AUTHOR'S NOTES: I hope everyone reading has had a safe and happy holiday season! Working in gourmet food for my day job, the holidays are my busiest time of the year and definitely slowed me down for writing. However I'm back at it, and hope you all enjoy the next installment in our tale.

PLEASE REMEMBER my trigger warnings from earlier chapters. I do not go into great details of the violence in this story, but I do allude to some pretty unpleasant scenes.

I am submitting this chapter un-beta'd, but will be submitting it for edits. As always I appreciate your constructive criticism, notes on grammar and spelling issues, and most importantly your speculation about where this tale is heading!

In London, the fog was unusually thick. Elizabeth stretched her arms out before her, attempting to push the swirling mass out of her path. Her petite hands seemed to dissipate in dense clouds. The street was familiar, and her steps were sure-footed as she strove down the lane, the soles of her slippers slapping against the cobble stone with a rhythmic precision. The beating of her heart fell into cadence with the steps, thundering in her ears. It was the only sound to be heard on the street. Her instinct the only guide in her direction.

Still, she moved forward with determination, never pausing to wonder where her feet where leading her. She was filled with purpose and energy, confident that she would reach the other side of this heavy, heavy fog and find herself arrived at the destination those feet had determined for her.

Suddenly, a girlish giggle cut through the thick London air, as loud and shocking as any gun shot. Elizabeth came to an abrupt stop, her head swiveling toward to the sound. A sense of dread washed over her, and as she peered into the fog, her mind seemed to finally recognize how very cold and damp the night air was. She listlessly pushed against the fog straining to see where the noise had come from, and noticing her hands for the first time, thought how very odd it was that she should have left the house with no gloves.

"Eli-za-bethhh," came a teasing voice from the mist, "Where have you gone Elizabeth?"

"I am here!" came her confident reply, "I stand before you. Come and find me!"

The giggle seemed to thicken and deepen with the density of the fog in which it travelled, "Eli-za-bethhh," it replied, "You can not run much longer, silly little Elizabeth."

"I do not run." She answered, her voice wavering slightly. "I stand before you. Come and find me."

The fog thickened and swirled around her, thoroughly consuming any light or shadow she could discern through the mass. It seemed to wrap around her own body, twisting and writhing to embrace her with a vice-like grip. She willed her feet to move, to continue forward, but they would not comply. She was rooted to the spot. The damp chill of the fog enveloped her, every hair of her body stood on edge.

From the nape of her neck came a cold and sinister caress. "Stupid girl." The voice murmured, now close enough to whisper in her ear. "A fool to run away, a fool to return."

Her body became over run by shivers of both fear and revulsion; a cold sweat formed along her brow. "I ran because I had no choice. I return because I must."

A humorless chuckle swept over the back of her neck and wound it's way into her ear. "You ran because you are a coward. You return because you are a fool."

Elizabeth opened her mouth to reply, her anger bolstered by her fear. However, another voice in the mist called out before she could answer. "Lizzy? Lizzy are you there!?"

There could be no mistaking that sweet voice, even in the dark and the cold of a London fog. "Jane!" she called, with all her energy, "Jane, I am here! Come to me!"

"Lizzy, I can not. I am bound to this place. You must return to me. Please!"

The fog wrapped itself even tighter as Lizzy struggled against it's grip. She willed her body to move toward her sister with all of her might, and her feet sluggishly answered, taking slow and tentative steps forward. She could feel the full weight of the fog bearing down of her shoulders, could feel the mist clinging onto her ankles, trying to weigh down each step. She had barely moved forward, but already felt exhausted by the effort.

"Lizzy please!" Jane called, but her voice sounded even further away as she moved toward it. "I need you Lizzy."

"Jane! I am coming, wait for me Jane." the younger sister replied, but she knew Jane could not hear her any longer, the fog consumed her voice, refused to let it carry.

"Lizzy! Lizzy!" Jane's voice carried to her as a mere echo, and Elizabeth knew with certainty that she had failed, that Jane was lost to her once again.

In anguish, she dropped to her knees, a tired sob catching in her throat. She buried her face in her hands and wept until she no longer had the strength to create tears.

Elizabeth had no notion of how long she lay in the dark London street, time seemed inconsequential when experiencing such a loss. Shaking with grief, she finally found the strength to rise. She rubbed at her eyes with all the elegance of a small child and looked about. Why, she wasn't in London at all. Her feet has lead her to Longbourn's door. The sun was high and bright in the sky, washing her childhood home in a rich amber glow of an autumn afternoon. The door was open. Her feet crossed the threshold of their own volition.

A woman's scream rattled the porcelain in the foyer. Her heart dropped to her stomach. Blood rushed to her ears as she followed the source of the sound, knowing full well it came from the master's study. She moved with a speed she could not naturally summon, and arriving, flung the door open.

There he stood in all his wickedness, tall and dark and just as imposing as she remembered him. His dark eyes gleamed in the sunlight which poured in from the window, a small smile threatened to tug on the corner of his lips. In his right hand, he held a self fashioned switch, made from the willow tree on the border of Longbourn's grounds. Prostrate before him, lay Jane. Her beautiful face was red with tears, but unmarked by violence. He preferred to leave her pleasant countenance unmarred, and inflict his punishment on the areas of the body that only he had the privilege to see.

"Elizabeth." He said sternly, not looking at her. "Sit."

The feet which had lead her this far forced her to sit.

"This is your fault Elizabeth." He said, looking out the window. "Mrs. Collins seeks the improvement of your mind through education, and dedicates several hours every day to this purpose. Do you see how you repay her?"

She wanted to protest, but Jane's deep blue tear wells met her eyes begged her to stay her tongue. She gulped instead.

"Running from your lessons is a very dangerous thing for a young girl such as yourself Elizabeth. You need education very badly if you will make anything of yourself in this world, for I will not support you once you are of age. Whatever can you mean by frolicking about by the stables, sleeping against a hay bale like a common strumpet?"

He turned from the window to look at her, his dark eyes boring down on her with all the hate he possessed in his heart. She tried to look back at him with defiance, but her own fear and Jane's pleading countenance held her back.

"I would have you go live with your Aunt and Uncle, I have no wish to keep you here. However, Mrs. Collins was so very insistent on your staying, so very loathed to be parted from you, that as good husband I am, I could not deny her wishes. However she promised me that your transgressions would be her own, that she would educate you and hold you to the standard of lady-like decorum I expect from my house hold. As your transgressions are hers, so must your punishment belong to her as well. Go ahead and lift your skirts for your sister, Mrs. Collins. Show her what happens when she misbehaves so."

Dutifully, Jane's hands began to tug on the muslin of her gown, her face red from pain and humiliation. Elizabeth dropped down on her knees, staying Jane's hands. "Please sir," she pleaded, looking up to the master of the estate, eyes brimming with tears, "I beg of you, do not punish Jane for the actions of a foolish, head strong sister. She is all goodness, she does not deserve to be treated thus."

Collins reached down one leathered hand and pulled Elizabeth from her knees by her jaw, squeezing it with all his strength. Jane lay between them, her tears falling freely, her slender frame the only divider between their bodies. "Know this Elizabeth Bennet, hear me and mark my words." He spat, tilting her head back forcefully so that his black eyes could bore down into her burning hazel orbs, "I am the Master of Longbourn, and all those who reside within it. It is by Mrs. Collins desire alone that you remain in this house hold. It is Mrs. Collins who is responsible for you and your hoydenish ways, your deceitful behavior. When you falter, it is Mrs. Collins who will bare the burden of your punishment."

Elizabeth's own tears now fell freely as well, and Collins swelled with gratification to see the arrogant little girl before him subjugate herself so. "You love your sisters, surely you do not wish to be the cause of any harm befalling them?"

Those black eyes drilled into her own, unwavering in their manic anger. Elizabeth could only blink in return, her mind out pacing the abilities of her tongue. "He knows, he knows that I heard, that I know the truth." She thought frantically.

"Well?" He asked, gripping her even harder.

"No Sir." She whispered through his strangle hold on her face.

"You have all been horribly spoilt by your wastrel father, but you worst of all I fear. I will have good girls in this house, or none at all. Am I understood? Mrs. Collins promised me her sister was a good girl."

"Yes Sir." She answered, the hot tears pouring down her cheeks and across her lips.

"And when you misbehave, when you say or do something of which I do not approve, who will be punished?"

"Mrs. Collins, sir."

Here he leaned down, so that his face was only inches from her own, so that she could feel his hot breath upon her face, smell her father's good brandy on his tongue. His voice dropped to barely above a whisper. "And if you ever dare to speak against me, to anyone, anyone at all; if your conceited mind and deceitful nature try in some fashion to defame me, who will suffer for your actions?"

"Mrs. Collins, sir." She whispered.

A full smile cracked the hard planes of his face. It was a smile born from a mother of hate and a father of power, the only kind of smile that ever made it's way across his lips. She could not bare to look at him, could not move to see her sister laying on the floor of the study between them. Her eyes moved toward the window pane.

Sitting there was a fat dove, so white and pure in the afternoon light it appeared to be luminescent. It tilted it's head as they looked at one another, and the glowing of his feathers seemed to intensify. Mr. Collins angry words seemed to be drowned out by the brightness of bird sitting outside. She was only torn away when, with the full force of his hand on her jaw, he pushed her away, flinging her forcefully back into wakefulness.

Elizabeth Bennet awoke with a gasp, her jaw aching painfully. In the early morning light, a thick fog was forming in the London streets.

She rose, neglecting to ring for her lady's maid. "Let Paulson sleep," she thought fitfully, "it is only right that one of us should be well rested for this day."

With Benito's death only five days prior, the whole house was in a state of confusion. They did not have a large staff, but a few servants had already left, worried to be employed in the home of an actress, with no guardian or companion to give the house hold any respectability. Elizabeth paced the length of her bedroom, trying to force the memory of her unnerving dream away with some activity. Her mind was racked with grief and anxiety, but she had so many years in the company of such emotions that she refused to allow them to have a hold over her.

Death was constantly following her, and thought it had given her a reprieve of a few happy years, she had never forgotten that it was there, lurking just around a bend. Darling Forelli had been a father to her during the most trying years of her life, and he had left her as protected as he could with what means he was able.

The rent on their home had been paid through the year, and he had made the provision several years ago that she would be kept as tenant in the event of his passing for the duration of his lease. Yet the lease agent had already come to try and renegotiate the price, or to evict her, whatever would be the most to his benefit. He had demanded that she hire a companion, to keep his address respectable, and interviewing a paltry sum of candidates willing to work with an actress was what Elizabeth had to look forward for her morning.

Having no man of business in her employ, the various creditors to the household had been descending like locust, even though she had removed the knocker and dressed the windows in black. She was overwhelmed by all that must be done, and had no one she could truly lean on outside the most dedicated of her house hold staff. It was only natural that her sleeping hours would become so fitful with all that plagued her mind.

Only in these restless hours, when she was the most lost and discomposed, would she allow her mind to turn toward Darcy. She had never forgotten the proud and taciturn man who had claimed to love her ardently. With the patronage of his Aunt and Uncle these past few months, he already arisen to the forefront of her consciousness. Her reacquaintance and frequent meeting with his cousin, the Colonel, placed him there regularly. The knowledge gained that he currently spent the Little Season only a few miles away from her childhood home and most likely had met her estranged family firmly planted in her mind.

She had long since forgiven him for nature of his disastrous proposal. He had insulted her by every possible means, there could be no denying that. However the obstacles he presented in his forming any serious design on her were natural and just. She had been born a gentleman's daughter, and in that at least, they were equals. However her desire for justice, for freedom for herself and all her sisters, had propelled her onto a path that made their circles as far from one another as possible. A match between an actress and one of the most eligible gentlemen in the country was the stuff of novels, not reality. It was passion that had moved him to make her an offer, and it was his very good and honorable nature that forced him offer marriage rather than something dishonorable.

He had not been wrong when he told her that his proposal would not be the only one she received. She had been younger then, and more easily scandalized, but as her fame had grown so did her bevy of admirers. Living under Forelli's protection had kept her reputation as clean as any actress's could be, but now she had no such male influence in her house-hold to stem the tide of the more persistent callers. She had received several arrangements and cards to give her comfort in her grief, but she knew that more than one was a man attempting to stake his claim on her virtue as early as he could. As soon as her knocker was returned, they would come calling.

Elizabeth was not worried about this less than desirable attention. She had perfected her wit to keep such men at bay, setting them down in a way in which they could continue to admire her, but from a safer distance. It was simply that being surrounded by so much admiration, and so few true friends, she could not help but long for the truest, most dear friend she had ever had, Mr. Darcy.

Yes, it was true. In the last hug of darkness before the sun crept over London, Elizabeth could admit to herself that she longed for Darcy. She had little interest in men in general, throwing herself into her art as she did, but Darcy had always piqued her curiosity. He was a solemn man, and had often called with his more gregarious cousin to keep conversation flowing. It had taken her some many months to understand him, quiet as he was, but she had often noticed how his eyes would smile even when his lips did not. When he deigned to speak, it was always with a passionate conviction that drew Elizabeth to him. Once she managed to draw him out, she found him to be one of the most fascinating characters she had ever studied. She even found arguing with him to be more a stimulating and intellectually challenging conversation that she could be found in any drawing room in London, including her own.

He was not without faults. Elizabeth knew that well. The circle in which he brought up had raised him with all the worst sorts of arrogance and self satisfaction his class could boast. He had a selfish disdain for the feelings of others, especially when he was sure of his own righteousness. However, he was a truly good man at his heart, one of the very best Elizabeth had ever known. He had a heart which wanted to do right, a desire to be honorable that was so rarely seen in high society. It was his address which had been lacking, whether in romantic proposals or simple conversation at times.

She has not set out to make him in love with her, at least not any more so than the rest of London. She was an actress, and success on the stage could not just be cultivated on the boards alone. Her playful airs were everything charming in company. She had not specifically sought his good opinion, and he had certainly bestowed it most unwillingly. Even if she had been of age and able to consent to take his hand, the manner of his proposal would have stopped her.

Yet, alone again in London once more, she longed for him. Confident and level-headed, he would be an invaluable companion in navigating these new social waters. Fair and just, he would make sure that no man attempted to cheat her and profit off the death of her dear Padre. A high regard and respect for her intelligence and temperament, he would have supported her decisions, not directed them. Strong, resilient and having known the pain of loss, he would have provided a friend with whom she could grieve freely. The simple truth was, when she was with Darcy, she had been able to be Elizabeth, regardless of what name he may have called her.

He was just the sort of man suited to be the husband of Elizabeth Bennet, the kind of man who she could esteem, trust, and love. But he was lost to her, because she was no longer Elizabeth Bennet, but Adelaide Bernard.

vVvVvVvVv

In Hertfordshire, the dawn crept across the horizon with a whimper, blanketed as it was with dark and foreboding clouds. These clouds were the only thing to bring Jane Collins a moment of happiness during the trying days she had been experiencing. Another day of rain meant another day the road between Longbourne and Netherfield would remain impassable, another day which prevented her husband's arrival at the great house, or her sister's leaving it.

A begrudging servant had arrived with a donkey and pull cart after breakfast the prior day, with clothing for all the Longbourne residents present, and bearing two notes in Hill's hand but with her husband's dictation. One had been for the Bingley family, thanking them for their hospitality and begging their forgiveness for the inconvenience of hosting his son as an invalid. The storm had significantly flooded Longbourne's southern most fields, as well as doing damage to several tenant homes. He regretted his absence but was needed on his estate, and would leave the care of his son to his host and his wife, and come as soon as he was able. While he had not spoken remarkably well, the words had been generally accepted by the Netherfield party.

The second note had been for Jane's eyes alone, it read as follows:

Mrs. Collins,

I understand you have left your proper place at your husband's side, and spent some several days at Netherfield, under the pretext of caring for my son. While there is some semblance of truth to be found in the notion of you as a nurse-maid, I know your cunning little airs better than that. You would have me believe you are a dutiful wife, while making moon-eyes at that pathetic milk sop, Bingley. He is a handsome fellow, though he smiles too much, especially at my wife. I wonder if he shall be half so handsome after I call him out and lay his blood across the grounds of that fine estate?

I am no fool, Mrs. Collins. I will not be cuckold to a fop such as that. While you are an insipid creature, I dare say you will not be able to mistake a meaning as plain as this. I have eyes and ears in Netherfield, for surely you know that half the staff was hired from the Hen & Crown in Meryton? I shall know how you act, and you will treated accordingly when my son is healthy enough to be returned to Longbourn.

In William's recovery, there is something else that I seek. When Bingley and his party rented Netherfield, you told me to call on him and that you would secure him for Mary. I have seen no such inroads laid which will lead to any future between them. He is entirely too fascinated by you to pay any attention to your plain and solemn little sister, and I can hardly blame the man in that at least. However, the high and mighty Miss Bingley is rumored to be worth some several thousand pounds. It is you duty to secure a match between my son and that prize cow by any means necessary. I am sure your Mr. Bingley may be tempted to sweeten the deal if his sister's reputation is properly ruined. My eyes and ears shall be ready to assist with that, as well.

Secure this prize for Longbourn, and you may find that your husband is in a very warm and forgiving humor upon your arrival home. Fail to do so, and there will be consequences for your continual disobedience.

You are to return Mary to Longbourn as soon as the roads are even moderately passable. I will send the carriage for her if I must, but it will not be pleasant for either you or her if I am driven to take this step. If you will not come home to be with your husband, perhaps you will do so for your beloved sister.

-William Collins

Jane watched the storm clouds approach Netherfield with all the delight and all the guilt her nature could possibly contain. She had been married seven long years, and had attempted, in those seven years, to be the best wife she possibly could be. She did not love her husband. She had married him out necessity and security for her family, and that alone. She did not value or respect him, unless one was to credit the sort of respect that fear can garner. Her husband had been jealous over other young men before, and every time had been an unpleasant trial for Jane. It was an unfair burden to carry. She could not help that men found her attractive. She had never before contemplated an indiscretion of any sort.

Until Charles Bingley had leased Netherfield, she had never before found herself to be attracted to a man. There had been girlish fancies when she was very young and only just about to come out, and then Mama had died. All of her energy had gone into caring for her family, and sequestered as they were in mourning, she thought little of the outside world, especially about men. They had come out of mourning for a short six months, and she had begun to see something of the world again. Just as her mind allowed her to imagine what a romance might be like, she had lost her father too. Another year to pass in mourning, and then she was engaged before it had even begun. She would never have a chance to flirt and dance and fall in love.

William was two years her elder, a ruddy faced boy with a kind smile. He was no dashing paramour, but Jane had been determined that she should come to love him all the same. It made everything simple and easy for her and her sisters to continue at Longbourn has they had always done, and that mattered to Jane above all else. She could, and would love him, given time. It was how wives were to treat their husbands, and William was a very good sort of boy. Time passed, and if not excited by the prospect of her future husband, she was content and resigned. The family had entered half mourning. She attended church with her guardian and her fiancé, and the banns were called for her marriage.
Her marriage to his father.

To be so accused and commanded by her jealous, miserly husband was more than even Jane's kind nature could bare. She had designed her entire life to center around that ungrateful man, learning the ins and outs of his varying moods and complex nature to make life for him as pleasant as possible. She existed in the vacuum of his desires, allowed no thoughts, feelings, desires of her own. Jane was not a simpleton. She was well aware it was a woman's lot in life to obey her husband, that it was in the very set of vows she had given to him before God and in the face of his congregation. But what of Mr. Collins vows?

Had he not sworn before God to love her? To worship her with his body? The law of England may say that he was a good husband for all accounts, but by the very vows he had taken, he was an exceedingly poor one. Resentment filled Jane's breast at the lot she had been given in life. Few women had any real agency in their own decisions, it was the rule of fathers and husbands to guide them. However, most had some say in who they would give power over them. Jane had never had any. It was unfair, by any standard, but it was the reality of her situation.

She hated him! There, in the privacy of her own thoughts, she allowed herself to acknowledge it, to feel it with every fiber of her being. The man she had been forced to marry, the man who had so frightened one sister that she had fled in the night, who disciplined another to keep Jane in check, who sent the others away to school and would not bring them home for any vacations - he was not a good man. The man who would beat his own son and heir so severely to lay him in a sick bed and put him close to death, no that was a very bad man indeed.

He did not deserve her vows, her companionship, or her fidelity. If she only had herself to care for, Jane knew she would have found the strength to run away from him years prior, and let come what may of her own miserable future. The uncertainty of such a life could not be more attractive when she lay thinking of her own dreary future in Hertfordshire, stretched out for the years to come. But there were so many others to think of! Her sisters came first and foremost in her thoughts, and her dear Aunts and Uncles who would not be able to provide well for them should Mr. Collins abandon his charges. Indeed, the scandal that such a desertion would create would be a blemish upon them all! William was yet another to care for. His father was the worst sort of cruel, and yet somehow his son had remained soft and kind rather than growing into the same sort of monster his father wished him to be. She could not abandon them for her own selfish desires of freedom.

Looking out at the dreary dawn, Jane decided that some fresh air and exercise were the only thing that could dispel such dark thoughts. There would be some little time before the rain came, and she was stifled inside with her unhappiness once again. The brisk autumn air would revive her if nothing else could. Surely with such darkness hanging in her thoughts, to try and rest would be a worthless endeavor. Grabbing a thick shaw, she strode out the elegant bedroom, determined to be back abed before any of the household noticed her absence.

Netherfield was a true gem of Hertfordshire society, and it's gardens a point of interest for visiting travelers. Jane walked amongst them, relishing the cold air against her face and the soft squelch of mud beneath her boots. She took steadying breaths and watched the air crystalize in front of her. Her life was tied to Longbourn, her name was Collins, but in these private moments, she could be Jane Bennet once more.

The strong crunch of boots on the gravel pathway alerted Jane that she was not alone. She turned, anticipating a servant on the beginnings of their morning duties, only to be faced with the Master of Estate, fully dressed to ride, standing some yards away.

"Mr. Bingley!" She exclaimed softly, color rushing to her cheeks, "I did not anticipate seeing another soul out so early on so bleak a day."

He bowed low, "Mrs. Collins, Good morning to you." He smiled in his soft, sincere way and approached her.

Jane wrapped her shaw tightly around herself, shivering at his approach. He believed it due to the weather, instead of the intensity of his own nearness. "My goodness Madam," he said, reaching her, "You must be chilled quite through. Is you jacket not yet cleaned and dried? Has Caroline not lent you one in it's stead?"

Jane dipped her head, hardly able to meet his eyes with the words of her husband's missive so lately on her mind. "I assure you, I am well, sir. Miss Bingley has given us every possible attention. I simply found that I needed to step out of doors, and could not be made to bother a servant at such an hour as this."

"I was likewise inclined," He said, offering her his arm. "I mean to go to the stables and see if I will be able to take Old Bess out to assess some of the fields before any more rain falls, but now that I am out of doors I find myself questioning the wisdom of that decision. The clouds do appear to be making a rather rapid approach."

Jane took it, and the pair turned from the little wilderness into the walled sculpture garden that directly abutted the east side of the house. "While I admire your dedication to the land under your command, sometimes it is best to move with prudence. You may make assessments from this first storm only to be stuck in yet another and then have all of your efforts be wasted in light of new damage." She paused, and then added softly, "I should hate to see you wet through once again and as sick as my son, Mr. Bingley."

Quite unwittingly, Bingley patted her hand with his own. He spoke with the most gentle tone Jane had ever heard a gentleman use when he answered her. "Mrs. Collins, alone as we are from any other soul, tell me truthfully, how does Mr. Collins fare?"

With his tender and well meaning address, the reality of the situation she faced came crashing down on Jane. Her husband accused her of being a flirt or worse, but the truth was that she had arrived at Netherfield because she loved William with all a mother's love that she had to give. Someone had to care for him with that kind of love, or why should he even wish to recover? He could escape for a time to his parish and his over-bearing patroness at Rosings Park, but like herself, he too was trapped under the dominion of Mr. Collins Sr. Jane bit her trembling lip to prevent herself from crying aloud, but the weight of her burden was suddenly too heavy to bear when such a kind friend was near to worry for her.

Bingley glanced down toward the beautiful woman on his arm, who looked away from him. "Mrs. Collins?" He prodded, barely more than a whisper.

In that moment, hearing that name on the lips of a man she so esteemed and admired, Jane found that she lost all composure. She had dedicated so much of her young life to maintaining a veneer of tranquility with so little happiness or reward, that it was bound to come crumbling down eventually. That she should so break in front of Mr. Bingley was mortifying, but it could not be helped. Her reserves of strength were spent. Jane Collins very badly needed to weep, and she did so then, hanging onto Bingley's arm.

With a great deal of concern, Bingley rapidly lead them to a bench. He sat next to her, murmuring indistinguishable words of comfort, and tutting softly. Somehow his arm made it's way across her shoulders, quite of its own accord, and he rubbed her back in soothing circles entirely unaware of his own actions, so absorbed he was in Mrs. Collins' distress.

After a time, Jane began to find words. In the face of such kindness, such gentle comfort, they began to tumble out. Her first were of William.

"Mr. Bingley, please forgive this uncouth display." She said, sniffling and unable to meet his eye.

Bingley frowned heavily. "My dear Mrs. Collins, please do not trouble yourself. There is nothing to forgive. You are understandably very concerned for your family. It is entirely natural to give way to some tears in such a stressful situation." He handed her his handkerchief which mindlessly took.

"William is very unwell, Mr. Bingley." She answered, dabbing fruitlessly at her face. "I have not seen someone so unwell since I nursed my mother before her passing."

"I am grieved to hear it." He answered with solemnity. "I am glad that Darcy has had his physician come. Perhaps there is more than can be done that is out of Mr. Jone's capabilities."

She turned toward him with wide, earnest eyes. "Please do not doubt my gratitude toward Mr. Darcy's kindness. He is the very epitome of Christian goodness to do so for us. I am attempting to put my trust in the doctor and my faith in God, but is so very difficult when I sit in William's sick room."

Somehow her hand had found his own. Bingley spoke with a gravitas that Jane could have never imagined was contained within a man with such happy, carefree manners. "You are entirely correct. There is nothing more difficult than to face down death, knowing everything that happens is entirely out of your control. To be completely and utterly helpless in aiding those that you love the most, knowing there is nothing you can do, when there is nothing that you would not do to prevent it…" He trailed off, his voice seeming to catch on his words.

Jane searched his handsome face, unsure of what exactly she sought. "Yes," she replied with feeling, "when you lose someone you truly love, there is nothing worse. Nothing you wouldn't give to take their place. I try to be a good Christian and take comfort that they are gone to the Lord's embrace, but it is comfort for their soul…not my own bereavement. Is it selfish to feel so empty without my own dear parents?"

If Bingley sniffled himself with such a notion, Jane was too considerate to notice it. "If it is selfishness, let the Lord look kindly upon us for a sin which stems from a place of love. I will not feel guilt for the ache my father has left behind. My mother passed when I was very young, too young to truly comprehend the loss and barely old enough to have more than a vague memory of her. But my father, Mrs. Collins…"

"Yes?" She whispered.

"You must know by now that the Bingley fortune comes through trade. I am not afraid to own it, though my sisters would rather I forget those roots entirely. Never was there a man as hard working and as kind as my own dear father. He was my dearest friend in all the world. He so wanted to raise his children to a better life. He was still a healthy, vigorous man. A horse threw him on a hunt at a friend's estate."

A small gasp escaped Jane's lips, and she clutched Bingley's hand tightly, urging him to continue. "He lingered for days, Mrs. Collins…I was able to make it to his bedside before he finally succumbed. To see your own father wither away in such a state… I doubt I shall ever fully escape that memory."

Now it was Jane's turn to comfort, as tears gathered in the gentleman's eyes. "I am very sorry." He said with a mocking laugh toward himself. "I sought to comfort you in your distress, but I have somehow lost myself in thinking of my own regrets."

"It is a great comfort, Mr. Bingley." She replied, her cornflower eyes pouring her heart into her words. "Such a very great comfort to know that I am not entirely alone in this world. That somewhere, there is a kind soul who understands me. A kindred spirit."

"Yes," he answered, meeting her gaze with an expression so deeply serious it unnerved her, "it is a great comfort indeed."

"You can not know, sir, how very much that means to me. How badly I have needed a friend these past few days. I thank you."

"I am honored to be your friend, Mrs. Collins. You need never thank me for showing you any kindness. You are more than deserving of them."

Hearing that name on his lips for what felt to be the thousandth time, Jane could not help but grimace. In her heart, her true heart, she was Jane Bennet through and though. Could Mr. Bingley not see that?

Seeing the turn of her countenance, Bingley released the hand he realized he had been squeezing for some moments. How had he forgotten himself so entirely? "Have I distressed you Mrs. Collins?" He asked, rapidly filling with embarrassment at his familiar behavior.

"No sir!" Jane cried, immediately feeling the loss of his nearness. "I only am unfamiliar with men so good as you."

Artless as he was, Bingley could not help the incredulous expression that crossed his countenance. "I am grieved to hear that, Mrs. Collins. I hope that you have occasion to meet many more good people."

Jane looked out then at the horizon, realizing that the early morning sunlight was now largely blocked by the ominous clouds above. How much time had passed in this secluded little spot?

Unable to mask her disappointment she replied, "I believe it is time we re-entered the house." And gestured to the sky above limply.

As if summoned by her finger tips, the first fat rain drop fell squarely on Bingley's head. Another followed with rapidity. "Indeed madam, it appears you are correct!" He said with a laugh. He held his arm out to her. "We must make haste!"

They stood and hurried to the East Side door, which lead into the little used conservatory. Jane entered, and turned to her companion who hesitated. "I should return to the front of the house. It would perhaps be best that we are not seen returning soaking wet together. I would not have your husband call me out!"

With his words, Jane blanched. However before either could reply, the sky opened up with such ferocity that there could be nothing for it. "Come sir! I will not have you soaked to the bone on account of the Collins family once more!" She reached his arm, and tugged on his sleeve slightly.

"Very well!" He cried laughingly, "Far be it from me to contradict the orders of a lady."

Safely inside the dark conservatory, the pair could not help but smile at each other in conspiratorial amusement at their predicament. Jane felt more that girl in that moment than she ever had. Her heart thundered with the pounding of the rain on the ceiling above.

"I would have you return first, Mrs. Collins," Bingley said, his eyes warm. "I believe you are supposed to be abed after a long and tiring evening of sitting vigil with our patient."

Jane dipped into a courtesy, walking toward the door which lead into Netherfield's halls. "I will rest much easier after having had your company, Mr. Bingley."

He bowed low, "It was my pleasure to accompany you Mrs. Collins."

Jane faced the door, and placed her hand on the handle, but did not turn the knob. Summoning every ounce of courage within her, she made the following request.

"Mr. Bingley…I know that is very unlikely we should ever be alone in company again as were this morning. But, if we ever find ourselves in such a tete-a-tete again…I must beg of you…please, will you not call me Jane?"

Embarrassed at her own boldness, she did not wait for a reply. She opened the door and walked through it, unaware of how his eyes burned after her.