It had been some time since the principal occupants of Darcy House had sat together in the parlor during calling hours. Indeed, it was only yesterday Mrs. Annesley had assured Darcy that Georgiana was equal to receiving visitors. Darcy had begun to protest this assessment, but to his surprise it was Georgiana who had reassured him.

"Though I do not think that I will ever be perfectly ready, deferring can only increase the suspense of it."

Thus it was that they found themselves in the parlor for the past half hour. Darcy had always felt vulnerable waiting for callers, and this morning, as he stole brief glances at his sister, he felt doubly so. Georgiana sat quietly unpicking a sampler while Darcy glowered at a newspaper, awaiting the assault but unsure of the form it might take.

At the onerous creak of the door they both looked up, Darcy allowing the top half of his paper to droop as he peered at the footman who entered with a calling card. He folded his paper and unfolded his legs, taking the card and examining it with a critical eye.

"It is Mr. and Miss Bingley," he announced.

Georgiana gave her brother a hesitant smile as she set her needlework in the basket at her side. Straightening herself into a regal posture, she folded her hands delicately in her lap, and taking a deep breath, met her brother's eye.

Darcy regarded her, then gave a barely perceptible nod to the footman, who retreated silently.

"I will not let Miss Bingley plague you overmuch, dearest," he promised, "and you need not stay long if it is too much for you. I will make excuses so you need not have the trouble."

"It is well brother," she said reassuringly, "I am sure I can manage a morning call. If our Cousin Richard can march on Napoleon, I believe I can keep my composure during a visit with friends."

The corner of Darcy's mouth twitched, "Richard is not clever or sensible enough to be afraid."

"You ought not say such things when he is not here to speak in his own defense," chided Georgiana. Darcy's smile broadened at her irritation. She had used to be Richard's greatest defender before Ramsgate.

"Richard would not hesitate to insult my intelligence were our positions reversed," he said, affecting an affront with a lift of his chin. "Am I not allowed to take my advantages where I may?"

Georgiana spared him a sideways glance, "When Richard says such things no one doubts that he is in jest, brother. You have not his talent for humor."

Footsteps in the hall silenced their conversation, and Georgiana smoothed her skirts with an exhale.

No sooner had the parlor door swung open than Caroline Bingley's vociferous simper reached Darcy's ear. As if on cue, his teeth ground together of their own accord as they so often did when he was in her presence.

"My dearest Miss Darcy, it has been too long since I have seen you!" she declared, hurrying forward to take Georgiana's hands. She cast a shrewd look in Darcy's direction to ensure her greeting was observed – which of course it was – though her raptures had the opposite effect to the one she had intended. Neither of the Darcys felt any warmth or closeness in the woman, so her effusions only brought them discomfort.

"I believe I have not seen you since before leaving for Hertfordshire in the autumn. I am so pleased to be in London once more," said Miss Bingley with an air of long suffering. "Meryton, though charming, lacks much in the way of society and is completely devoid of you, Miss Darcy. It is a fault that is irrecoverable, I'm afraid. I asked your brother to send you my regards as often as he wrote – I do hope he did so!"

Darcy pulled his eyes away from this exchange, noting that a rather diminished looking Bingley had entered the parlor without notice. When Darcy caught his eye, his old friend flashed him a smile that, though broad, did not make him appear happier.

"Darcy!" Bingley said, while doing a nearly accurate impersonation of himself. Darcy's lips grew taut as he closely examined the man under the tittering of Miss Bingley. Darcy rather thought he looked worse the longer he watched. There was a distinct worn-in feel about his normally neatly dressed friend. His cravat was lopsided and crushed, his hair was more messy than tousled, and ginger stubble was sprouting from his cheeks. And there were enough wrinkles in his coat for Darcy to surmise that he had slept in it.

"Bingley. . ." he uttered, the weight of guilt pressing like a hot stone through his stomach. He knew not what to say, and so offered, "I have missed you at the club these last weeks. Have you been busy?"

" Er. . . yes, I have been occupied since we left Nether– " It seemed as though he had nearly gagged on the word, so instead he finished with, " – returned to London."

It was then that Miss Bingley barged into their conversation, "Yes, there is alway so much to do when we return to town. Mr. and Mrs. Hurst send their regrets. They were otherwise engaged this morning, else they would have called with us."

Neither of the Darcys were obliged to speak as Miss Bingley began giving an energetic recitation of her amusements from the past week. Darcy's concern deepened as he considered how to approach the situation that he had helped to author. Georgiana cast him a fleeting look before turning back to Bingley, a crease folding between her eyes. The man himself had directed his eyes vaguely in the direction of his sister's knees as he nodded wordlessly along with her monologue, present only physically.

"Of course, all the delights of town can be nothing when compared to spending time with dear friends," she finished, casting Darcy and his sister glowing looks.

"You are very kind, Miss Bingley," Georgiana said.

Offering no response, Darcy turned instead to his friend, "You look fatigued, Bingley. You are well, I trust?"

The gentleman's eyes snapped up to focus on Darcy, as though he had forgotten where he was until he was addressed, "I –" he began, but his sister cut him off.

"He is well," asserted Caroline, waving a hand at him vaguely, offering Darcy a glowing smile. "You are always so kind to him, Mr. Darcy. I am sure I know of no gentleman so attentive as you."

Darcy felt his jaw begin to ache and he forced himself to relax it. At this point, Bingley had lapsed again into silence, offering not a word on his own state. Georgiana's face displayed a growing concern for the gentleman.

"Can I offer you something to drink Mr. Bingley, Miss Bingley?" asked Georgiana, whose concern for Mr. Bingley clearly encouraged her to exert herself. "Tea perhaps?"

Before his sister could accept, Bingley shook his head saying, "I thank you, but we will not trespass on your hospitality much longer."

Caroline flashed him an irritated glance before launching into rapturous admiration of Miss Darcy's gown.

"Truly, Charles, you look unwell," said Darcy, low enough the ladies could not hear.

Bingley let out a quiet, bitter laugh that did not suit him. "I believe the London air does not sit well with me."

Darcy's heartbeat quickened. He thought of Elizabeth, of Jane.

"What have you decided to do with Netherfield?" he asked.

Bingley was quiet, pensive for a moment before answering, "I supposed I must sell it . . ."

"Do you wish to?" asked Darcy, who was now thinking rapidly.

". . . I do not know what I wish to do." He said at length. "I know what I ought to do, but I cannot bear to do it."

Bingley brought his eyes up to search Darcy's face, pleadingly, "What are your thoughts, Darcy? What would you do?"

Darcy was sick.

The plaintive expression on the man's face coupled with the knowledge he would surely do just as he was directed, was enough to make Darcy feel the very great wrong he had done in speaking of Miss Bennet. Darcy knew that he ought not make his confession in such company as this, yet as he looked at the pitiful man before him he resolved at the very least to say something.

"I would let no man's opinion carry more weight than my own in matters which do not concern them," Darcy said. When Bingley did not respond, he added, "You seemed well suited to Hertfordshire."

"I did enjoy it," Bingley sighed. "It is just that. . ."

Darcy was on the verge of mentioning the lady by name when a shrill laugh brought their attention back to their sisters.

"Miss Darcy was just saying that you are lately disinclined to play at cards, Mr. Darcy," said Caroline. "I was surprised to hear such an account, as we had played often enough in Hertfordshire."

"I have never cared overmuch for cards and only play when I am obliged to," Darcy replied civilly.

"Perhaps the activity pleases you more when the company is more to your liking?" Caroline ventured, with a silky smile.

"I believe I refused to play as often as I accepted, Miss Bingley."

"I had imagined that your occasional refusal was to ensure Miss Eliza did not feel overlooked, as she was the only person not playing." She gave a tiny shrug, then continued, "But I had always supposed that she professed such a dislike in order to appear interesting to her company. Though, if she had wished to be of interest to her company, she would have done much better to join us." In a conspiratorial tone, she added, "Of course, had she the desire to fascinate us, she needed only speak of her family."

Georgiana's eyebrows lifted in surprise as she looked to her brother, whose jaw was now clenched tightly.

When he did at last respond, it was to coldly say, "I believe that the Bennets are well regarded in Hertfordshire."

"Oh yes, it is true. However, I know that you and I are of a like mind on that subject Mr. Darcy," she said with a knowing smile.

"I had heard of the eldest Miss Bennets from my brother, Miss Bingley. Were they not guests at Netherfield?" Georgiana inquired, her face now aflame with color.

"They were, though only Miss Jane Bennet was invited. Miss Elizabeth simply appeared on our doorstep – covered in mud – expressing a desire to look after her ill sister. I was not fooled by such a scheme, for Miss Bennet only had a cold." She Let out a short, sharp laugh, "I think you would like her not at all, Miss Darcy; your brother most certainly did not." She smiled widely, evidently enjoying her own accounting. "The eldest is admittedly sweet, but Miss Elizabeth roams the countryside like a barefoot tenant's daughter, and speaks her mind in such a wild and unruly manner. It is quite shocking, and I think hardly becoming in a lady."

Darcy continued to glare at her stonily, however little she noticed. Too absorbed in her own vitriol was she to register the effect her words were having on her listeners.

"Caroline!" Bingley began angrily.

"La, Charles!" she said, waving an impatient hand at him. "I shall say no more of the Bennets." With a last meaningful look at Darcy's outraged countenance, she leaned closer to Georgiana to say, "Though I missed your company, Miss Darcy – not for the world would I wish to have Miss Elizabeth's savage country manners inflicted upon you."

With indignation in his breast, Darcy opened his mouth to put an end to Miss Bingley's denigration, when he was surprised to hear his sister rise valiantly to the occasion.

"I should much rather be wild and unruly than vulgar and insipid, Miss Bingley."

Darcy's head swiveled, his mouth clamped on his own set-down. At that moment, Georgiana looked every inch her mother. Cold fury was etched in every angle of her face and the haughty set of her jaw, daring her meaning to be misunderstood.

Miss Bingley was at last stunned into silence, and she stared at Georgiana for the space of a minute before letting out a nervous titter and asserting that she meant no harm in it.

Pleased as he was at the spark in his heretofore dull sister, he ought to have excused her long before now.

"I believe I have kept you from Mrs. Annesley, dearest. You had best return to your studies."

Georgiana's confidence sagged to uncertainty as she looked at Darcy, seeming to take the dismissal as a silent reprimand.

"Yes, brother," she murmured as she stood, hastily dropping a curtsey. As she went, she looked back at Darcy, who had turned from his guests to flash her a sly smile, which she returned with relief as she pulled the door closed behind her.

Darcy spared Caroline a look, but did not address his sister's outburst, instead turning to Bingley as though nothing had happened.

"Perhaps you should return to Netherfield once more. Being there might give you the clarity that you seek on this issue and provide perspective . . ." said Darcy, finishing with a significant look.

Caroline looked horrified, "Surely you are to give it up Charles! I thought you were already decided on this?"

Bingley looked at Darcy with some confusion, a fleeting expression of pain crossing his face.

"Perhaps," was his only response.

Then, with an abruptness that startled the other occupants of the room, Bingley stood, saying, "I believe we ought to leave you Darcy, I'm afraid I have much to do today."

Darcy frowned, giving his friend a reserved bow as he quit the room hastily.

"I think you ought to recant your advice to my brother, Mr. Darcy," Caroline said with an odd mix of consternation and coquetry. "As you know, he is like to take any advice you may offer, and I do not think he has quite forgotten the provincial charms of Miss Bennet. He may not have wits enough to avoid being drawn back into her snare."

Darcy offered her a look of cool appraisal, "Do you believe Jane was attached to your brother?"

She gave a small tut of a laugh, "It hardly matters! I am sure she could not be so much in love with someone she has only known for a few weeks. I daresay she will recover enough to attach herself to some other, more appropriate gentleman."

Darcy heard this statement in a duality. The words could have been his own were it not for his now knowing Elizabeth's thoughts on the subject. He now felt a deep sense of offense and revulsion and, in consequence, a renewal of his own shame. A myriad of sharp retorts rolled through his mind, as he struggled to make some sort of reply. Eventually, he decided that it would not serve to argue the point with Caroline – after all, no matter his change of heart, he was still as culpable as she.

A long moment elapsed before Darcy finally spoke, "Upon reflection, I have realized that I ought not to have meddled in your brother's affairs. It was beneath me, and it is now my duty to encourage Bingley back to Hertfordshire, for I believe that, were it not for my interference, he would be there still."

"I am shocked Mr. Darcy!" said Caroline with displeasure. "I thought you and I were in agreement that such steps as we have taken to encourage his removal were in the best interests of all involved and therefore irreproachable."

"Were they?" asked Darcy calmly. "We may argue about what Bingley's best interests may be, but I think that even you cannot say that we have acted in Miss Bennet's best interests."

"She is no one to us. Whatever her best interests may be, they must give way to my own when they are at odds. I am certain there is no other way to act in such a circumstance."

"Your own interests?" asked Darcy, looking her fully in the face now and for the first time seeing the total want of familial affection therein.

"My interests are my family's interests, sir," she stated, looking him boldly in the eye with a soft and ardent expression totally at odds with the venom in his own heart. Darcy's lip curled, but she still had not noticed his ill-humor.

"It seems you have confused what serves your purposes for what serves your family's. I have never seen your brother so unwell, and I believe we both know what has caused his affliction. I have heard that the lady has been similarly wounded," Darcy told her, forgetting that he ought not to mention such details, but the lapse went unacknowledged.

"I must do all that I can to preserve my family's honor and respectability so that when I marry, I will not bring shame on my husband or his family," she declared looking at him significantly.

"Though we may share the blame in Charles's heartbreak, it seems that I have given you credit for acting with my friend's wellbeing as your motivation. It is now clear to me you were instead thinking of your own interest in the affair."

"I was not thinking of myself Mr. Darcy," Caroline said. "I was thinking of you."

Darcy felt the tender bindings on his anger snap. In the stunned silence that followed, Darcy simply looked at her – truly looked – and what he saw was a corruption of spirit hidden expertly behind the guise of gentle breeding. She was as unlike her brother in nature as he was to George Wickham. Although he thought Wickham infinitely more ruthless, he saw in this woman the complete disregard for the thoughts and feelings of others in pursuit of the ultimate goal of self-gratification.

"You know me not at all, Miss Bingley," he said at length, in a dangerously quiet voice. Before she could respond, he turned on his heel and stalked from the room.

After cooling his anger by pacing the length of the portrait gallery for a quarter of an hour, Darcy settled himself in his study to frown over the plans for spring planting proposed by Pemberley's steward. Although he dispatched his duty with all of his usual care and consideration, part of his mind was still contemplating the morning's encounter with a sense of ill-ease.

He desperately hoped that he had said enough to encourage Bingley to return to Netherfield, though he could not be sure his meaning was understood. Darcy knew that he was obliged by honor to confess his error to his friend, but that was a deed best done in person and preferably in private. He had as yet no opportunity to do so, though he had called on the gentleman twice earlier this week. Today was the first time he had been able to see him, and he had most unfortunately brought his sister – or perhaps his sister had brought him? On balance, Darcy supposed that if Bingley returned to Hertfordshire, matters would resolve themselves naturally – with or without his disclosures. There was little he could do today but speculate.

Pushing his work aside he rose to go in search of his sister. He had been distracted from his concern for her receiving callers by the events surrounding Bingley's visit.

When he came upon her in the library, he stopped short. Georgiana was perched at the little writing desk under the window, pressing her seal into the wax on a letter. He was grateful that she did not appear overly distressed by the encounter with Miss Bingley. She looked up as he cleared his throat from the doorway.

"I am sorry I did not take better care of you this morning, Georgiana."

"I am glad I was there, brother," she replied, then quickly added, "though, I should apologize to Miss Bingley for speaking so. It was unpardonably rude of me."

"I am sure Mrs. Annesley would disagree with me, but I find that I cannot reproach you for it, ' he said. "It was an admirable charge and I am glad you said it. Truly if you had not, I may have said something far worse."

She smiled cautiously at him, "I do not like Miss Bingley."

"No, sweet one, nor do I," confessed Darcy. Then, gesturing to the foolscap in her hand, asked, "Is that a letter to your friend?"

"Yes," she said as she held the sealed letter out for him to take. "Would you send it for me? I do not want her to wait overlong for my response."

He took the letter and tucked it into his pocket. "Yes, of course. I hope you told her how you came to her defense this morning. I imagine that she would appreciate your quick wit."

"No, I thought that I would not pain her with the vile things Miss Bingley said of her," she said with disgust.

"I see."

"I am sorry brother; I am afraid I cannot speak just now. I had promised Mrs. Annesley that I would be away only a half hour, so I fear I must leave you."

"I will not keep you," He said, bowing and gesturing expansively to the door.

She smiled briefly as she bobbed a quick curtsey, leaving him to search for her companion.

Darcy smiled faintly to himself to see his sister so at ease. It was a much needed balm to the irritations of the morning. Darcy strode to the desk to look out the window on the little garden below. He did think that Elizabeth would be pleased with her champion and was sorry Georgiana was not inclined to speak of it.

As he glanced down, he noticed with a sudden quickening of his pulse a letter, lying open upon the desk.

It was unmistakably from Elizabeth Bennet. He briefly wrestled with himself, but even as he did so, his hand reached down to press the missive flat as he began to read:

Monday, 22nd December

My dear Georgiana,

I have often observed that in correspondence, the one who holds the pen is inclined to degrade what they have to say. They may excuse themselves for not being interesting enough when their life is comfortable and good – a situation that is in every respect (outside of letter writing) to be envied. Be assured that I do not correspond with you to hear lengthy descriptions of social events, a list of your recent purchases, or even tales of harrowing escapes from highwaymen (which of course you must share if you have the unfortunate occasion to do so). Our very dullness can be a blessing, much as it makes narrative more difficult.

If we put such a qualification on our correspondence as we must only write when there is something remarkable to speak of, it would make for far fewer letters – a circumstance that would be completely insupportable. Although we might have to scour our thoughts for something to say, remember that it is the friendly voice in the dark that we seek, a connection to another human-being. I care not that you tell me of your stitches – it is your voice that compels.

I shall endeavor to give you the same courtesy lest I let Hertfordshire's current monotony discourage me from writing, my dear friend. I must now remind myself to view with gratitude the circumstance that there has been ought but a lame horse and a broken carriage wheel to speak of since I wrote to you last.

Your wish to become one of my 'very few close friends' is an easy one to grant, as I believe you already are. I have not spoken my heart so fully to even my dearest sister Jane over these past weeks, a circumstance for which I am grateful, as she has been in no spirit to share in anything more than her own misery.

Speaking of Jane, after Christmas she is to return with my aunt and uncle Gardner to London for a time. I hope that this change of scenery will improve her spirits. She loves our dear little cousins, and their persistent happiness will no doubt serve to lessen her grief. I confess I both hope and fear that she may encounter the gentleman whose very precipitous leave taking has altered her spirits so. My indignation on her behalf has me uncertain which outcome would be preferred, but I believe that such an occurrence may serve to reveal definitively the inclination of the gentleman and end my poor Jane's agonized suspense.

She is not at all improved in these last weeks. My worry for her has only increased in this time. She is not a person prone to outward displays of emotion, but lately, her despair has been so evident that the neighborhood has begun to remark how ill-used 'poor Jane' has been by a gentleman. I hope that during her time away from Hertfordshire, the gossip will have run its course so that she may return home without need of additional courage to face our neighbors.

I wanted to thank you for your refusal to accede to my opinion on my friend Charlotte. You have shown a wisdom far beyond my own in words have made me view the matter in an entirely different, and altogether more generous, light. So inspired was I by your thoughts on this that I resolved to go to her the very next day and tender an apology for the way I responded to her news.

Your perspective showed me just how badly I had erred when it had come to Charlotte – and not only in this matter. I am deeply ashamed to admit that I have long taken advantage of my friend's inclination to listen rather than speak. I do not know if I ever gave much consequence to her thoughts and opinions when they did not align with my own.

My Charlotte says that her happiness lies in motherhood, and not marriage. How I regret that I did not know this already.

Her union to Mr. Collins is indeed one of convenience, but not the convenience that I had originally attributed to it. She appears to fully understand the risk which she is taking, but is determined to make the best of it. She is hopeful for her future, and I am therefore happy for her.

Truly, had not your letter opened my eyes, I may have given up a friend who was so very dear to me. I am ever so grateful to you, Georgiana. Our reconciliation was so complete, that I am now obliged to travel to Kent for Easter to see Charlotte's happiness for myself.

I have been given to understand that your Aunt, Lady Catherine De Bourgh is my cousin's patroness, but I shall ask you about that another time. If my cousin is to be believed, there is not enough paper in England to allow for a full exposition of her magnanimity.

The wonderful thing about these letters has been that I have not been able to make the same mistakes with you, my friend, as I have with Charlotte. The time and space that separates our accounts has necessarily made me pause and reflect on the meaning of your words, which has given me a truer understanding of them. I begin to wonder who else I may have misjudged by these same tendancies? Alas, I dislike considering my own character and so I shall defer this for another time as well.

I greatly enjoyed hearing of your trip to Windermere Lake. I believe a childhood that is not full of such wild imaginings is one that is distinctly lacking in joy. I confess it is difficult to imagine Mr. Darcy pretending to be a fellow corsair. He has always seemed a person of great dignity, and so the image of him swashbuckling rather diminishes this effect. I do not think I can ever consider him quite the same as I have before – It is much harder to take a person so seriously when you know they are occasionally prone to piracy.

I wonder, did he take on his role as playmate with the same stately gravity as he did to converse with the ladies of Hertfordshire? If so, I can imagine him as a most agreeable playmate. It has ever been my observation that the realms of make-believe should be taken with the utmost seriousness, else it all seems rather silly.

When I was a girl we did not often travel. I am sure my mother would have enjoyed it, but my father has a rather delicate constitution when it comes to the silly squabbling of ladies, and he also tends to become ill on long carriage rides. Knowing this, you can rightly suppose that few things appealed to him less than being in close quarters with the entire concentration of his wife and five daughters and a queasy stomach. The little trips I did take were generally to visit my Aunt and Uncle in London.

Despite this, my father doted on me most particularly as a child – and still does now. Though we was not often from home, he and I would share in little adventures of an entirely different sort. A favorite game was to close my eyes and spin his little wooden globe while I rested my finger upon it. Wherever my finger landed when it stopped turning, we would race to find mention of it in one of the books in his library. Perhaps it does not sound amusing to a swashbuckler such as yourself, but I confess I took much pleasure in it.

He would also bid me to find something of interest on my walks so that we might learn something of it. I would return home with a tuft of wool pulled from the rushes, a small plant or even such little living things as I could carry in my pocket. We would then learn all we could about it.

My mother forbade this particular game when I once came home from my ramble with a salamander in my pocket. The creature was so disobliging as to escape from my pocket before I could bring him to my father. My poor mother happened upon him making a bid for his freedom across the parlor floor. It made me laugh at first, but I have never seen my parents argue as they did on that occasion.

My mother believed that my father was preventing my transformation into a gentlewoman by encouraging such pursuits. I remember him saying, "I have given you four daughters to raise as you choose, Mrs. Bennet – But of Elizabeth, I will have the final word."

You must not berate yourself for your good fortune. Though I might lament my situation, I am not so ungenerous as to think ill of you for yours. Each life has its own trials and though I may at times wish for altogether different problems, I cannot dwell on anything overlong that does not bring me pleasure – especially when it is a circumstance I have no power to change. When my mind becomes too full of unhappiness, a brisk walk followed by a good book is usually all I need to revive my spirits.

Though in some instances, even this would not serve to remedy. Were it I and not Charlotte who was to be to be united with my cousin, I am sure I would be so often out walking as to convince the neighborhood I was a gypsy rather than a rector's wife.

Whatever my future may hold, I shall endeavor to always find joy in simple pleasures when it cannot be found in circumstance.

Thank you for thinking of me, dear friend. You must imagine that with four sisters I am so often surrounded by noise that silence is a treasure indeed. I am not speaking of the sort of silence that is felt like an absence, but rather the sort that requires nothing of you – the kind you share with your brother.

The very thought of it gives me a sense of perfect serenity. It is this feeling that I find when I am amongst the trees and hills of Hertfordshire.

Write to me as soon as you can. I cannot wait to hear of your stitches.

Ever your friend,

Elizabeth

As Darcy finished reading, he stared at her name, written in that familiar, elegant slant.

'Elizabeth'

His thumb slid absently across the faint indentations of her signature, pressed there by her own hand. His pain and his wonder were so intertwined that the barely perceived impressions of her name on his thumb felt like a thousand tiny pricks from a pin. He loved it, and he loathed it all in the space of time it took for him to trace E-l-i-z-a-b-e-t-h.

No woman had ever elicited this depth of emotion from him, and he needed only read her name to conjure it. He had felt flutters and thrills at the touch of a woman before. It was not the same with Elizabeth Bennet. Whatever she was to him was less like those giddy flirtations and more like a nail driven to the head by a single powerful blow.

She had never once batted her lashes or plied him with adulations on his situation and character. No, she had challenged him, provoked him, and questioned his morality – then showed to others the generosity and goodness of her heart. His frustration was agony.

He wanted her trust and praise and, more than that, he wanted to prove that he was worthy of it. She was not his and never would be. It was this salient point that his mind understood, but his heart had rejected. Though she was as different from him as dusk from dawn, when he was with her, there was a sense of harmony in the very disparity between them, the balancing of the scales, the symmetry of nature.

All at once the uncomfortable realization of where he was and what he was doing hit him like a plunge into icy water. He carefully replaced the letter and headed to the door, intent on numbing his shameful and treacherous heart with brandy.

Darcy made his excuses for dinner that night, choosing instead to barricade himself in his study, claiming work as his excuse.

With a quarter of his decanter gone, he stood holding a letter.

In his mind, his final farewell.

Miss Bennet-

I am sorry if the impropriety of this note offends you, but be assured it will not happen again. I am afraid I can go no longer without thanking you for your kindness to my sister. Though she is not yet fully recovered, I believe your friendship has been the means to turn the tide of her sorrow, and for that I will ever be in your debt.

I am sure you would have been most gratified to hear her defense of you to Miss Bingley. You have risen in her esteem to such a degree as to make her quite uncivil when that lady attempted to malign your character. I believe I have only witnessed one other person wield such a clever and well-aimed remark – and I am grateful this time that I am not the target.

I have not asked my sister's permission to include this missive, but I will not conceal its existence if you would rather she know. You have my assurance that I will speak nothing of it so you may decide a course that suits you best.

I understand the breach of propriety I am committing, but found my desire to express my gratitude to you has overwhelmed any scruples I might have about decorum.

If ever you should need anything, Miss Bennet, please send word through Georgiana and I will not hesitate to oblige you.

Your humble servant,

F. Darcy

If this was his last word to her, he hoped that it would serve to lessen her ill opinion of him. Upending the last of his brandy, he pulled Georgiana's letter from his pocket and carefully pinched it open to slide his own message inside. He then placed it carefully with the other correspondence to be dispatched in the morning.

Come what may, it was done.

With an oppressed spirit, he sat back at his desk to draft a letter to his Aunt in Kent, requesting to delay his journey till the summer.

He could not see her again.

It would be for the best.

274, 10,080, 508, 119, 161