He woke up the next morning at the sound of Fitzwilliam's jubilant greeting.

"Rise and shine, Darcy-boy! Here comes your early morning tea!"

Darcy blinked a few times before throwing off the covers and sitting up. "Since when did you become a footman?"

"Since I nearly collided with the guy in charge of delivering your morning tea. It seemed only fair that I'd take over his task." He put down the tray on the nightstand and went to open the curtains.

Darcy winced in anticipated agony. His headache – thank heaven – had indeed receded to a tiny little point at the back of his head, but this sudden attack of light might… No, it was alright: his eyes could handle daylight again.

"I trust you are feeling better?"

Darcy nodded.

"Then have your tea, get dressed and come with me."

"Why? Where are we going?"

"Riding. To chase away the last cobwebs from that hangover." He lowered his voice to a mere whisper. "And I need to talk to you, away from prying ears."

Darcy chuckled. "I don't think ears pry, Cousin."

"Never mind. Get dressed. I'll wait for you in the kitchen."

Fitzwilliam had put his waiting time to good use: by the time Darcy appeared in the kitchen, he had polished off half the tray with fresh hot rolls on the table.

Darcy's stomach rumbled at the tantalizing aroma. "Can I have one, too, please, Cook?" After all, he had hardly eaten a bite yesterday.

"Here." Fitzwilliam grabbed two of them as he got up and pushed them into Darcy's hands. "Now come along. I've already sent for the horses to be saddled."

But, "Master, if I may have a moment?"

"Yes, Mrs Reynolds?"

Fitzwilliam looked chagrined, but even he knew that business comes before pleasure. (Not that it was entirely pleasant what he had to discuss with his friend.)

"I trust you are feeling better, Master?" Mrs Reynolds inquired – rather sternly, he thought.

"Yes, I am." Darcy suddenly blushed in shame. "Oh no. We were to meet yesterday, were we not? My apologies, Mrs Reynolds, for missing our appointment. I should have realized."

Mrs Reynolds' manner immediately softened, as it often did when he showed himself contrite. "Yes, well… you are forgiven. As long as you don't make a habit of it… for this particular reason." Her raised eyebrow indicated that she expected a particular promise from him.

"Of course, Mrs Reynolds. I give you my word. It will not happen again."

She nodded her acceptance, and eager to make up for his lapse, he asked, "But regarding the matter, perhaps we could discuss it today? What time would be convenient for you?"

"Right after breakfast again?"

"Consider it done."

"Well, then off you go for your morning ride. A good thing the weather has finally cleared." She grinned mischievously. "Poor Master Fitzwilliam is already chomping at the bit!"

He was indeed.

"So what is the emergency?" Darcy asked as Fitzwilliam pulled him along out the door.

But his cousin shook his head. "Not here. Come."

A few minutes later, they rode out of the courtyard, and as soon as they cleared the gate, Fitzwilliam challenged him to a race to Sherwood Knoll, taking off at a gallop without even waiting for an answer.

Sherwood Knoll was their old childhood haunt for top secret activities. It was such a remote and untamed corner of the park, that no sensible adult ever set foot there – hence its promotion to secret hide-out for young boys.

Once they reached the top of the hill on their snorting horses, and looked out over the wooded valley below, Darcy once more asked, "So what is the emergency?"

Fitzwilliam sighed and turned to his cousin. "Darce, you've got a problem."

He grimaced. "Tell me about it; I've got quite a few right now. Which one are we talking about?"

Another sigh. "Do you remember when we came in yesterday?"

"Sort of." Another grimace. "It is all rather hazy though."

"But do you remember what Aunt Cathy said?"

"Aunt Cathy?! Was she there?"

"Yes. She was the one yelling at us."

"Oh." Silence. "No, I don't remember. All I remember is someone shouting at me – far too loud for my poor head. I just tried to block out the onslaught; I don't think I took in a single word."

"Well, I did." Fitzwilliam fidgeted with the reins. "She insisted you are not fit to be the master of Pemberley, and that she will take over until you can prove yourself worthy."

Darcy's mien darkened. "She can't do that, can she?"

"I don't think so, no. You have reached your majority, and your father's will leaves no room for doubt that you are his heir. But I'm afraid there will be some unpleasant scenes ahead. You are going to have to take a stand. Mark your territory, so to say."

Darcy groaned. "Take a stand against Aunt Cathy?! That is like trying to stop a hurricane!"

"Well, you are going to have to nonetheless. At least now you are forewarned."

Darcy just shook his head.

"And I will stand by you of course, no matter what she says. And Father, too, I expect."

"And Georgie."

Fitzwilliam snorted. "Yes, that will be a great help."

"No, I just remembered. She came to my room some time yesterday; something about Aunt Cathy insisting she should go and live with her. I believe she made me promise not to let Aunt take her."

Fitzwilliam growled. "In that case, your problem is threefold."

"Threefold?"

"Yes. You are going to have to defy her on no less than three fronts: Pemberley, Georgie and Anne."

"Anne?! What does she have to with it?"

"Well, I got the story from Thorpe this morning, but he is pretty reliable when it comes to servants' scuttlebutt."

"Who is Thorpe?"

"My valet."

"Ah." Silence. "So what about Anne?"

A sigh. "Well, as I understand it, when they arrived yesterday, Aunt Cathy demanded that Anne be given the mistress's suite."

"What?!"

"Exactly. She nearly dismissed a maid over it, and Mrs Reynolds had to step in to sort things out. That's another one you have staunchly on your side by the way; the servants truly despise Aunt Cat. Some are already talking of quitting their post the moment she takes over."

Darcy groaned, and buried his face in his horse's mane for a moment. The horse whinnied in sympathy, and shook its head.

"Anyway," Fitzwilliam continued, "Anne and her companion now occupy the rooms next to the mistress's suite, and Aunt Cathy the room next to that."

"Marking their territory," Darcy muttered in disgust.

"Staking their claim, more like it. It hasn't been said with so many words, but everything points in the direction of the ladies hoping to browbeat you into marrying Anne."

Darcy buried his head in his hands and groaned. "I believe my headache is coming back."

"I don't blame you. But Darce, what you need is a battle plan to defuse the whole scam. And I was thinking…"

Upon their return to the house after their strategy meeting, Darcy quietly snuck up the back stairs to change his mud splattered clothes. He wanted to hear Anne's side of the story before having to confront his headstrong aunt.

And ten minutes later, he crossed the hall to her rooms and tentatively knocked on the door.

"Come!" a quiet voice invited.

He opened the door. There she was: as frail and pale as he remembered her, together with a middle-aged lady. Her companion, presumably.

"Fitzwilliam! Please – come in."

He crossed the threshold and uneasily cleared his throat. "Anne. Can I talk to you for a moment?"

"Of course. Please, come on in. Mrs Jenkinson, this is my cousin, Fitzwilliam Darcy of Pemberley. Fitzwilliam – Mrs Jenkinson, my companion."

"Madam," he bowed.

"A pleasure, sir," she curtseyed.

"Come and sit with us," Anne invited in her quiet manner. "Would you like some tea?"

"Erm… yes, please." He sat down at the edge of the indicated chair.

Mrs Jenkinson poured his tea. "Milk or lemon, sir?"

"Milk, please."

"Sugar?"

"Yes, please."

He stirred his tea in uneasy silence. Come on, Darce. This isn't getting you anywhere.

A deep breath. "Anne, first of all my apologies for not receiving you and your mother properly yesterday. I only learned this morning that you were here."

The pale girl actually giggled a little. "So I heard. I hope you are feeling better now?"

"Yes. Thank you. And how are you?"

She shrugged a little. "As well as can be expected." Her face fell. "And I am so sorry about your father."

"Thank you."

Silence. They had dispensed with the obligatory societal niceties; it was time to tackle the problem.

"Anne." A shy cough. "Could I please have a word with you in private?" He glanced at Mrs Jenkinson. "Would it be alright if you are in the next room, with the door open?"

The ladies exchanged a look; Anne's was rather apprehensive, he thought. But, "Alright, Mr Darcy," Mrs Jenkinson said. "But I expect you both to strictly adhere to the rules of propriety."

Darcy nodded.

And Anne said quietly, "Of course, Mrs Jenkinson."

A moment later, they were alone in the room. He thought he felt Anne's studying eyes on him, whereas he himself studiously avoided looking in her direction. However, there was nothing for it – he had to address the matter with her. He closed his eyes, a deep breath for courage, and… "Anne, I heard what happened with the rooms yesterday. Is it… I mean, are you… well, expecting to marry me?"

A delicate sigh. "No. But Mother is."

He frowned. "I do not understand. Why would she want us to marry? You have Rosings, and I have Pemberley."

"That is the point." Anne sagged back in the big armchair, all but disappearing into it. "Technically, Rosings will be mine in two years. But I am in no condition to take care of it."

"Why not? Your health may not be overly robust, but with a sensible husband and a good steward…"

"Fitzwilliam…" she interrupted him with her eyes closed. "I have a weak heart. I was born with it, and the doctors think it is getting worse. Physical exertion, even too much excitement could kill me – just like that."

He sat stunned. He had always known her to be frail and sickly, but this…! And you thought you had problems, he chided himself. Well, there was no denying he did indeed, but at least none of them presented an immediate threat to his life…

And Anne continued, "Marital duties would be the death of me, and even if I would survive those, carrying a child would most definitely mean my demise, long before the baby was born. I can never give Rosings an heir. Nor you. But Mother somehow cannot accept that. She is desperate to keep the estate in the family – the Fitzwilliam family, that is. That is why she wants me to marry you: to keep Rosings in the family."

Darcy frowned. "Would it not make more sense to marry Fitzwilliam then? Richard, I mean. At least he is a real Fitzwilliam. And unlike me, he hasn't got an estate of his own to worry about."

Anne had a ghost of a smile. "From what I gather, Mother considers him too outspoken, too irreverent. You are much quieter; she expects you to be much easier led."

Darcy didn't like the sound of that.

But Anne continued, "Either way, she means well: to make sure I will always be properly cared for. But she has got it all backwards. Rosings is the De Bourgh estate, not a Fitzwilliam estate, and if I don't have any issue, my cousin Edgar will inherit it upon my death. And he is hale and hearty, and has three equally healthy sons."

Darcy needed a moment to absorb all that. "So… you let her drag you halfway across the country to get married – for nothing?"

She chuckled softly. "Not nothing – it's nice to see you and Georgiana again. And the journey hither was everything charming: I just sat in a comfortable carriage and watched the world glide by."

He chuckled along with her.

"And no, Fitzwilliam, you need not worry that I will ever marry you." A careful breath. "What you need is a strong wife, who can give you a healthy heir and a bunch of spares to continue the Darcy line. A wife who can help you around the estate. And I could never do that, even if I wanted to." She closed her eyes. "But you know Mother; she never listens to anything that goes against her own point of view. So I've come up with a plan. But I would need you to help me."

Darcy raised an eyebrow.

"Listen." Anne looked up and carefully leaned forward in her chair. "I assume you will have to hit the marriage market soon, am I right?"

He nodded. "Probably not right away, with the mourning period and learning how to manage the estate, but yes. Probably next year."

"Which means that two years from now, in all likelihood you will be married."

He gulped. Suddenly, the idea of getting married was almost scarier than being the master of Pemberley.

But Anne already continued. "Which is what my plan hinges on. We can easily hold off any marriage plans as long as you are in mourning. After that, we can say that for practical reasons, we want to wait till I reach my majority and come into my inheritance, which God willing will be in the summer of '09. And surely you will have found a wife by then. And when you present Mother with that fait accompli, any ideas of a marriage between us will perforce be off the table. And I'm off the hook." A trembling breath. "Will you do that for me? Please?"

Darcy shuddered. "She will be as mad as a March hare."

"Probably, yes. She will rave and rant for a few days – but I am quite used to that. After so many years, I am a master at ignoring her diatribes."

"How?" Darcy wanted to know.

"It's not so difficult really. You just think of something else and let her ramble on, without giving any indication as to whether you agree or disagree with her."

He chuckled involuntarily. "Still, I cannot imagine such diatribes being pleasant for you to sit through though."

Anne shrugged. "It would be you she is mad at; not me. But you are in faraway Derbyshire, and she is in Kent, so what can she do? And even if she would cut all ties with you, you never gave me the impression of caring much for her company anyway, so… Please, Fitzwilliam, I know I am asking much, but… will you not be my remote scapegoat for escaping marriage?"

Darcy scratched his neck. "Are you sure she would not take it out on you?"

"Never." A careful breath. "She is far more inclined to be overprotective of me than to ever hurt a hair on my head. You need not worry on that account."

"Hm." Darcy went over her plan in his mind. To be fair, it was a bit of a hare-brained scheme, but it might just work. Unless of course… "But what if I don't yet have a wife when you reach your majority?"

She actually scoffed. "A young man as handsome and rich as you? Not possible." A vague grin. "I would wager a year's pin money that you won't even last an entire season." She shrank into herself again, as if that little outburst had cost her more than its fair share of strength. "Anyway, in the unlikely event that it should happen, we can cross that bridge when we come to it." A sigh. "If we come to it; I might not even live that long."

He winced in sympathy.

"So are you with me?"

A deep breath. He could not in all conscience ignore this plea for help from his poor cousin, could he? "Alright. I'm in. I have enough problems on my plate right now to be happy to defer one of them to later."

She closed her eyes in relief and sagged even further into the armchair. It almost swallowed her frail frame alive. "Thank you."

Darcy watched her stillness with mounting horror. The deathly pallor of her lips and cheeks, her barely noticeable breathing… "Anne?!" He reached out to her – she wasn't going to expire in front of his eyes, was she?! "Anne?! Can you hear me? Mrs Jenkinson!"

But Anne weakly raised her hand. "I am fine. Just tired." She opened her eyes at a slit to look at him, just when Mrs Jenkinson came rushing into the room. "Thank you, Fitzwilliam. You have my eternal gratitude."

At least that was what he thought he could make out from her lip movements.

"You had better go now, sir," Mrs Jenkinson exhorted him. "Do not worry; I will tend to her."

Darcy nodded bashfully. "Just… Anne, would it be alright for me to recruit Fitzwilliam as an ally?"

She nodded vaguely. "Do what you have to."