Finally! We have arrived! Thank you all for your support thus far. What can be expected from hereon? Some canon characters are going to fade into the background, and make way for some original characters. I've had my fill of Lydia; I'm sure we all have. Though she was very important to P&P, I'm no longer following her story like before. At some point, she'll have a brief reappearance, but haven't worked all that out yet.

Mary and Kitty suffered some disappointments already. This section will be a happier one for them.

My updates have usually been pretty steady, but if by chance they do slow down, I'm still writing. Will try to respond to reviews whenever I can. (Which by the way, to FishWilliam, I've NEVER had a reader post a review in another language. I was really surprised! I don't know whether you are multi-lingual or using a translator to read R,C&S, but either way, awesome!) Whether it's just a thank you for the update, critique, or you decide to go into book club mode, I appreciate and enjoy it all the same.

Hope you enjoy your coffee break or tea time!

PART 2

Chapter 1

For the first time since she was a child, Kitty was on her way to London. However, the reason and length for her journey was quite the disappointment, compared with all that had been told by her mother. It was nothing to boast of in a letter to Lydia. The Bingleys were only to be town for a week, possibly less, before heading north. Mr. Bingley and Jane remained at Netherfield only a twelvemonth. They remained three months after the wedding, then traveled and stayed in company with family and friends. Mr. Darcy, now, could be counted as family. Their return and staying in Hertfordshire was intermittent. So near a vicinity to her mother and Meryton relations was not desirable even to his easy temper, or her affectionate heart. The darling wish of his sisters was then gratified; over two years into marriage, he bought an estate in a neighbouring county to Derbyshire. Back and forth between Hertfordshire and Nottinghamshire, Mr. Bingley had been traveling for the last three weeks. Jane and Kitty were to join him in town, at the Darcy house in Grovsnor Street.

Now that a purchase had been made, countless more decisions were needing to be settled. Some particulars were outlined in frequent, regular letters to his wife, and by relating them ahead of time would her time to reflect on personal preferences. Such news that filled the pair with excitement had thrown a pall over Longbourn, particularly on Mrs. Bennet. The thought of losing another child to a long distance had her in mourning for many days. Mr. Bingley was such a cruel young man, always coming and going, and taking his family thither on a whim, to her own mind anyway. Worst of all, she was losing dear little Davy. He'd just been learning to take his first steps alone. For in her first grandson, she experienced all the delights unknown to a mother of five daughters.

"He's asleep now," whispered Kitty to Jane. His fair, almost flaxen head, had sagged into his mother's lap.

Since the marriage, the whole family had been to visit Pemberley at least one together. Mr. Bennet visited three times on his own, desperately missing his favourite child. And a journey, without the weight of additional luggage and bodies to a vehicle, was faster and more convenient when taken solitary. For Kitty, she had been once with the family, and then went to stay on her own for the second. The glories of a great house and magnificent grounds, a large staff of servants, and having all domestic comforts and luxuries easily accessible by a husband's large fortune easily impressed a young girl of nineteen. It gave her much pleasure to see Lizzy so happily established, under the care of a devoted, caring husband.

Yet, only one complaint was to be made about it. While the family visited, and on Kitty's most recent visit, the house was rather quiet. Lizzy and Mr. Darcy, of like disposition and preference in their domestic comforts, kept mealtimes mostly a family affair, themselves, Georgiana, and Kitty herself. No balls, no parties, no important guests, no family came to visit except Mr. Darcy's cousin, the colonel. He stayed a few nights on a matter of business, dined with them, like any good company, then departed for another part of the country. It seemed almost remiss of Lizzy not to host something special in her sister's honour. Instead, the business of the day was paying calls to neighbours and tenants, walks of the grounds, long periods of time in deep reading; sadly, everything that should've answered Mary's wishes, if only she had been able to go.

"I'm glad you'll be joining us, Kitty," began Jane. "It'll be a treat too. For neither of us have seen the house personally."

"I'm delighted," said Kitty, with hallow tone.

"Charles has warned me, though, there's plenty of work and renovation to be done. So I hope you won't mind some of the noise and disorder."

"Nonsense. I'm glad to be invited."

"Now, that we'll have more time and free reign, we might go out riding again. If you'll just give it another chance, I'm sure you would enjoy it. In a week, all of Charles' horses will be reunited with us. Sheba is a gentle creature. She'll suit you well."

"I don't know, Jane. I've always been afraid to ride. I never did well when I tried before."

"It's good exercise, and now that we're into March, the weather will be very convenient for riding… I promise. We'll start slow, my dear. We'll just start if off, just by ourselves together, then when you feel comfortable, you'll be able to join Charles and I. Or Caroline and myself."

"Caroline?" That detail was not mentioned before they left Longbourn. "Charles' sister will be there too?"

"We are to meet her in London. She is staying on with the Hursts."

"Oh Jane, really? Why doesn't she stay in London? I thought Mr. Bingley said she despised the country."

Her sister blushed. "I think that statement was more in reference to Netherfield Park itself. Kitty please, it's a much larger house than Netherfield. If you two cannot care for each other's company, you won't be in each other's way all the time. Can you please, for your own sake, make an effort to be civil with her?"

Boredom and peace were one matter. Miss Darcy proved to be an awkward, sweet girl; but to contemplate the boredom of spring in the country, under the same roof with such a disagreeable companion as Miss Bingley, Kitty resisted the urge to melt into tears. All due promises were made, to be on her best behaviour, regardless of incivility.

"She is, by no means, I'll admit, an easy person to like. But try to show some compassion. She doesn't have many friends."

Between a quiet springtime in the country and Caroline Bingley, it was the ruin of any holiday. What misery awaited in Nottinghamshire, even if it were as wonderful as Pemberley. After the monotony of the carriage had lulled all three enough by degrees, Kitty unraveled a letter from her reticle. Another letter from Lydia arrived shortly before their departure. It wasn't a long one, but as always, the topic revolved around the assembly balls, parties, excursions, and dashing young men. Mr. Bennet was as good as his word. Mrs. Wickham's invitations to Kitty never received his consent. No amount of protest from Kitty herself or Mrs. Bennet, no promises to behave better than her sister, would induce him to give into such schemes.

He once relented, allowing Lydia to go to Brighton. To his family, he vowed never to make the same mistake again. His elder daughters supported him with wholehearted discretion. Lydia was not shunned at Pemberley. She might join her family there on special occasions, or aside from direct invitations from Lizzy, the Wickhams were never encouraged to stay long in Derbyshire. Mr. Wickham was not welcome anywhere in Lampton. In this way, though, Kitty and Lydia had brief opportunity to meet and mingle again, but the three guardians were anxious to keep the two distinctly separate. Letters were permitted; prohibition would've been impossibly harsh on both parties. Jane's other concern, however, lay with how Kitty was treated by her sister. Although marriage tempered competitiveness, the conquest of a handsome husband, the first of all her sisters, made the eighteen year old matron more brazen in her insolence.

Lydia could also boast, as first of her sisters, to become a mother. Two girls came in rather quick succession: Dora and Matilda. The birth of the younger was news of two months ago. For the first child, Mrs. Bennet was anxious to go to Newcastle, and since Mr. Bennet was ensconced at Pemberley during that time, she had no trouble procuring consent; he was not around to be asked. Mrs. Bennet spent a good six weeks in the north, fawning over her first granddaughter. She assisted the young mother dutifully in her recovery, but towards the end of that time, the Wickhams had more than enough of her constant presence. By such visit, Mrs. Bennet also became a lively advocate at Longbourn for the furtherance of Wickham's military career and the domestic comforts of her poor, dear child banished in the north. Of course, crying babies, poor service in the kitchen, as well as grocers banging on the door at ungodly hours for payment of bills, was nowhere in Kitty's thoughts on the road to London.

It wasn't to be said that the fourth Bennet girl accepted her sister's invitation without gratitude. Her stays in Derbyshire and her long days and nights spent at Netherfield was consolatory. It had been about two and a half years, now, since the –shire regiment had been quartered at Meryton. She'd had her first taste of romance in those too brief months. A girl of her age would call it romance, but the older and wiser in the world would call her experience a mere infatuation. She couldn't have known the difference between the two. Were the feelings mutual between herself and Mr. Denny or were they all one-sided? That was a question she would agonize over for months to come. Then, a harder blow fell upon Kitty last summer: the battle of Waterloo.

Thousands of families across the kingdom waited anxiously for the news of the battle, then, even more dreadful, the list of casualties. All the papers printed the lists. Long lists they were too, and all members of the Longbourn household scanned the lists for familiar names. To their misfortune, they recognized a few, and Mary watched with sorrow, the recognition in her sister's face. Colonel Forster… Pratt… Saunders… Chamberlayne… and R. Denny. By the time she reached Denny's name, Kitty was unable to bear it anymore. Her mother had grabbed her before she could fall to her knees. Despite all the pain he caused, there was greater pain in finding him on the list of the dead. Mary seized up the paper next, continuing to read, particularly in the C's.

Carter.

Her heart wrenched within her, for two seconds. Lieutenant W. Carter of the 8th –shire. It took a moment before her heartbeat and breath returned to normal. It wasn't him! There was no Captain L. Carter of the –shire to be found on the list.

Though perhaps everyone, particularly Mr. Bennet, was most relieved by not encountering G. Wickham on that printed list. It caused quite the furor through the household when it was learned that Lydia had gone with her husband and his regiment to Brussels, bringing little Dora along with her. A serious battle was not expected, and all the women and civilians of the city had nothing to fear. Mrs. Bennet was in bed for a week, in a state much like that when Lydia had eloped. Her father fumed at this brash stupidity, declaring he could wring Wickham's neck, both their necks; for him to take his whole family near the battle lines, and for Lydia to agree to it and bring along her own child, Mr. Bennet declared, prior to the battle, that if his daughter should be made a widow, she had no home at Longbourn. She might leave her child with her grandparents, to proper care, but for herself, he washed his hands of Mrs. Wickham.

It wasn't until weeks after the battle, and weeks after the casualty lists were printed, that Mrs. Bennet forgave her husband for his hardhearted words. Thankfully, nobody had to face that reality. If Lydia had to return to Longbourn, Mary had decided, within herself, that there would be no reason to continue in residence. She was her mother's companion now. If Mrs. Bennet should be restored to her favourite child, Mary would allow herself to be replaced, and make her home with one of her sisters. All the better for everyone concerned, that Mr. Wickham had not fallen at Waterloo. Even Mr. Darcy had been anxious for the state of the whole family, if his former friend and current liability, were disposed of by the ravages of Napoleon's army.

Even if Denny had lived, though, it was not with any interest to see him again that Kitty wished otherwise. The damage had been done and communicated clearly enough in his final letter. It troubled her for days that she was so upset, without even understanding why; all the family felt equal perplexity, as though Denny had been a real lover or husband. That battle was unexpected, and the mass of fatalities came as a great shock for everyone. Over half the men that had attended that farewell picnic at Longbourn, who sang for the Bennet family and so many Meryton families, lay cold in the ground. Kitty even thought of Mrs. Forster, and cried too over the colonel.

Mr. Bingley's news about a new house and its purchase was news much welcomed. For Jane, it took some convincing to get Kitty warmed up to the idea. Davy should adore having his aunt with him. They would have plenty of time together, and Kitty would be at her leisure to explore the grounds. Mr. Bingley gave them to understand that, as soon as the house was in decent order, it was time to play host and give a ball. Of course, when this event was to take place, was not specified. It might be in a matter of weeks or maybe one or two months away.

"That sounds capital," answered Kitty.

"Is there anything you'd like to do while you're with us?"

"I don't know. Maybe I'll have to think on that one."

"Before Davy came, I was taking up some sketching and watercolours. If you don't care for riding, we'll find you something."

"What is it you wish me to find?"

"An occupation. An interest. Something that will make you happy."

"Do you think I am unhappy?"

"Well, you must admit, you seem a little out of spirits. You don't seem yourself."

"Heavens, that is serious. Not myself? I must be someone else, but who am I supposed to be?"

"Kitty—"

"I'd be better off being anybody else."

"Hush Kitty. That is no way to talk. You're out of spirits. You're in need of a good change. That is all. These are the best years of your life to experience new things and new people, new friends."

"Of course, I want to do all that. I want to meet new people."

"I'll do what I can about that, Kitty. But you mustn't confine your wishes merely to young gentlemen."

"Well, I've known so few. And there is nobody worthwhile in Meryton. If I were to have stayed, Mama probably would keep inviting Mr. Richard over for family dinners. Poor Mary. I wish she could've come with us, if only her health were better for it… I wonder what will become of her. Mama does fret so about her. She is worried Mary will be her Charlotte Lucas, or Miss Clarke. Of course, she doesn't say so to Mary, but she'll talk about it when Mary is ill in bed."

"She seems to have made some improvements with her treatments. The doctor in town has her on a better regimen, and he did warn Mary not to expect miraculous measures or improvements so soon. Aside from that, you both mustn't mind Mama when she is nervous. You're nineteen, and Mary has just turned one and twenty. That is still very young. Mama and her sister married much younger, and so do many girls. For those who take longer, or who don't marry at all, there's no reason to be ashamed. You and Mary will always have a home with us."

Three days into her miseries, and with the pain now letting up, Mary was better capable of sitting at the corner desk. Her vision no longer swirled with the placement of her spectacles. While composing her letter, Chop was rubbing her leg and collapsing himself on the skirt of her nightgown. Miss Darcy had become a regular correspondent ever since her sisters' wedding day. Mary's one visit to Pemberley only enhanced friendship, allowing more time for them each to explore one another's tastes and accomplishments. It was a joy to play with someone as equal, even more accomplished at the piano forte than herself. And since their initial acquaintance, Georgiana was in the habit, every so often, of begging to hear of new compositions.

It pleased Mary immensely. Lately, she had started composing something new, and sent Georgiana a few bars copied from her own notes. Mary requested her opinion and any critique that she deemed necessary; in return, Georgiana replied with opinions, praise, and some critique, enough to be insightful but not over-much to be unflattering. Hours could be spent in this way, between them both. It seemed a shame that Kitty missed out on such pleasure of a friend, and she had spent more time at Pemberley than Mary and all the rest of her family.

Sarah knocked and begged excuse for the interruption.

"No matter. What is it, Sarah?"

"It's your mother, Miss Mary. She asked I send for you."

"Oh… Is it the usual?"

"Afraid so. She said her head feels ill tonight… Shall I bring your tea to her dressing room?"

"Yes, please do."

As expected, her mother was to be found nursing her ill head with three pillows under her head, a damp and hot rag sitting over her eyes, and half-asleep. She startled slightly at the sound of the door. Mary took her usual place in a chair beside the bed. It was growing a more common occurrence, being bidden to her mother's bedside. To tame the nervous headache or the sudden rise in the temperature of the room, Mary was often asked to read until sleep claimed her. Unlike the other servants, Mary did not complain of the cold coming through the open window. In the dead of winter, her mother started to throw open her own bedroom window for air. Mary entertained the wicked thought, for just a moment, of lecturing her on the deadly results of the open window before shuttering it closed. But that would've been too unkind.

"I'm glad you've come. I should let you rest, but there's this pain in my head. It was nothing when it started in the afternoon. Now, I'm quite done in."

"I'm here, Mama. Shall I read to you?"

"Maybe in a bit… I feel a bit restless too. Have you ever been so tired that you couldn't fall asleep? Why is that, I wonder? Or else, I may sleep soundly the whole night, then wake up and feel as if I didn't sleep a wink. Does that ever happen to you?"
"Maybe sometimes. Sarah is bringing up some tea," Mary informed. "That should go a long way to calming your nerves. I've read a great deal of the health benefits of chamomile, and sage, as well as lavender."

"I don't know what's happened to you, Mary. You take your tea so strong now. Whenever I've tasted it, it's ghastly, too bitter for me. Even the elderberry doesn't take away the bitter taste."

"It helps make the pain more bearable."

"Must be a new concoction of Mr. Jones."

Mary bit her lip, incapable of going that direction. Both she and Mrs. Gardiner had kept their secret so far. Dr. Reis in London had done a mixture for her himself, in his own clinic. That little bottle from him was kept in the green tin box, secrecy of vital importance.

"He said he was all out of stock of his other medicine," continued Mrs. Bennet. "I asked him for it, but he declared he was uncertain when he'd be able to procure more. But at least, he still has his usual pain prescriptions."

No doubt, that encounter in the shop between himself, herself, and Captain Carter, made an enemy of Mr. Jones. He must still nurse a grudge, but to keep up the appearance of cooperation, Mary slowly dosed and gradually emptied his regular prescription bottle. Whatever it was, this substance, the weeds and shrub below her bedroom window did not seem to mind it.

"I think everything is alright," shrugged Mary. Sarah knocked lightly and brought a tray of tea for both of them. Mrs. Bennet adjusted herself for the task, and accepted the cup from Mary's hand.

"So Mary, when do you think you shall go back to town?" asked Mrs. Bennet.

The shift of question from medicine to London, which had enough connection, caused Mary a rather abrupt blushing. "I do not know," she said, with a swallow. "It's been not been so long since my last visit."

"The first time you went to stay two weeks. The second time, you stayed a month with my brother's family. They took you out, to assemblies and a play or two. Yet, it produced nothing. I just… I don't know what to make of it. There's no easier place to find a husband than in London."

"Mama, that's probably what gave you this headache in the first place," Mary chastised, and rather exasperated. "May we please not talk about this now?"

"I'm sorry, my dear. It's just… It's just so unfair. Why is it so easy for everyone else, getting married and getting their children married? You know, Mary, so often I fear what will happen when your father is gone. But lately, something more dreadful has been weighing on me. What happens when I'm gone? If your father should outlive me, and then, he dies."

"Mama, you need to let it rest. It's a long way off, and foolish to think too much on such things. After all, how does worrying add one cubit to our lifespan?" Mary grasped her mother's hand. "Have faith, Mama. We will be fine. So will you, and Papa. We'll just concern ourselves about it when the time comes. You have two fine sons-in-law too, who will be dutiful by you and your family."

"Thank heavens, yes! I am blessed for that," sighed Mrs. Bennet. "Jane and Lizzy, between them both, will get Kitty suitably settled. And then you."

It was as if Mary had not said a word, but by now, she readily responded: "Of course."

"Perhaps I'm being a selfish creature. If I am, I'm sorry for that."

"What on earth do you mean?"

"I feel like you are here far too much and tied too much to your mama. That really isn't fair for a girl your age. You don't have any fun. All you've done these last two years is go about with me, pay calls on our neighbours, spend hours sitting with me, with just myself for company. I'm sure you're quite sick of me," chuckled Mrs. Bennet. "If I were your age, unmarried, and my mother's companion, I'd probably be going mad."

"No indeed, Mama!"

"I am so glad you have such a dear friend in Miss Darcy. It's a shame she and Mr. Darcy haven't got a brother… But Miss Darcy, she is quite the dearest, sweetest creature in the world. I wish her the best husband with all my heart, someone who will be good to her, make her talk and be lively a little. She must be our Lydia's age, is she not? She's eighteen. She should be allowed to be a girl of eighteen."

"I think Georgiana acts appropriate and most becoming for a lady of any age."

"But I am glad of it. While I do like Maria Lucas and the Harrington girls a good deal, I find their company deficient at times. Lady Lucas will have a hard time with Maria. She's such a gauche girl. She trembles at the mention of Lady Catherine de Bourgh. She trembles as soon as she's asked to dance at the assembly. Timidity will not serve her well. And the Harrington girls, well, they're not bad sort of girls… Then there's Mrs. Long's nieces—"

"Now Mother, you can pay a compliment without being so uncharitable."

"Well, what was I saying? I lost my thought… Oh yes, I wish Miss Darcy the best in marriage, as happy a union as her own brother with Lizzy. What about you, my dear? Have you any inclinations for any other young men, that is, since Mr. Collins?"

That seemed so long ago and almost forgotten. "… No. I cannot say that I have had… I'm sorry to disappoint you."

It's a shame that Mrs. Bennet, for the sake of her family, had not been so effected by the accomplishment of three marriages, to make her more sensible, amiable, well-informed for the rest of her days. Though perhaps it was a fortunate thing for her husband, who might've been disturbed by so drastic a change in his domestic felicity, that she was still occasionally nervous and invariably silly. Mary would not be called upon so often to act as this companion, nor would Kitty be driven from her bedside. With a better informed mind, she'd have better recognized her infirmities, and accepted the diagnosis. She had two unmarried girls, which still vexed her as much, but she had only two unmarried daughters left. Then, one day, she would be only one left, then all of them would be settled. And the mistress of Longbourn would be alone, with a full staff, a husband, and without use to anybody.

Mary could easily see twenty years ahead, this same history repeated in the life of her youngest sister. When her energy and health diminish, and once all youthful beauty fades, she will turn to her children for comfort and joy. Will they take pity on her? Or will they all go their own way just as she did? Will they dismiss their mother's love, even as she pines after them? Lydia and Wickham would become like her own mother and father. Where they might have comfort and joy in their later years, neither their tempers or interests, too incompatible, could unite them again as they were in the first days of their marriage.

If any other suitors came along, it would be a test of character. To whom did she owe her greatest love? None but her husband, of course. But to whom did she owe her greatest loyalty? That would be a difficult one to answer. For a husband would not accept second place. Duty confined her to home. However, Mary would have her occasional trips from home: holidays at Pemberley, at the Bingleys' new house, London with the Gardiners, and maybe Bath or the seaside. Her mother would not begrudge her such pleasures. If a man came along that very day, to claim her most plain child, Mrs. Bennet would not give the slightest thought to her own deprivations. But Mary, it would be in her thoughts constantly. Without too much more conversation or reading, Mrs. Bennet had drifted to sleep for the evening.

By morning, one of those periods of relief was to come in the form of a letter. For it would seem that Lizzy would not wait for a response to Georgiana's.

Dear Mary,

May this letter find you well. I'm not quite well myself lately, so I'll keep this letter brief and to the point. Do not be alarmed though; this is all to be expected when with child.

Mr. Darcy is anxious that I should see a specialist in London. Our local physician, though a good man, has noted some irregularities. It was his recommendation that we make this journey sooner rather than later, when travel might be more difficult and more of a danger. We are to make the trip to London in two weeks. Mr. Darcy has only to make a few arrangements, between his steward and his lawyer. Once I'm able to get my bearings enough not to be very sick in the morning, we will depart.

For truthfully, as much as I love them, between them both, they fret so much over my condition that I start to feel anxious myself. I cannot help but think of Mama, and my greatest fear, in this state of mind, of fancying 'my poor nerves' shredded, torn to pieces, frayed, and lacking compassion from everyone else. May heaven preserve me and Mr. Darcy from such a fate! Please do not mention this to mother or father, if you please. After all, this trip is merely a precaution; there is nothing definitively wrong. I'd hate to raise the alarm. If anything might give me comfort, it would be of great comfort to me, more than anything, if you were here. I should enjoy your company immensely, and I need not tell you how delighted Georgiana would be to have you stay with us in Grovsnor Street. Georgiana, as well as yourself, could benefit from a little change of scene in society. I need peace and calm. Mr. Darcy and his sister need distraction.

Please send your response as soon as you can. Even if you cannot meet us in London by two weeks time, we shall be glad to welcome you at a later date. Bring little Chop and Lion with you. You'll be gone too long and be missed too much. This will be very convenient, especially to see Dr. Reis again sooner. Your presence in town will not be questioned. I beg you, please come. I miss you.

Love your sister,

Lizzy