She would be much better off with your father and me." His mother.

And Lady Hartwell: "Ludicrous! Whose idea was that? Some silly man's, no doubt, with no insight into the life of a modern young woman. Surely you can see that she would be much more comfortable with a motherlike figure such as me? I am even the right age for the role! No. She must come and live with me. We will be such a merry party, won't we, darling Georgiana? I promise I will treat you as if you were my own."

"Agnes!" Hartwell hissed, annoyance written in all his features.

She flicked her head. "Oh, don't be a spoilsport, Stephen. You know perfectly well I will sponsor our daughter, too, in a few years."

"Not on your life!" Hartwell muttered.

If she heard his scathing remark, she ignored it, for she chattered on, "Little Georgiana here will be good practice. I so long to have a big daughter with whom I can share confidences!"

"You cannot even bring yourself to take an interest in your own children! And then you want to take on another?!"

"Of course, darling," she chirped, eliciting an expression on Hartwell's face as if he had just taken a swig of vinegar. "How could I not? It is my Christian duty."

"Ladies." Lord Matlock held up his hands. "I believe we have frightened young Georgiana more than enough for one day. Georgiana, why don't you take your plate and finish your tea in the nursery. I am sure you would be more comfortable there."

To say that Georgiana fled the room would – as the expression commonly goes – be an understatement.

Only in this case, it was not.

Darcy unfortunately could not escape so easily. The talk just went on and on and on – at first with continued bickering about who would get to take care of 'dear Georgiana', with none of the ladies seemingly accepting the fact that the girl's lot was in the hands of her brother and her cousin Richard; nor did any of the ladies stop to wonder what Georgiana herself wanted. Fitzwilliam did his best to deflect as much of their assaults away from Darcy and onto himself as he could, but it was impossible to be comfortable around such conversation.

Meanwhile, Hartwell attempted to curb the worst of his wife's conversational excesses (with indifferent success), and Lord Matlock had his hands full making sure the barbed unpleasantness between his wife and his sister did not escalate too badly.

Once the topic of poor Georgiana's future at last hit an impasse, the ladies moved on to a discussion of Pemberley. The grounds were pronounced to be delightful as far as one could judge at this unfavourable time of year, but the ladies all agreed that it wanted more artifice to be considered truly of the highest standard. A maze was needed of course, and a Grecian temple, and a French garden (yes, especially a French garden), and a quaint little ruin to spark the imagination, and of course a variety of statues by the most acclaimed sculptors in the empire to bring it all to life.

The house itself was considered grand and picturesque – perfectly suitable for one with an income of ten thousand a year. The indoor decoration however met with severe disapproval from all of the ladies: more than a decade out of fashion, they decided the house's interior was in dire need of an update. Colours and accessories were discussed at length, rooms repurposed, furniture moved, thrown out and replaced, objects of art bought and sold, curtains and carpets redesigned – there was no end to their improvement plans.

Darcy had mostly zoned out by the time they moved to dinner. It was his home after all, not theirs, and he had a strong aversion against the idea of redecorating anything – fashionable or not. He liked the house the way it was; the way he had always known it. It was home, and he was convinced that any major or even minor changes would obliterate that cozy feeling of belonging. Heaven knew he needed it.

However, when his Aunt Matlock and Hartwell's wife moved on to discuss who might be a suitable mistress for Pemberley to affect all these changes, he could not help but listen in alarm.

"It should be no trouble to get him married – he has a great estate, and he certainly is a handsome fellow. And rich as Croesus to boot!"

"And already in full command of his fortune, too! There is hardly a man in London his age who can say that! No, I dare say our Darcy will be the catch of the season!"

"Oh yes. I am sure every young lady in town will be after him in a heartbeat!"

Darcy shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

"But who would be good enough for Pemberley? Obviously, since he has no title, he would not be obliged to marry in the peerage. That broadens the field significantly."

"He could easily marry into the peerage though, with his fortune and his close connection to the Matlocks."

"Of course he could, yes. Besides, he will definitely want to broaden his connections. So where does that leave us?"

The two ladies pondered the question for a moment while they nibbled from their repast.

"How about that Miss Alexandra What's-Her-Name – you know, the one who inherited the entire fortune of her uncle the Duke of Attenborough?"

Lady Hartwell however was appalled. "Never! She has a face like a horse!"

Fitzwilliam at his right hand snorted indecorously. "More like a dinosaur. I dare say our Darcy has higher standards than that."

"Too true." Lady Matlock sighed. "What about Miss Spencer then? She is pretty enough. And rumour has it her dowry exceeds the fifty thousand pounds."

Lady Hartwell gasped. "Surely you do not mean Miss Gertrude Spencer? I would die of embarrassment if I was married to someone named Gertrude."

Fitzwilliam chuckled. "Good thing you cannot marry her then."

"Or related. That is the same thing."

"Thank heaven it is not! I may be related to you, ma'am, but I most certainly am not married to you!"

"Oh, do stop teasing, Richard. You know what I mean."

"Yes," his mother chimed in. "We are having a serious conversation about Darcy's prospects. Instead of making fun of us, why don't you assist us in our search?"

"Very well then." Fitzwilliam sent Darcy a quick wink. "How about… Miss Hilda Appleton?"

"Miss Appleton?" They eagerly leaned forward, eyes wide with curiosity and anticipation. "Who is she?"

Fitzwilliam grinned. "The proprietress of an inn close to where we were camped with the regiment last year."

Gasps and groans all around him.

"Well, she sure was pretty," he defended himself. "Dark, almost black hair, flawless skin, a perfect figure, and the most striking blue eyes you ever have seen! And the fire in them! Oi! She could make the biggest troublemakers cower away in the corner – just by glaring at them! I bet you would give her a second glance, too, Darce."

"Oh, do stop toying with us, Richard. The marriage market is a serious business."

"Too serious by half, if you ask me," was Fitzwilliam's opinion. "Why can't Darcy choose his own wife?"

"Of course he can. We are just trying to help. By the way, it is high time you found a wife as well."

"Oh no!" Raising his hands, Fitzwilliam backed away from the table. "Hartwell has got his heir and his spare. You are not pressuring me into marriage before my time!"

"We shall see," his mother decreed. "Now where were we?"

"I was thinking…" Lady Hartwell mused. "What about Miss Hammond? I know she is in her second season, but she is pretty enough. Her connections are impeccable, and I have it on good authority that her dowry is close to thirty thousand pounds."

Fitzwilliam smirked. "That wouldn't be the Miss Hammond who is your sister's particular friend, would it?"

Lady Matlock sniffed. "That will never do, Agnes. They are only two generations removed from trade, the upstarts. I do not understand why your family allows that friendship to continue."

"Well, it was just an idea."

"It is such a pity that Lady Perkinson got betrothed last month. She would have been the perfect bride for Darcy, don't you think? Her dowry, her connections, her noble lineage…"

Suddenly, an imperious voice from the other side of the table cut in. "What are you talking of, Eleanor? What are you saying? If you are speaking of Darcy's bride, I must have my share in the conversation!"

Uncle Matlock sat back with a sigh and rolled his eyes, whereas Hartwell focused stoically on his meal. Fitzwilliam's eyes on the other hand were dancing with mirth; he was probably hoping to goad the discussion into previously unexplored heights of ridiculousness.

And of course, there was the infamous cradle betrothal trotted out, which indeed no one but Aunt Catherine seemed to take seriously. The ensuing debate among the ladies was fraught with mutual skepticism and disdain, with Fitzwilliam discreetly prodding each party into ever increasing outlandishness in their claims. At least he was enjoying his meal.

Darcy himself however more and more regretted that he had not opted to take a tray in the nursery with Georgiana. As far as he was concerned, it would have been vastly preferable – but being the sole host of the company, he could hardly abandon his guests like that, could he?

Suddenly, he noticed that Uncle Matlock was trying to catch his eye. Was it time to call for the separation of the sexes already? It would be a blessing indeed!

He cleared his throat – but no one but Uncle Matlock and Fitzwilliam reacted.

He tapped his knife against his wine glass.

That worked.

"Ladies." Another clearing of his throat. "I think it is time for you to withdraw to the drawing-room."

Aunt Catherine treated him to a disapproving glare, but regally sailed out of the room, with her sister and her niece-in-law in tow.

Hartwell blew out a breath of relief. "Thank you."

Fitzwilliam chuckled. "Poor Darce – being married off left, right and centre without even a by-your-leave!"

"You weren't exactly improving matters, Son," his father reproached as he got up to get the port. "But Darcy my boy, you look done in. Why don't you make an early night of it?"

"I can't," Darcy muttered. "Who will act as host then?"

"I will," his uncle said calmly. "Don't worry; I will try and keep everyone from murdering one another. But you look like you could do with some peace and quiet after this conversational disaster. Go on, off with you. Tomorrow will bring a new day to battle with your relatives."

It took some more coaxing from Fitzwilliam before Darcy was willing to give in, but indeed the sheer peace of closing the door to his rooms behind him was sufficient to convince him of the wisdom of his uncle's advice.

He was deadbeat.

The familiar click of the door to his rooms aroused Darcy from the deepest recesses of sleep. It took a few moments though before his brain connected the dots and he realized he had heard his door being closed.

"Andrews?" He sat up. It was pitchblack in the room – just the way he liked it, even if it made it difficult to make an accurate guess about the time during the night. What time was it anyway? It felt too early to get up already.

He listened carefully for any sounds beyond his door. But clearly, the house lay quiet.

A sigh. It had probably been his imagination.

He lay back down again, and rolled onto his other side. Better get some more…

He froze. There were footfalls, obvious footfalls, right on the other side of that door. Was he being murdered in his bed?!

He sat up again and groped around for some kind of weapon – anything to defend himself. Where was Andrews? Where was Fitzwilliam when you needed him?

His hand hit against the sconce on the nightstand. He grabbed hold of it; better than nothing.

Quietly, he climbed out of bed to receive his nocturnal visitor in as alert a state as possible. Standing barefoot on the mat, he cleared his throat. "Who is there?" he demanded, though his voice didn't sound half as intimidating as he had hoped. "I heard you, interloper! Be a man and show yourself!"

Silence. Did they go away?

No. The door began to crack open, oh so slowly. Darcy raised the sconce over his head and… "Georgie?!"

A little gasp, and yes, there she came around the door – a little wraith in white.

"What are you doing here?" he demanded. "It is the middle of the night!"

"I know. I had to wait till Miss Grant fell asleep, but I think I fell asleep, too."

He rolled his eyes. "So what are you doing here in the middle of the night?" He grimaced. "And don't tell me you couldn't sleep or some such tripe."

"No-o…" She was obviously cringing.

He sighed. She was right of course. It may be dark, but he wasn't exactly decent. He put down the sconce and grabbed his dressing gown. Some fumbling with the tinderbox, and soon, the room was bathed in the soft light of a single candle, lighting up his sister's hair like gold.

But she still had not explained herself. "Well?" He raised a challenging eyebrow. "Out with it. If you choose to wake me up in the middle of the night, the least you can do is tell me what is wrong."

She cast him a quick furtive glance. "Are you…" A gulp. "Are you cross with me?"

"Cross with you?" He raked an exasperated hand through his hair. "You woke me up to ask me that?!"

She made no reply, and kept her eyes on the floor.

A frustrated sigh. "What makes you think I am cross with you? Apart from waking me up of course."

"Well…" She fumbled with her dressing gown.

"Yes?"

A deep breath. "You have hardly even talked to me today. And then I had to eat in the nursery, too. And I know you were sick yesterday, but the day before I have hardly seen you either."

Silence.

She was right of course, he realized. But it wasn't because he was in any way displeased with her, it was just…

"Georgie," he sighed dejectedly. "It isn't you. It is just… taking over Pemberley is a lot of work. I have an awful lot to learn. And on top of that hosting our relatives, some of whom are pretty demanding… I guess spending time with you simply fell by the wayside. I am sorry."

"But Papa..." Her voice caught. "Papa always found time to play with me."

He closed his eyes. "Papa has been managing Pemberley for twenty odd years or more; he could probably do it in his sleep. I am nowhere near such proficiency."

She made no reply.

"And Richard has spent quite some time with you, has he not?"

"That's not the same."

A frown. "I thought you liked Richard?"

"I do. But he is not you."

He grimaced. There sure was no arguing with that… "I am sorry, Georgie."

She just kept looking at him with those huge eyes of hers. Her expectant stare made him distinctly uncomfortable, and he could not help looking away.

Dammit, it was simply too much! Learning how to manage the estate under Mr Wickham's tutelage was something he felt he should be able to do – given time. But to have Georgie making (in itself entirely reasonable) demands of him on top of that, and hosting his relatives under his roof…! True, Fitzwilliam was good to have around, and he did not mind his other cousins so much either, or even Uncle Matlock despite the man's take-charge attitude (which actually came in handy occasionally). But his aunts and Hartwell's wife he could really do without. He wondered how soon after that condolence do on Saturday he could in all politeness turn them out?

"Fitzwilliam?" Georgie called him back to the present.

"Yes?"

"Will you…" A gulp. "Will you at least tell me when you are cross with me?"

He nodded. "I promise. And I also promise that I will try to do better by you."

"And will you… You won't let all those aunts take me away, will you?"

"Of course not. Remember I even promised Father that I would not let the aunts take you? No. You are staying right here with me." He held out his arms, and after a brief moment of hesitation, Georgie scurried into his embrace.

He held her tight for a bit. "You are incredibly precious to me, pet. Never forget that – even if I won't always find the time to show it."

"I love you," she mumbled against his chest. "Please don't ever leave me."

"I won't." He rubbed her back a little. "Come on," he said at last. "Time to get back to bed."

She looked up. "Can I not sleep here with you tonight?"

He smirked as he untangled her arms from his body. "You know better than that, Georgie. It would not be proper."

"But I don't want to be alone."

"You are not alone; you have your nurse with you."

"But I want to be with you."

A sigh. "I am right here, and I am not going anywhere. But surely you understand that you cannot sleep here. You will see me again at breakfast."

Georgiana seemed to acquiesce in that, and she meekly followed along – her hand in his – as he led the way down to the nursery, the sconce held high.

All was quiet; apparently her nurse was still blissfully unaware of her charge's nocturnal escapade. Well, better let sleeping nurses lie; he knew all too well how fierce they could be when they caught you sneaking out at night.

"Will you come and tuck me in?" Georgie begged as they reached the door.

He heaved a sigh. "Oh, alright. But be quiet; we don't want to wake your nurse."

She nodded, and pulled him along into her bedroom on her tiptoes. The curtains were left open, so it was not entirely dark. Georgie quickly divested herself of her dressing gown and her slippers, and scooted under the covers, cradling a floppy long-eared figure against her chest.

"Is that Bunny?" he inquired, recalling the rabbit problem.

A flash of a smile. "Yes. How did you know?"

"Mrs Reynolds told me about him."

Georgie opened her mouth already for some elaboration, but her brother cut her off. "No, Georgiana. You can introduce us some other time. Right now, you really ought to go back to sleep."

Georgie sighed. "Alright." She held out her arms to him, bunny and all, inviting him for a hug. "Good night, Fitzwilliam."

Awkwardly, he complied, and even pressed a little kiss on her forehead, like his mother used to do at bedtime. "Good night, pet. Sleep tight."

Perhaps he was getting the hang of this parenting stuff. He just hoped it would not usually deprive him of his sleep.