Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

More than anything, Anne pitied the girl.

She didn't know that she deserved it. Miss Anne de Bourgh was not particularly kind or agreeable. But after all, she was likely a product of her upbringing - a quieter Mary, perhaps - and Anne understood life under a proud, vain, domineering parent. She could not help but be sympathetic. They were cousins, however distantly; they shared a name; Anne had a heart easily touched.

Dinner was eaten and the party was sitting in the drawing-room, Sir Walter and Elizabeth fawning over Lady Catherine, who was holding court. The Annes had been ushered to the fire with Mrs. Jenkinson, and whether that lady was Miss de Bourgh's nurse or companion or keeper, Anne could not say. At any rate, she would rather be sitting with her present company than with the others.

"We have made a great many improvements at Kellynch recently," she heard Sir Walter say, his voice an odd mix of pride and obsequiousness.

"They were necessary, from what I remember of the place," sniffed Lady Catherine.

"Oh, Kellynch is nothing compared to Rosings, of course!" Elizabeth said with a high trill of a laugh.

Anne blushed and turned to her companions, not wishing to hear her father and sister make fools of themselves. Miss de Bourgh, always unhealthy-looking, appeared positively ill today, her face pale and drawn, her eyes sunken and red, her body thin and bony.

"Are you quite well, my dear?" she asked gently.

"I am never well," Miss de Bourgh answered with a heavy sigh.

"She is not strong, I am afraid," said Mrs. Jenkinson, patting her charge's hand. 

"Perhaps a change of scenery would do some good," Anne suggested. "Many swear by Bath." She hated the place of course, but that did not make it entirely useless.

"I never stir from Kent," said Miss de Bourgh.

"Well," said Anne, forcing a note of cheerfulness into her voice, "I am sure you have a constant flow of friends here to visit you."

"Mama's friends visit."

How lonely a life Miss de Bourgh must live. At least Anne had Lady Russell and the Musgroves.

"I am sure that is a comfort." She imagined the sort of people who would be friends with Lady Catherine and chastised herself for so inane a comment. "And we must write to each other more frequently, if we cannot often meet." 

It was such a paltry consolation that Anne felt rather ashamed to offer it, but Miss de Bourgh looked cheered by the thought.

Well, Anne thought later, as they packed up to return to Somersetshire, her situation was not ideal, but she would rather be there, with friends nearby, than isolated and trapped at Rosings.

Chapter Text

Knightley hadn’t wanted to come to this party in the first place, but Isabella was friends with the hostess and he’d felt obliged to come anyway. He really wished he were anywhere but here now, after the scene they had all just witnessed, after that poor young lady had nearly collapsed from distress.

“Do you know any of the parties involved?” he asked his brother John. 

“The man is John Willoughby,” John muttered in his ear. “Engaged to a rich young lady but paying court to another.” He smirked. “If the rumors are true, there are many more of his conquests scattered around the country.”

Knightley frowned. He knew this type of man, of course, it was a common story, but that didn’t make such behavior any less abhorrent. 

“Should we offer our assistance?”

“Oh, I think not. The girl arrived with Lady Middleton; I am sure she will be looked after.”

Knightley kept an eye on her anyway; she was attended to by a woman who looked like she must be her sister, and they soon left with one whom he assumed to be Lady Middleton. He couldn’t help recalling the scene, however - the girl’s stricken face, her sister’s obvious concern - and was thoroughly unprepared to be introduced to the villain of the scene.

John Willoughby was an exceedingly handsome young man, with easy, charming manners, and a slick manner that made Knightley’s skin crawl. He wondered if he was fair in this impression or merely swayed by the events of the evening and his brother’s gossip, but the more the man talked, the more Knightley was satisfied with his own assessment. He did not like this John Willoughby; he distrusted his looks. The young man was too flippant, too frivolous, too eager to impress and please. And when some tactless old gentleman mentioned the scene with the young lady, he was far too careless in his response.

“Oh, you know how women are,” Willoughby laughed, though Knightley thought there was a shadow of guilt behind the man’s eyes. That was interesting, even if it lowered his opinion of this new acquaintance even further. Bad enough, if he held that view of women in general; worse if he actually cared for this girl, but affected indifference - to the point of cruelty - in company. “They meet a man and imagine themselves to be in love.” He paused. “She is young and rather fanciful. I have a slight acquaintance with her family and that is all. But of course, a slight acquaintance is all that some women require.”

Even if that was true, it did not excuse Willoughby’s behavior this evening. The honorable thing would have been to spare the young lady’s reputation and feelings. Knightley walked away in disgust. 

How glad he would be to return to Surrey, to his kind, simple neighbors and the quiet duty of his own life. London society, with all of its drama, was not the place for him.

Chapter Text

Wickham needed his little jaunts-- it did not matter whether he went to London or to Bath. He deserved amusement; he deserved time away from Lydia, with her incessant complaints, and the children, with their neverending noise. As long as he was discreet, keeping his spending low and his debts in check, making sure not to draw attention to himself, Darcy need never discover how he spent his time. Wickham knew that all of his assistance from Derbyshire would disappear if Darcy learned of his exploits-- Fitz had always been a prudish little killjoy. But Wickham also suspected that Darcy was far too happy in his current circumstances to pay much attention to Wickham’s, so as long as his behavior was not too obviously flagrant, all was safe enough.

Wickham had chosen Bath this time-- less fashionable but also less expensive. Funds were especially low at the moment. He wasn’t terribly worried; he would find ways of enjoying himself anyway. He’d always been good at that. 

The assembly was noisy and crowded, full of ladies young and old, fair and plain. Wickham still cut a dashing figure; he could have his pick of the lot. His eyes settled on a lady whose own gaze had been upon him from the moment he’d entered the room. Tall and elegant, she peeked at him coyly from behind her fan. She was very attractive, though there was a hardness to her beauty that became evident the nearer to her he approached. This one had lived-- you could tell with women. He fought back a grin. He could guess the sort of lady she was, and it just happened to be his favorite type: the kind not overly troubled by their virtue; the kind that was well aware of what he wanted and was only too eager to provide him with it. Everyone was enthusiastically on the same page. 

They were introduced. Miss Thorpe was in Bath to purchase her wedding clothes, she informed him.

“Your betrothed will not mind your talking to a strange man?” he asked. 

“Oh, he is not here,” she said, waving an airy hand, “and even if he were, he could not dictate to me. I believe, sir, that I may decide to whom I do or do not speak.”

He had always liked them spirited, too. “Then I hope neither of you would object to my asking you for the next two dances.”

She accepted his hand with a coquettish smile. 

Miss Thorpe’s figure was lovely and well-formed, and she knew precisely how to use that fact to her advantage. Wickham enjoyed watching her exhibit, imagining all that she still hid. There was not much actual imagining to do, with that flimsy gown, but Wickham had never placed a high value on modesty. He let his mind wander to other things. She was engaged to marry a man both old and rich, she had told him, which suited him well. He knew this type too-- she would marry for money but she would take her fun elsewhere; there was no danger of love or attachment or exposure with Miss Thorpe.

“Will you be at the next assembly?” he asked when their dances had ended, his voice low and sultry. 

“Oh, I do not know,” she sighed. “One tires of dancing when one is soon to be a bride.” 

She would be there; he could tell by her expression. Her words were weary but her eyes shone in anticipation.

“We would not have to dance,” he said.

A knowing smirk played at her lips. “Oh heavens, Mr. Wickham. What would my intended say, if he should hear you make such a suggestion?”

“What he does not know will not harm him.”

Her smirk widened further.

It was easy enough to wander away at an assembly, especially when one was as laxly chaperoned as Miss Thorpe seemed to be.

He had known that this trip would be a success.

Chapter Text

Mrs. Cole opened the latest letter from her old school friend, Mrs. Bennet-- Miss Jenny Gardiner, as she’d known her, way back when. These letters were always full of gossip about Mrs. Bennet’s five daughters and all of the grief they brought upon their mother’s nerves. 

“Oh, my!” she murmured. “Two more daughters married! Ten thousand a year ! That is quite a match, indeed!”

She wondered how the girl had made such a match; perhaps this one was the great beauty. 

Her letter in return would be less exciting. If only there were some thrilling news to share from Highbury!

Chapter Text

Jane was unused to such grand company. How fortunate she was to be a content and happy Mrs. Bingley instead of an important and impressive Mrs. Darcy, expected to entertain earls and viscountesses and all manner of noble personages. Lizzy did it all very well, of course-- naturally and with good humor. Jane was certain she could have done a creditable job herself, if called on to do so, but she was grateful that she was not under the anxieties of the hostess. She much preferred to enjoy this evening as a guest. 

She was seated next to one Lady Dalrymple after dinner, as the ladies all waited for the gentlemen to return.

“She is an insipid woman,” Lizzy had told her earlier, “with hardly any conversation at all.” She had grinned at Jane teasingly. “Though I am sure that you will find a reason to think her delightful.”

There was a difference, one Lizzy did not understand, between looking for the best in people and actually liking them. Lizzy thought that Jane was hopelessly naive, seeing good where there was none to be found, determined to befriend the entire world. But what was wrong in understanding another person’s particular circumstances and feelings, in making allowances where one should, and being kind to a lonely old woman? Lady Dalrymple certainly did not have much to say to anyone, but when she did speak, it was civilly, and she did not seem to mind that Jane had few connections and had married among the nouveau riche.

“Your husband seems a charming man,” Lady Dalrymple said. “Such amiable manners!”

Jane agreed that this was very true.

“And you are a very beautiful woman,” she continued with a sigh. “How fortunate you are, my dear. Cherish the blessings of your youth, for they do not last forever.” The old woman’s eyes looked overbright as she glanced away, towards the fire. Jane wished to take her hand and offer comfort, but their acquaintance was too slight; the gesture might be seen as forward and vulgar. 

Instead, she teased out the details of Lady Dalrymple’s late husband, their happy marriage, the pain of losing him. Perhaps the woman had only become quiet and vague through her sadness and grief, Jane thought. Perhaps she had been as vibrant and vivacious as Lizzy once and had only grown somber and hollow in her widowhood.

“It was a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mrs. Bingley,” said Lady Dalrymple at the end of the evening. “It has been a long time since I have had such a pleasant conversation.”

Jane did press her hand then, gently and warmly. You could never really tell how another person was suffering. That was why she liked her way better than Lizzy’s-- one’s fellow creatures deserved the generosity of a compassionate reception. 

Chapter Text

Fanny had never met a clergyman's wife quite like Mrs. Elton.

She was handsome, Fanny thought-- her figure full and womanly, her hair a brighter gold than Fanny's sandier hue. Her gown was fashionable, her bonnet stylish, her parasol elegant. Fanny suspected that she was a woman better suited to high society; that she'd prefer balls and parties to charitable visits to her husband's parishioners. Mrs. Elton did not seem quite kind enough to be a proper clergyman's wife. It was a weighty sisterhood and she did not seem very worthy of her place in it.

Oh, Fanny knew that the good and the bad were represented among their number, as they were among the general population. How different Fanny herself was to the capably steady Mrs. Ferrars and the wide-eyed, enthusiastic Mrs. Tilney. And how could she judge Mrs. Elton so harshly, when her own aunt Norris had provided so poor an example for those in their circle!

Still, she could not like Mrs. Elton, though she tried hard not to show it. 

"You are a neat little figure of a woman, Mrs. Bertram," said Mrs. Elton, in a high, cultured voice that Fanny was sure that she was affecting. "So unassuming. I am sure you make a docile and submissive little wife." She laughed and looked coy. "I defer always to my lord and master, of course, but my spirits are high and I am sure that I speak my mind a little more freely than he might prefer!"

Fanny never knew quite how to answer Mrs. Elton, though it hardly mattered; the woman did not seem to require a response.

"And I must say that I admire your gown. So plain and simple!" She leaned closer to Fanny,  lowering her voice conspiratorially. "I am forced to dress more extravagantly than I would normally choose. Everyone in my sweet little village has come to expect it. They think me quite a grand lady, you know!" She laughed again, airy and false. "My sister is married to Mr. Suckling, after all."

Fanny did not know who this was.

"Yes," Mrs. Elton continued, "it is quite tiring. But it is a small thing and it makes them so happy." She paused, as though waiting for Fanny to agree. Fanny could only give an awkward, uncomfortable sort of smile, though that seemed to be enough for Mrs. Elton. "And you must be considered a grand lady yourself, as a niece of Sir Thomas Bertram's! I wonder how you have escaped the necessity of playing the part that I must constantly perform! But dress is not everything. Perhaps you travel around in a barouche-landau!"

Fanny assured her that this was not the case.

"Oh my, how perfectly relaxed you must be, with your undemanding flock," said Mrs. Elton. "But for all of its silly little ways, I would not trade my dear Highbury for the world!"

She would trade it in an instant, Fanny was sure, if the opportunity arose. 

Well, she would smile and nod whenever Mrs. Elton expected it, and get through this evening as best as she could. She held her truly dear Mansfield Parsonage in her heart all the while, glad for her circumstances and the life she had been given, grateful that she was not discontent with her lot, and very happy indeed that she would not have to suffer long with Mrs. Elton. Fanny shot up a quick prayer for the citizens of Highbury as the self-styled grand lady launched into yet another story about herself.

Chapter Text

It was not a feeling she enjoyed, and it was not a sensation she experienced often, but as Elizabeth Elliot sat here with her old school acquaintance Louisa, she felt a stab of what was decidedly envy.

Elizabeth had known her as Louisa Bingley back then, of course, vulgar and fairly reeking of new money. Elizabeth had barely acknowledged her at school and hadn't thought of her at all in many years. But now here they were, thrown into each other’s paths once more, Louisa with a shiny new name and ring, Elizabeth still Miss Elliot, finger unadorned.

Louisa Hurst’s husband was not particularly impressive and he was not especially rich, but he was a husband.  Elizabeth could do better than Mr. Hurst, naturally, but she never wanted to reach a point of desperation, when any husband was better than no husband at all, when she envied Louisa Hurst for the man himself, rather than for his role.

But it wouldn't come to that, surely. Elizabeth was beautiful and rich. A match would be made. Best to simply ignore the passing years.

"Tell me, my dear Mrs. Hurst," she said, "where is your husband's estate located?"

"Oh, we have no estate," said Mrs. Hurst. "Not as yet. But my husband has a rich uncle who is very fond of him, so we remain hopeful."

The woman hadn't even blushed.

"I do so admire your necklace, Mrs. Hurst," she tried again. "Such an old-fashioned setting! My mother had one very similar. The style looks a bit heavy now, but it has such charm. A family heirloom, perhaps?"

"Only an old trinket of my own from before my marriage. Perhaps I should have it remade." She pulled her chair nearer to Elizabeth's so that the necklace might be examined more closely. "What do you think?"

"Oh, I would not dare to suggest that you change it in any way."

"But you are so elegant a lady that your opinion must be my law!" Her eyes were large and eager. "Do tell me how you would alter it."

She simply would not take any of Elizabeth's put-downs for what they were.

"What a lovely gown, Mrs. Hurst. It reminds me of one I wore several seasons ago."

"High praise, indeed! It shall be a favorite of mine, now that I know that you approve."

This was insufferable. What good was insulting the woman if she refused to take offense? Elizabeth would just have to find some other way to tear her down for daring to marry before she had.

***

Louisa Hurst knew that Elizabeth Elliot was a self-satisfied, proud, petty sort of creature, but she didn't mind. The daughter of a baronet was a good acquaintance for one to have, and Louisa enjoyed collecting good acquaintances. She was surprised to see her old schoolfellow unmarried– Miss Elliot was lovely, from a respectable family and fortune, and surely the men came to her door in droves. Louisa had done well enough, but Miss Elliot must have the very best to choose from. Perhaps the sheer number of them was difficult to wade through, or it might be that her standards were particularly high. 

At any rate, she was still a Miss Elliot, though that did not make her unimpressive. Louisa was hoping to turn this acquaintance into a friend, to enjoy all of the benefits that such a relationship might bring her-- invitations to parties, introductions to important people, perhaps even a gift or two...

And so she did not mind any of Miss Elliot's mean-spirited comments. She could learn from such a fashionable woman, after all. Every snide criticism was an opportunity to learn; every snobbish aside was an inspiration to rise to Miss Elliot's lofty level. After all, Louisa longed to be a great lady herself, with superior manners and opinions. Miss Elliot could be her model.

Her husband hadn't managed to give her quite the life she had pictured for herself. Perhaps a friendship with Miss Elliot would allow her to get a little closer.

Chapter Text

Hunsford was pleasant, Mrs. Grant thought-- the perfect spot for a widow such as herself, full of interesting people and topped with a fair helping of gossip. It was the perfect place for her sister, Mary, too-- she had the companionship of her friends, the Metcalfes, here, and the Metcalfes had the ability to bring Mary out into the sort of company that she liked best. It was the kind of society that was too grand for Mrs. Grant's admittance, but she had the benefit of Mary's gossip about it later, and so she was quite content where she was.

Mary was to dine with Lady Catherine de Bourgh this evening and had plenty to say about the veritable queen of the county ("more impressed with herself than impressive in her own right, I think"), the daughter, Anne ("the most insipid creature I have ever met, and that includes Lady Bertram"), and even her dear friend Henrietta Metcalfe ("becoming rather desperate to catch a husband, the poor thing, but it does make her dreadfully dull").

Mrs. Grant only laughed and sent her on her way-- Mary might complain, but she would enjoy every second of her visit, if only for the joy of speaking scathingly of it in the morning.

Mrs. Grant, for her part, would be spending the evening with the clergyman's wife, Mrs. Collins, a capable and matter-of-fact woman that Mrs. Grant thought highly of. 

"My dear Mrs. Collins!" she said upon entering the parsonage's neat little parlor. "How well you are looking!"

Mrs. Collins was in the family way and her plumpness became her, adding a softness to her face and helping her inch as near to handsomeness as she was likely to come. Mrs. Grant sympathized-- she was a plain woman too, though she had experienced neither the particular joys of motherhood nor any beautifying effects it may have produced. 

"Do sit down and take some tea," said Mrs. Collins, when all the reciprocal compliments had been paid. "Mr. Collins is dining with the Harrises this evening."

"So it will be only us ladies then!" said Mrs. Grant. That suited her fine. She liked the company of her own sex and she had always enjoyed this part of being a clergyman's wife herself, the visiting and the social calls. She was a warmer, more outgoing personality than Mrs. Collins seemed to be, but surely the younger woman found this aspect of her position pleasant too. "It must be lovely, not having to worry about his supper! I know that my dear Dr. Grant was so particular that it was often a relief to know that someone else would have the responsibility of feeding him!"

Mrs. Collins laughed. "Oh, Mr. Collins is not overly-concerned about his meals. He is easy to please."

Mrs. Grant had never minded her late husband’s oddities in that direction, and though she would never say it to Mrs. Collins, she did hope that Mr. Collins was eating well enough.

Conversation turned to other things-- an earlier visit from Anne de Bourgh in her phaeton, some benign parish gossip, Mrs. Collins's little boys, and then their own girlhoods. Mrs. Collins was not a native of Kent, and Mrs. Grant was able to coax her into talking about her home county of Hertfordshire, her large family there, the pain in every mile of distance between them.

"It is difficult to be away from one's first home," Mrs. Grant agreed, "but then you have such a sweet home here, and your boys must be a comfort. And I am sure you have many friends here in Hunsford to keep you company!"

"I do stay busy," said Mrs. Collins, which was not quite an agreement.

"And your Hertfordshire friends must visit."

"I see some of my sisters now and then." She paused, then added, almost furtively, "My closest Hertfordshire friends are no longer in that county, and are now farther away from it than I am. We have been growing apart for some time, I am afraid. A common story, of course, but it does make Hertfordshire feel even more distant."

It struck Mrs. Grant that Mrs. Collins was in need of a friend. How lovely–- she was in need of one too. "Oh, I understand. Until I had my sister Mary with me for so much of the time, I could feel quite lonely."

Mrs. Collins's face, a touch wistful before, returned to its usual practical expression. "I should hate to sound as though I am discontent, Mrs. Grant, for I am not. I have all that I require here, in my home and my husband and my boys. There is great responsibility, too, in being a clergyman's wife, as well you know, and I am grateful for the occupation. My life is full and good. I want for nothing."

Mrs. Grant was not deceived. No matter how good life was, one could still yearn for a close female companion. It was a singular longing that only a friend could fill. 

"My dear Mrs. Collins," she said later, before taking her leave, "I have been the wife of a clergyman. I know the rewards of such a role, and I know the difficulties. If ever you need anything, even if it is simply a good chat with one who has stood where you stand now, you know that I am here."

Mrs. Collins smiled-- genuinely, Mrs. Grant thought. She took Mrs. Grant's hand and gave a quick squeeze to express her thanks, and the two women parted.

Chapter Text

It was an odd thing about these Lucas women, that no matter how plain, they always seemed to make decent marriages.

Not that Mrs. Weston was truly a Lucas. She was a cousin of Lady Lucas's, if Mary remembered correctly, and not a particularly close one. Still, she was visiting Lucas Lodge with her baby in tow, so she was close enough, and the wonder remained the same. Here she was, this Mrs. Weston, of plain face and humble beginning, creditably married and embarking on motherhood.

It should be a heartening example for Mary, she supposed, but she was still inclined to feel a little disgruntled by it-- the effect of her older sisters making positively miraculous marriages only a few months ago, perhaps. Mary would never find a husband as impressive as Mr. Bingley or Mr. Darcy. She would be lucky to do half as well as Charlotte Collins, so a fate such as Mrs. Weston's still felt out of reach.

It was possible that she was feeling a tad bitter about the unfairness of life.

Still, Mrs. Weston shouldn't be blamed for the blessings that seemed likely to pass Mary by. She seemed kind enough, and her baby was very sweet. Mary could be polite to her and simply ignore the Lucas women, who all seemed to be particularly aggravating this morning.

"Mrs. Weston used to be a governess!" said Lady Lucas with a significant look at Mary. This was not the first time she had suggested that Mary might wish to seek employment rather than matrimony-- vexing from a woman with daughters much plainer than Mary.

Mary glowered into her teacup, irritated with Lady Lucas, and even more irritated that governess work was something she herself had started considering more seriously in the past year. It might be her best chance at a decent life, after all, once her parents were gone, but how mortifying if she were destined for it! Lady Lucas would gloat, smug that she had been correct all along, while all of her daughters made their inexplicably comfortable matches.

It was infuriating, then, to approach Mrs. Weston with questions while Lady Lucas was busy elsewhere.

"Oh, I would not suggest becoming a governess if you have better options," Mrs Weston said lightly.

"But you spoke so highly of your own situation!" Mary protested.

"I was fortunate," said Mrs. Weston. "Very fortunate. Most others are not so lucky." She paused and looked at Mary with warm, understanding eyes. "And even a good situation, such as mine, comes with its trials. One's life is not one's own. Better to take your chances, I think, until you become desperate."

That was all well and good, but Mary would rather not reach destitution, thank you very much. 

Something of her frustration must have shown in her face, because Mrs. Weston continued. "You must do what you think is best, of course, but you are still young, Miss Bennet. You still have a family and a home. I did not have such blessings. My advice to you is to give it a little time. After all, you are in a better position than I ever was, and look how things have turned out for me! You will have many more opportunities if you do not jump into life as a governess too quickly."

Well, perhaps she was right. Mary would much prefer to continue as she was, at home without her sisters, furthering her studies, than to have to worry about educating others.

And maybe, just maybe, things were going to work out as well for her as they had for Mrs. Weston.

Chapter Text

Colonel Brandon hadn't truly expected to be distracted by the theater. His mind was too full to be diverted; there was not a play in the world that could compete with his more personal intrigue-- with poor little Eliza's ruinous situation, John Willoughby’s hand in it, the damage that man might have done to Marianne Dashwood. He wished he hadn't gone out this evening. What a waste of time.

The heroine of this play was much too similar to Miss Marianne... and to his own dear Eliza of so many years before. He couldn’t be distracted if he tried. But perhaps he was growing soft and sentimental as he aged. Perhaps he was merely searching for the young ladies he cared about in every face he met with and every character he saw. Neither Eliza nor Miss Marianne would behave as the heroine did now; he knew better than to make these sorts of comparisons, to draw himself deeper into his own regret. He tried to shake off his melancholy thoughts.

But he couldn’t, not when there was a young lady in this box who reminded him of Miss Marianne, with her dark eyes and hair, her expression rapt as she was swept up in the evening’s entertainment. How many times had he seen that look on Miss Marianne’s face during their short acquaintance?

Not that he had recently, not since Willoughby had darted through her life and torn it asunder, not since she had been left unmoored and diminished. Brandon could only hope that Miss Marianne would recover and find the same joy in the world that she used to-- the kind that colored this young lady's face now.

As he looked at her more closely, however, the likeness to Miss Marianne faded; the turn of her countenance and the darkness of her eyes had fooled him, had made him wish to sketch a resemblance that was not there. This young lady was slighter than Miss Marianne, and perhaps a year or two older; her face was thinner, her hair curlier. 

She felt his gaze and met his eye, smiling quickly before turning back to the play, and the illusion was gone for good, all similarities between the two purely superficial. He really was getting ridiculous, too captivated by a young woman with whom he had no chance that he was behaving like a lovesick maiden from a novel. He shook his head and tried to focus his attention on the stage.

He did not look at the young lady again until the play had ended and they all stood to leave. Her companion took her arm with a laugh, warned her not to get lost in the crowd, called her Elizabeth. 

Elizabeth … a name that would always resonate with him most poignantly. He prayed that this Elizabeth, with her eyes so like Miss Marianne’s, had nothing but happiness in her future; may she avoid scandal and heartbreak and men who wished to wound. He collected his hat and gloves and did not glance her way again. 

Chapter Text

It was no surprise at all, Eleanor thought, that Sir Walter Elliot was an old friend of General Tilney's... though it was an odd sort of friendship, one Eleanor would not choose for herself. It did seem to work for her father, however, this shallow imitation of true companionship-- it was, after all, the dynamic he shared with Lord Longtown and General Courteney. Perhaps men of a certain age and station fell naturally into competition, trying to outdo each other, wishing to inspire envy and awed respect in every acquaintance.

"My dear Miss Tilney," said Sir Walter in an affectedly fine tone, "how good it is to meet again! Why, I have not seen you since you were but a girl. You have grown into a lovely young lady!" His eyes seemed to rake every inch of her body. 

Eleanor suppressed a shudder and answered civilly, as she had been taught.

"I have just now invited the general to visit me at Kellynch, and I do hope that you will be one of the party."

Eleanor said the proper, gracious necessities and prayed that her father would make some excuse.

"You have met my eldest daughter, Elizabeth?"

"I have not had that pleasure, I am afraid."

"Oh, then you must be introduced! It would be a pity for the two most beautiful women in the room to remain strangers!" 

He nodded over to a young lady, tall and blonde, who was talking to an older woman and looking bored. Miss Elliot certainly was pretty, in a cold and haughty sort of way. Eleanor longed for close female companionship, but she doubted that Miss Elliot could provide it.

"My other daughters are still in Somersetshire," said Sir Walter. "My youngest is married but does not live far off, and you will meet Anne, if you come to say. I dare say that you will get along agreeably."

Not if this Anne was as icy as her sister seemed to be.

"And as I have told your father, your brothers are welcome at Kellynch too," said Sir Walter, a new gleam in his eye. "How lucky the general is, to have two sons. He must be eager to make good matches for your brothers! I know that I am anxious for my remaining daughters to marry well."

Eleanor felt a stab of fear for poor Frederick and wished him far away from Miss Elliot. It seemed unlikely that Henry, as a second son, was in much danger, unless Sir Walter meant him for Anne. 

Eleanor had hoped to quickly detach herself and wander away to safety with one of the Miss Howards, but her captor was not eluded so easily and their conversation did not become less uncomfortable the longer it dragged on; indeed, it grew rather worse. Sir Walter, it turned out, was as great a talker as the general, and required very little in the way of encouragement. Eleanor made the barest replies - a scarcely-intelligible murmur, a slight nod of the head - and still he spoke on about all of his favored and self-involved subjects.

“A fine estate, if he said so himself—he only hoped that the heir-presumptive would appreciate it—it seemed unlikely that he himself would remarry.—It was a fine thing to be in town—did she get there often or did the general prefer to keep her safely at Northanger Abbey?—He understood well the protectiveness of a father, of course.—He had a good friend who infinitely preferred Bath—did the Tilneys enjoy the place?—A pity that General Tilney was not more patient with the waters.—Why, he had a friend who-- but it was not for everyone—and it was less fashionable, of course, than London— good heavens, what frights the women were!—Miss Tilney must shine in every company, but what a queen she must be in Bath!—A very little effort would help most women, did not she think?—A little more money spent on gowns made such a difference—proper hairdressing—a little rouge—Gowland was just the thing, he swore by Gowland.—Better places to visit than Bath, he was sure—the comforts of home particularly agreeable after time away.—Do come to Kellynch—Miss Elliot the most delightful hostess—the Tilneys particularly amiable company—nothing so gratifying as good friends—how he hoped to see them in Somersetshire—too long since he had last seen the general.—Do bring your eldest brother—an active sort of man requires occasional leisure—do bring your eldest brother to Kellynch.”

Eleanor wondered how tedious a fortnight together with her father and Sir Walter would be, each talking over the other, boasting and bragging and blustering, trying to prove which of them was the best, perhaps even scheming to connect the families through their eldest children. Oh, how she hoped that her father would not accept the Elliots' invitation. Northanger Abbey was quite bad enough.

Chapter Text

Louisa still got headaches, two years after her accident; sudden ones, sharp and startling, and ones that began as a low grumbling and slowly built into a roar. They were not constant, and she sometimes went several weeks without suffering from one at all. But they were consistent, particularly around her courses, and when they struck, she often had to spend the remainder of the day in bed, curtains drawn.

Louisa was not particularly worried by them. They were unpleasant, of course, but her aunt Hayter was prone to much more severe headaches than these, and Louisa had many friends and acquaintances whose experiences did not differ greatly from hers. Her affliction was not noteworthy.

James was much more concerned by the headaches than she was, and it was he who insisted that she see someone about them. There was a man he'd heard about from the wife of a brother sailor; quite a miracle worker, Mrs. Green had said, but Louisa knew Mrs. Green to have very little wrong with her but overwrought nerves, and wondered if this miracle worker was simply a soother of fears and fussiness. 

But what she would not do for herself alone she was happy to do for James. Seeing this man would make him feel better and would cost her scarcely anything at all-- there was always the possibility of a cure, and, if nothing else, they would get a lovely little trip to Surrey out of it.

Louisa was not convinced by her first sight of Highbury. It was a pretty place, but if Mr. Perry were the sorcerer that Mrs. Green made him out to be, he would surely be curing patients in a more bustling area, if not London. 

"How very promising!" said James heartily. "Good, healthful air and a pleasing view! I am certain that this will be just the thing for you my dear."

She smiled at him, willing to believe the best.

They received directions from a local man with a kind face, and his wife, finely-dressed and elegant, looked at them with interest when she heard who they had come to see.

"Oh yes, Mr. Perry!" she said. "My father quite swears by him."

James shot Louisa a glance, his countenance all hopeful enthusiasm.

Mr. Perry, it turned out, was a small man with spectacles and a gentle smile. He welcomed the Benwicks politely but disclaimed against any great personal powers.

"I will, of course, do my best for you, Mrs. Benwick, but there is often little I - or any of my profession - can do to effect a cure for persistent headaches."

James looked chagrined by this, but Louisa admired the man’s honesty.

"Now, Mrs. Benwick, your husband's letter says that you suffered a great fall."

Like Humpty-Dumpty, Louisa thought, though she only confirmed, "Two years ago, sir."

"And your headaches date from that time?"

"They do."

"I am not surprised to hear it. Such things often originate with a trauma."

He examined her then, carefully and thoroughly, but Louisa suspected what was coming.

"I could prescribe you some draughts if you wish, Mrs. Benwick, but they are likely to be the same ones you have already tried without success. As painful as the headaches are, I do not think they pose a significant danger to your health in general; the best thing you can do is rest and alleviate your discomfort when they strike."

"But surely you must know of something else to try," said James.

"The situation is a frustrating one for me as well, Captain Benwick," said Mr. Perry, "but the simple truth is that we still know very little about how to mend the body when something goes amiss with it."

"I confess, I expected better," said James a quarter of an hour later, once they had left Mr. Perry and his well wishes. 

"Oh, I liked him," said Louisa. "I liked that he did not give any false comfort."

"We will try someone else," her husband said determinedly.

She took his hand. "My dear, you have heard what everyone has told us. A cure may not ever be found, and besides, rest always heals me up quickly enough." She leaned into him, wishing she could ease his mind. "You always keep me in the greatest possible comfort. I am satisfied with my care."

"But--"

"James, I do believe that the greatest help to me now would be a stroll through Highbury. A nice, leisurely walk in a charming village will do me a world of good."

Louisa may have lost the worst of her obstinacy in Lyme, but she was still good at getting her own way when she wanted it. Arm in arm, she and her husband made their way through the unfamiliar streets. He may press her to visit more physicians in the future, but for now, he was content with a quiet morning spent in each other’s company.

Chapter Text

Mary Crawford waited impatiently for her first sight of the eligible bachelor. Mrs. Fraser was most eager for her to meet Mr. William Elliot, the heir of a baronet and the future inheritor of a handsome estate, and if Mary was not interested in the man himself, she was certainly interested in the bounty that was likely coming his way, once his esteemed relation died. 

“Mr. Elliot,” simpered Mrs. Fraser, “allow me to introduce my dearest friend, Miss Crawford.” 

Mary curtseyed, shooting Mr. Elliot her most alluring smile and gazing up at him coquettishly through gently fluttering eyelashes. There was no harm in a little flirting, not when the rewards might well be great.

She shouldn't have fluttered so quickly. Perhaps Mrs. Fraser had talked a little too excitedly about Mr. Elliot, extolling his charm and his manners, for despite his wealth and general amiability, Mary was not at all impressed with him. He was well-looking but not handsome, though Mary could have seen past his outward appearance for his future title alone. He was not especially witty, which was another point against him– though, of course, she might have glossed over that failure as well; she certainly had for Edmund Bertram.

No, it was Mr. Elliot’s bland agreeableness that caused her to lose all interest. He was made entirely of shallow pleasantries; he had not a drop of substance. A man so determined to be liked by all the world must have little with which to recommend himself in particular. 

“Mrs. Fraser says you are a keen horsewoman, Miss Crawford! Do you often find the opportunity to ride?”

Keen horsewoman, indeed. Mrs. Fraser knew perfectly well that she had never been on a horse before entering Northampton and that she hadn’t been on one since leaving it. Mary thought of bright mornings and soulful eyes and Edmund Bertram’s hand helping her into the saddle. Stop this. He made his choice, and a poor one it was. You do not regret him. 

“Not as often as I might wish, Mr. Elliot,” she said, forcing the smile back onto her face, “though that is my own fault. Without a friend with whom to ride, I am afraid I lose much of my motivation.” 

“That is a very great pity! I have always thought it an occupation that young ladies should be encouraged in pursuing. It is such healthful exercise! You should see the grounds at Kellynch– what beautiful fields for a gallop!”

He had been looking for the chance to introduce this estate into the conversation, Mary could tell, and he spent the next quarter of an hour describing all that he was to inherit. 

Mary’s attention wavered in and out as she considered the man before her. She could win him, if she wanted. She could be Lady Elliot of Kellynch Hall, mistress of her little corner of Somersetshire, possessor of fine fields for healthful female exercise.

But she wanted this particular future baronet as much as she had wanted Tom Bertram– after some initial intrigue, not at all. In fact, she could not wait to get away from him, with his ingratiating smiles and his purposefully polished and prosaic conversation. She would have enjoyed the title and the mansion, of course, but such things were not worth the high price of so lackluster a partner. Only look at the former Mrs. Rushworth! Even twelve thousand a year had not been enough to keep that lady from jumping feet-first into exciting ruin.

Good heavens, Mary was now immune to the allure of a shallow man. How vexing! It would make finding a suitable husband infinitely more difficult.

Chapter Text

“Oh dear me, Mrs. Morland, I know that I have already told you so, but how good it is to see you again! It is most gratifying that you and Mr. Morland have come to visit Highbury. My mother and I have talked of little else for a fortnight! And how well you are looking! One scarcely believes that you have had ten children! And how are they all? Your eldest daughter is lately married, of course, and settled nicely. The wife of a clergyman! We all of us here must think that a very good thing! Why, when we received the news, I turned to my mother and I said, ‘How lovely it must be, to be a clergyman’s daughter and then a clergyman’s wife!’ She will be well-prepared for such a role, having watched you for all of these years. My dear niece Jane is a new bride herself– gone to live in Yorkshire, I am afraid, which is a sorrow to us here, but she is content and that is what matters. I have always said that contentment is our duty to our God and to ourselves. 'In every thing give thanks,' my father always liked to preach, and he taught me well. I said to Jane, I said, 'Glory in tribulations also: knowing that tribulation worketh patience; and patience, experience; and experience, hope.' She was to be a governess, as I have told you, and for a time was in great need of encouragement; she was quite melancholy when she thought– but it is of little consequence now. I have written to you often about Jane, of course, so it must feel as though you know her yourself, though, of course, you have never met! I know how I feel about your own children, through all of your letters throughout the years. Dear, dear Catherine, how happy I am for her, and for you and Mr. Morland too, for it must be gratifying to have her married well. 

“Pray, Mrs. Morland, take another slice of cake! I was sorry to hear about your poor James– such a pity, when young people break an engagement. It was rather shocking when we learned that our Jane was engaged for so long a time without our knowing. She kept it quite a secret! Her husband, Mr. Frank Churchill, is such a charming man. Indeed, we all thought that he would become engaged to– but it has all worked out in the end, everyone with the right partner! I do think that most things work out in the end, do not you, Mrs. Morland? It is a comforting thought, knowing that Providence guides us all! I, of course, seem not to have been meant for matrimony, but I have my mother and my very pleasant life here, and so that has ended happily too. I have so many good neighbors here that I am never lonely. There are always things to be grateful for, if you look for them. It is always important to count one’s blessings! And what a delightful blessing it is to have you here! It is a great joy to meet an old friend again, after so many years apart. Letters are agreeable things indeed, but they are nothing to company. 

“And oh, my dear Mrs. Morland, I cannot thank you enough for such a generous basket, quite overflowing with good things! It is too much, you need not have brought a gift at all! Do take another slice of cake, or some gooseberry tart, as you are so partial to it. It was given to us by Mrs. Elton, but, of course, neither my mother nor I are particularly fond– but it was kind of her to think of us, and it has not gone to waste, as you are here to enjoy it! What fortuitous timing for us all! Do take it with you, along with my regards to Mr. Morland.

“Good heavens, how time has flown, Mrs. Morland! I had no idea that you had stayed so long– though, of course, it has not seemed long to me; the hours have been but nothing! Such a pleasure to see you again, my dear. No, no, the tart is yours. Do write often, we love to receive your letters, and my best to all of your family! God bless you, Mrs. Morland, and have a safe journey home. You are welcome here in Highbury at any time!”

Chapter Text

Lady Elliot sat down in the drawing-room, feeling unaccountably nervous. It had been years since she had last been to Pemberley - she hadn’t seen the place since before her marriage - and even longer since she had set eyes on Lady Anne Darcy, tall and patrician and aloof. Lady Elliot was too old to feel so intimidated by the woman - she herself was the wife of a baronet and the mother of three children, for heaven’s sake! - and yet here she was, clutching her hands together tightly and praying that she didn’t say anything insipid. 

If she was to feel frightened of anyone, it ought to have been Mr. George Darcy. It was he, after all, who was her relation; it had been his branch of the family who had so disapproved of her union with Sir Walter. But her cousin Darcy was an affable man, faultlessly courteous, and he had always been kind to her. If his opinion of her had suffered a blow once she had taken the name of Elliot, he had certainly never mentioned it to her. If he had remained friendly with Lady Elliot, then certainly she had nothing to fear from his wife.

But Lady Anne Darcy was the daughter of an earl and a member of a family known for their nobility and pride. She was also notoriously austere and distant, and Lady Elliot felt sure that she was judging her now. How graceful she was, how beautiful in her gown and her jewels! Lady Elliot, having only six months previously given birth to her youngest, felt dowdy and maternal in comparison. She smoothed the front of her gown where it puckered at her lap, wishing that she was back at Kellynch Hall. 

She soon had reason to feel ashamed of her thoughts-- Lady Anne, though stately and formal, was a kind woman, and made Lady Elliot quite welcome. 

“It is a pity that Mr. Darcy is away,” Lady Anne said, “and that you should not see your cousin on your visit, but it is gratifying to have you here with me while he is gone. I usually go with him to town, when the House is in session, but my dear Fitzwilliam has been ill and I could not bear to part with him. You well know a mother’s feelings, of course, with your three little girls.” The barest flicker of wistfulness crossed Lady Anne’s face and then dissipated just as quickly, leaving her as serene and unruffled as ever. “I hope that they will be comfortable here too, and that Fitzwilliam recovers in time to enjoy their company. He and your little Anne are nearly of an age, if I recall correctly.”

“Yes,” said Lady Elliot. “Anne is not a year the younger.”

“Well, then,” Lady Anne smiled, “I am sure that they will be very good friends, once he is on his feet once more. Until then, I trust that the dear ones will have plenty to occupy themselves with in the nursery. And--” she paused, her expression faltering. She looked down at her hands, then up again at Lady Elliot, composed once more. “And I assure you, Lady Elliot, that I am not one of those mothers who expects children to be seen and not heard. Your daughters need not stay in the nursery; we can have them here with us. I should like it more than anything, to hear more little feet running around Pemberley.”

Lady Elliot hadn’t thought about it before, but the Darcys had been married for some time and their only child was little Fitzwilliam; there was not yet any sign of another. She felt a stab of pity for Lady Anne. 

“That would be lovely,” she said. “My two eldest girls are very quiet and well-behaved.”

“Not too quiet, I hope,” said Lady Anne. “I do so enjoy the sound of children at play-- and little girls are especially charming in their games. My sister Catherine and I hosted very many tea parties for our dolls when we were girls, and it has been far too long since I have attended a proper one.” She looked suddenly excited, her usual poise slipping to reveal a glimpse of the young girl she might once have been. “We shall have a tea party here at Pemberley, in the winter breakfast room, for all of us ladies!” she said. 

“Elizabeth will like that very much,” Lady Elliot said with a smile. 

“I am sure that I will like it best of all,” said Lady Anne.

The conversation soon turned to other things, but there was a look in Lady’s Anne eye that hadn’t been there before, warmer and less guarded. To think that a children’s tea party was what had coaxed it out!

Chapter Text

The seaside was just the thing, Mrs. Jennings said; Miss Marianne was still recovering her strength, and in the absence of Miss Dashwood - Mrs. Ferrars , now - it was her job to make sure that Miss Marianne was taken care of and entertained. 

That part of Marianne that she was trying hard to govern - the one that was formerly so quick to offend in the name of honesty - wanted to roll her eyes and inform Mrs. Jennings that she was still in possession of a mother and that she was looked after quite well enough, thank you very much.

But Marianne was working very hard to improve herself, so she smiled and nodded instead. She would quite like to visit the seaside, after all, and as her mother also seemed enthusiastic about the idea, the thing was soon settled. Mrs. Jennings and Marianne would journey together, to see the sights and to breathe the sea air. 

As Mrs. Jennings’s carriage rolled into Lyme, Marianne had no reason to regret her decision. Her breath caught as she took in all of its beauty– the Cobb, the cliffs, the bay! She could not wait to get out and stretch her legs, to soak up all of this magnificence and feel the breeze on her skin. 

“My dear Miss Marianne, we must secure our lodgings before we rush off to explore,” chuckled Mrs. Jennings fondly. “Lyme will not be any less charming in an hour’s time.”

Marianne supposed this was true, but patience had never been her particular virtue. But bless that amiable Mrs. Jennings, she thought later, for as soon as they had settled at one of the inns, she turned to Marianne with a smile and said, “Now, my dear, we shall make for the sea.”

Marianne had grinned back, snatching up her bonnet and spencer and nearly sprinting out of doors. 

This must surely be the cure for all of life’s ills, she thought, closing her eyes against the spray of the waves and the brightness of the sun, enjoying the feel of both on her face and not minding the chill in the air. One could stay here forever, basking in the best of creation. 

It was not only nature, however, that was fascinating. Her eye was soon caught by a young man on the Cobb, gazing out at the sea with a distinctly melancholy air. There was something striking about him, the way he seemed indifferent to the wind whipping his hair around his face and the voices chattering around him. He was lost in his thoughts, quite unaware of the world outside of his head. Marianne recognized a fellow Romantic. She peered at him surreptitiously as she passed, wondering what he was mulling over, curious about what had caused him to seem so haunted.

***

Mrs. Jennings, Marianne knew, had both a far-flung circle of acquaintances and a curious knack for sniffing out the local gossip. 

“We must call on Mrs.Harville while we are here, my dear,” Mrs. Jennings had said that morning. 

“Who is Mrs. Harville?”

“Oh, the daughter of an old friend of mine. We have not met since her marriage! She and her husband have just settled here and I do long to see her again.”

The Harvilles were an amiable couple, warm and inviting, and though Mrs. Harville had not seen Mrs. Jennings for many years and though they had never heard of Marianne at all, they could not have been more sincere about their pleasure in the visit. 

“Ah, James!” cried Captain Harville, as the door opened behind Marianne and Mrs. Jennings. “You are just in time to meet our guests!”

Marianne turned to see the pensive young man from the Cobb. Everyone was introduced, and the Harvilles insisted that everyone sit down for tea.

“James, you look chilled to the bone!” said Mrs. Harville. “Come, warm yourself by the fire. Surely you have not been out in that wind all morning!”

Captain Benwick gave a sheepish little nod and meekly obeyed her orders, taking the cup that she passed him but not drinking from it. Indeed, as the rest of the party conversed merrily, he stayed largely silent, looking into the fire with the same intensity that Marianne had seen him stare out at the waves, and he looked greatly relieved once Mrs. Jennings stood and announced that she and Miss Dashwood really ought to leave.

***

“You should hear what Mrs. Harville has told me about our mysterious Captain Benwick!” said Mrs. Jennings. The two had met, it seemed, at one of the shops that morning while Marianne had stayed back to compose a letter to her mother. “He was engaged to be married to Captain Harville’s sister, my dear, but Fanny Harville died while he was at sea!”

Marianne’s heart went out to poor Captain Benwick even while his tragic story ignited her imagination. He must have been devastated, once he had returned to England and heard of her passing! Surely this explained his sorrowful silences– he was obviously dwelling constantly on his beloved’s memory, remembering her looks and her smiles, regretting all that he had lost. Marianne had long possessed a soul partial to those struck by misery, and her own recent heartache only intensified those feelings. Here was a man, like Colonel Brandon, who had loved and lost forever– Marianne’s grief over Willoughby seemed small in comparison. 

“We are to dine with the Harvilles this evening, my dear, and we shall see if we cannot bring a little cheer to that poor man!”

***

“Mrs. Jennings informs me, Miss Dashwood, that you are fond of poetry!” said Mrs. Harville, and if she exchanged a conspiratorial look with Mrs. Jennings, Marianne chose not to see it. 

“I am,” said Marianne, trying her best to be measured, as Elinor would be; to neither grow angry at their maneuvering nor to immediately launch into a speech about the inadequacy of the word fond to describe her passion.

“Captain Benwick is partial to poetry himself,” said Mrs. Harville, “and it is his very great misfortune to live among we simple folk, with our minds bent toward less exalted things.” 

She was teasing, but it was gentle and affectionate teasing, and Marianne could not be offended by it. 

“It is very difficult at times, Mrs. Harville, to be a lover of poetry,” she said, keeping her tone light and playful and charming. “One gets carried away by the subject, knowing how one’s audience has long grown weary of it, and yet utterly unable to regulate oneself. Perhaps, Captain Benwick, we might speak of poetry together and spare the rest of the room this terrible habit.”

She wondered, as she ignored yet another look that passed between Mrs. Harville and Mrs. Jennings, if they were attempting to secure a match. Captain Benwick was interestingly tragic, which drew both Marianne’s intrigue and sympathy, but if her heart was not yet ready for an attachment, she was quite sure that his wasn’t. Fanny Harville was not six months in her grave! Marianne was certainly happy to speak with another avid consumer of poetry, to share her favorite lines and to offer a little comfort, but she hoped that that was all that the older women had in mind. 

Captain Benwick, it transpired, came to life when speaking of poetry, his eyes bright and his countenance infused with the same sort of fervor that she herself must exude. They discussed Cowper and Byron, each passionately defending their favorite; they compared their preferences and found them remarkably like; they scoffed at those lesser poets they each despised. He was an agreeable man, Captain Benwick, and Marianne liked him very much.

But he was a man who wore his sadness wrapped tightly around him; he tended to it with painstaking care. Marianne understood– she had been exactly the same way. And yet, seeing it now in another person, she could see why it was a quality that had always so concerned Elinor. It was not healthy, luxuriating in morosity, basking in gloom. Marianne would forever argue that such melancholy had its place: when grief was new and heartache fresh, tears and sadness were essential for healing. One could not lock them away, pretending they didn’t exist, hoping that wishing made it so. One must experience one’s emotions, acknowledge every bit of the pain, feel it beating into the skin.

And then one must recover.

It was that which was the difficulty, and Marianne still struggled with it. But that was the point– she struggled . She no longer allowed herself to feel only the pain. She searched actively for the joy. She sought the sunshine, the flowers, the sheer felicity of living. She recited the happy verses. She played the cheerful songs. She pushed forward.

Perhaps Captain Benwick would get there in time. His loss, after all, was both new and permanent. He would take some time to mend. 

Marianne hoped the cure would come eventually. The world was a dark and dangerous and devastating place, but it was glorious too, full of beauty and wonder. It was easy, when life dealt its blows, to wallow in misery; when one’s heart was sore, it felt wrong, somehow, to offer it any relief. But Marianne had learned much in this very difficult year; she knew that life could not be lived without hope. The sun was still shining. The flowers still bloomed. Her spirit could still soar.

Chapter Text

They made friends quickly-- a pair of young, attractive, newly-married couples enjoying themselves in town, all four of them friendly, all four of them around the same age. There were many similarities among them-- the young husbands lively, affable, charming; the young brides quieter, more serene, quicker to smile than to speak. It was little wonder that the Churchills and the Bingleys soon found themselves spending many evenings together - at dinner parties, at assemblies, at the theater - grateful for the society and the companionship and the pocket of intimacy that they created in the midst of London’s teeming crowds.

But one made comparisons. Of course one did.

Both Janes were tall, though Frank’s was the shorter by an inch or so. Both had pleasing figures, though Mrs. Churchill tended towards thinness while Mrs. Bingley was more fashionably plump. Mrs. Churchill was dark-haired and pale while Mrs. Bingley was fair and rosy-complexioned. His own wife was the more striking woman, Frank decided, while Bingley’s was more classically pretty. He flattered himself that his Jane’s beauty was the memorable kind, the one that stood out among the lovely faces in any given room; Bingley’s Jane, though undoubtedly among the prettiest, would always blend in, as beautiful as any painted angel but forgettably so. 

“We are lucky men,” said Bingley, as the two husbands watched their wives conversing from across the room, the brunette head and the blonde close together, their arms linked. Sharing womanly gossip, Frank supposed. 

“We are, indeed,” he agreed.

“The envy of every man in the room, I would wager,” said Bingley, his eyes darting quickly around at their fellow guests before settling once more on his bride. 

It may not have been a competition, but Frank wanted to win anyway. “If only Lord Stornaway would keep his sister away from the pianoforte! I should like to see our ladies take their turns.” He hadn’t forgotten, of course, that Bingley’s wife was not musical.

“Oh, Mrs. Bingley does not play. But she does sing, a little, and she might even be persuaded to accompany Mrs. Churchill, should they be asked to perform.”

“Mrs. Churchill sings beautifully,” said Frank. “In French and Italian, as well as English.”

“You must be proud to have such an accomplished wife!”

“I am.”

“What talents all young ladies seem to have! I confess, I am not nearly as impressive as Mrs. Bingley. She keeps a very neat little garden, the prettiest thing you have ever seen, and her embroidery is quite magnificent. Such tiny stitches!”

Frank smiled and nodded, because that is what one did. “Mrs. Churchill’s work is excellent too-- she is forever trimming bonnets and gowns. She is quite an astonishing artist in general, for she  draws and paints, and she arranges all of her own flowers around the house.”

“Does she indeed?” Bingley sounded impressed but not covetous, and not at all embarrassed by his own thoroughly unaccomplished wife. “A toast to our ladies!” he said jauntily. “Two very fine women who have married below their station!”

Frank raised his glass, vaguely irritated that the man considered his wife every bit as splendid and desirable as Frank’s own.

Chapter Text

Charles Hayter listened closely as William Collins preached, though not with any admiration.

The Hayters were in Hunsford to visit their aging aunt Hughes, a woman who would not miss service even if she were on her deathbed. Charles felt sure that she would attend even after her own demise, haunting her pew and spooking the less-devoted out of their early Sunday naps. When he whispered this to Henrietta, she tittered but told him to behave himself, looking around them to make sure he hadn’t been overheard.

Charles had been eager to hear Collins speak, interested to learn from a man who had the patronage of so esteemed a personage as Lady Catherine de Bourgh, but so far he had been disappointed. Collins droned on endlessly, his phrases flowery and his subjects threadbare. It was all Charles could do not to follow the example of the elderly man in front of him and drift off into the blessed relief of unconsciousness. 

His aunt, having only just noticed this display of impiety, poked the man sharply in the back of the head. He jolted awake, though Charles suspected he would not stay that way for long— Collins did not seem as though he would be winding down any time soon. The clergyman meandered slowly down disconnected pathways, veering off into pedantic digressions that not even Charles could follow. He spoke simply to admire the sound of his own voice, the way it boomed out impressively and echoed around the church. He enjoyed the feeling of gazes focused on himself and failed to notice the ones looking aimlessly around for distraction. Sunday was a day of reverence, and he verbally pushed the Lord aside to receive the lion’s share for himself.

When finally he had done - and Charles had counted every painful second it took him to get there - aunt Hughes dragged the Hayters over to meet him.

“My nephew is a curate!” she told him proudly, patting Charles’s arm. 

“Is he indeed?” said Mr. Collins, his tone unctuous and his smile insincere. “Then, sir, I am sure you are a credit to our noble calling.”

Charles answered blandly. 

“And I am sure he has learned much from listening to you !” simpered his aunt. 

Yes , thought Charles. I have learned how very dull and prosaic a sermon can be; how tediously delivered .

But Mr. Collins puffed up instantly. “My dear Mrs. Hughes, you are too kind. I do feel it a duty to provide an example for any young man who has been less fortunate than myself.” He gave an obnoxious little chuckle. “Not everyone has been blessed, as I have been, to capture the attention of a patroness such as Lady Catherine de Bourgh!”

“Oh, she is magnificent !” said aunt Hughes.

“Indeed she is, ma’am. Indeed she is.” Mr. Collins seemed temporarily overcome by his awe of the great lady’s existence and took a moment to compose himself. “Thanks to her great beneficence, I have not had to struggle in a curacy.” He turned to Charles, full of affected admiration. “You have my illimitable respect, sir, for your work and devotion.”

Aunt Hughes looked like she might weep with gratitude. Charles, after a subtle poke in the side from Henrietta, attempted to smile.

“You are welcome, of course,” said Mr. Collins, “to call at the Parsonage while you are visiting your good aunt. I would be happy to share with you some of my best-received sermons.”

“Oh, Charles, do thank Mr. Collins for his generosity!” said his aunt breathlessly.

“You are very kind, sir,” said Charles. “But I am afraid–”

Henrietta stood on his foot, rather less subtly than she had poked him earlier. If Mr. Collins had not been so overwhelmed by his own kindness, he might have noticed. 

“--I am afraid I would be imposing on your precious time,” he amended.

“Not at all, sir, not at all!” exclaimed Mr. Collins. “I should like very much to provide you with any instruction that I can!”

“Of course he will call!” said aunt Hughes. “How could he not, when you have made such an offer!”

“I have no appointments tomorrow.”

“Then I am sure you must expect him!”

“Yes,” said Charles through gritted teeth. “I am sure you must.”

“Splendid,” said Mr. Collins. “There is nothing I enjoy more than assisting a fellow man of God!”

“He will return home with an excellent education,” said aunt Hughes. 

She was likely correct, thought Charles; he would certainly leave Kent with an excellent example of everything he wished not to be. 

Chapter Text

Colonel Brandon had rather insisted that the Ferrarses join him in Weymouth. Neither Elinor nor Edward had been inclined to accept the offer, grateful though they were to receive it. They were still very newly-married and they had a life to set into order; happily ever after came with logistics. But with a manner that he must have borrowed from Mrs. Jennings, Colonel Brandon remained firm-- the Ferrarses, his dear friends, would join him on the journey and keep him company there. He did not say so, of course, but Elinor thought that he might be pouring all of his sentimentality onto the young couple, giving them the trip he himself would wish to take with a bride of his own. Perhaps it was the greater kindness to accept his generosity.

So accept they did. 

Colonel Brandon, it turned out, had friends who were also visiting the area-- Colonel and Mrs. Campbell, their daughter, Mrs. Dixon, and her husband, and an adopted daughter of sorts, Miss Jane Fairfax. The introductions were made and everyone was pleasant and amiable; the Campbells suggested a small gathering for the evening-- some dinner and cards and music. After all, the young people were nearly of an age, the older people had shared a steady friendship, and it would be a delightful time for the entire party. Neither Brandon nor the Ferrarses objected, and so it was decided.

Dinner was delicious and the company was good; the Campbells and the Dixons carried the conversation, but Elinor and Edward smiled and laughed, feeling welcome and not at all awkward. Indeed, they were not even the quietest of the group. That title belonged to Miss Fairfax, who said scarcely a word through either of the courses. 

She did not grow more talkative after dinner, while the ladies sat and waited for the gentlemen, and once the entire party had reconvened for cards, she excused herself and escaped to the instrument. 

“Oh, we are in for a treat,” said Mrs. Campbell. “Our dear Jane plays beautifully!”

And indeed she did, with great feeling and expression. In some ways, she reminded Elinor of Marianne-- she had the same unwillingness to mix with acquaintances, preferring to fix herself to the pianoforte, as though she drew strength from it. It shielded her from the rest of the room; it allowed her to choose the attention she wanted to receive. Elinor could not quarrel with her tactics, nor regret the enjoyment she received from listening to her. Miss Fairfax was an impressive musician, more impressive even than Marianne. Her playing was certainly more correct than Marianne’s-- Elinor’s sister had a tendency to embellish, an addiction that Miss Fairfax plainly did not share. 

The more troubling similarity between the two girls, Elinor thought, was a distinct air of melancholy-- one that clung to Miss Fairfax and that Marianne had only just started to shed herself. They wore it differently, of course: Marianne flaunted hers boldly and openly, while Miss Fairfax had more discretion. Perhaps that was why Elinor had noticed it-- the style was more her own. 

She endeavored to hide it, but there was something sad in Miss Fairfax’s eyes, lurking behind the veneer of carefully-fashioned serenity. Elinor saw that detached gaze and ached. She was not far enough removed from the year's desperate heartache to fail to recognize another silent sufferer. Whatever it was that was troubling Miss Fairfax remained a mystery, but Elinor knew it must be something .

“You have an extraordinary talent,” she said later, when she was daring enough to approach the pianoforte and strike up a conversation.

Miss Fairfax’s eyes darted down to the keys, but her voice was steady as she murmured her thanks. 

“I am no musician,” said Elinor, “but my sister plays, and I recognize genius when I hear it.”

Miss Fairfax gave a short laugh. “Oh, I would not call it genius. I am to be a governess, you see, and so any proficiency I may possess is more of a necessity than an accomplishment.”

Ah, thought Elinor. Here was the likely source of the melancholia. Poor Miss Fairfax; a governess’s life was not an easy one, and this seemed to be a very reluctant calling. It might be a different sort of anguish than heartbreak, but it was anguish nevertheless. She wished that there was any way at all that she could help her.

But she and Miss Fairfax were not anything more than fresh acquaintances. Elinor was not audacious enough to offer her a comfort that she did not seek. Perhaps, if the Campbells were long enough in Weymouth, if their society became a regular one, she might strike up a friendship with Miss Fairfax, offer her gentle encouragement, promise to write. For now, she could do nothing but smile kindly and whisper private prayers that Miss Fairfax might be the recipient of a twist of fate, one quite as miraculous as her own.

Chapter Text

It was good to see Sir Thomas again, even if the circumstances surrounding their unexpected reunion were far from ideal-- Mr. Allen with his gout and Sir Thomas with the scandal . It seemed they were both in Bath in search of some healing, though whether either of them was likely to receive it was anyone’s guess. 

“I thought a change of scenery would be good for Lady Bertram,” said Sir Thomas. “She has required distraction since–” he broke off, his family’s infamy in the unspoken words, but the awkward silence that followed was such a loud one that he might as well have uttered them anyway.

“How is your eldest son?” Mr. Allen asked hastily, grasping for any available topic that was not the adulterous daughter. It was nigh on impossible to hold a conversation with Sir Thomas now,  with her hovering over him like a cloud. “He has been ill, has he not?” 

“He is improving,” said Sir Thomas, grateful to strike on another of his progeny, “though slowly. We are hopeful that, with a little time, he will make a full recovery.”

“That is a blessing indeed,” said Mr. Allen. “And your younger son– Edward?”

“Edmund,” Sir Thomas corrected.

“ Edmund ,” said Mr. Allen, trying to fix the name in his memory. He had known that Edward hadn’t sounded right. “I trust he is well?” If the Bertram heir was in precarious health, it was important that the spare remain hale and hearty. The family could only take so many blows.

Sir Thomas’s expression faltered slightly. “Very well, I thank you.” 

Mr. Allen felt sure that his friend was not telling the entire truth, but things were feeling awkward again and it truly was not any of his business, so he wracked his brain for the name of the other daughter.

“And Miss Julia!” he said, his triumph over producing it quickly overshadowed by the too-late remembrance that this daughter, too, had caused a bit of a stir. Mr. Allen felt his ears grow red. 

“ Mrs. Yates now,” said Sir Thomas with a dignity that Mr. Allen found frankly impressive, under the circumstances. “She is thriving.”

“I am pleased to hear it,” said Mr. Allen, grateful that there were no more Bertram children to ask after. 

The very air around them felt thorny with embarrassment, and neither of the men felt particularly up to the challenge of cutting through it. It was very hot in here, Mr. Allen noticed, pulling uncomfortably at his cravat. “Has Lady Betram taken the waters?” he asked finally, hoping his tone did not drip with desperation, though rather suspecting that it had trickled so steadily that they were standing in a puddle of it.

“Yes,” said Sir Thomas. “She says they are doing her a world of good.”

“Capital!” said Mr. Allen, relief making his voice too loud. “You should try them yourself!”

“I am not sure that they will make a difference in my case,” said Sir Thomas quietly.

Mr. Allen took in his friend’s appearance– really looking now. Sir Thomas was gray and lined and diminished, not the stout, ruddy figure of yesteryear. There were bags under his eyes and his clothes hung loosely from his frame, giving him an air distinctly disheveled and pathetic. It had never been possible to describe Sir Thomas Bertram with such words before, and Mr. Allen, pitying him - and pitying himself even more - turned the conversation to business.

Thank heaven, he thought later, that he and Mrs. Allen had never had any children of their own.

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

Catherine Tilney was trying to pay attention to the sermon, she really was, but no matter how she attempted to keep her mind from wandering, thoughts always seemed to slip free, swirling around and sending her into a reverie.

She blamed the weather this morning. After a relentless stream of bright, sunny days, they were having a frightfully atmospheric one now, all dark, overcast skies and impenetrable mist. It was delicious, now and then, to enjoy the gloom, and she wished she were outside in it, drifting among graves with her cloak clutched tightly around her.

Or, at the very least, she wished she were curled up by a window, a cup of tea in one hand, a tale of Mrs. Radcliffe's in the other.

But instead, she was in church, listening to a thoughtful and very dry sermon.

She was biased, she knew, for Henry would have done wonders with the subject. He would speak well. He would be amusing. He would smile out at his flock in that warm, understanding way of his, and he would make every single one of them feel cared for. Catherine liked Mr. Bertram very much - he was a good, amiable man - but heavens, his preaching was not half as entertaining as Henry's. 

But no, she must marshal that thought too, for sermons did not have to be entertaining. They had to be beneficial, and this one was.

…Henry’s can be both. 

That is quite enough, Catherine.

Mr. Bertram spoke on about their duty to the poor and the importance of caring for one's neighbors. Catherine nodded, fervently agreeing with him, then found her mind drifting to thoughts about dinner that evening, one she and Henry would share with the Bertrams. It was sure to be good, and it would be cheerful to be with the Bertrams outside of church. They were not a couple inclined towards playfulness, the way she and Henry were, but they were uncommonly kind and Catherine liked them anyway. 

But thoughts of dinner and company were not pious ones, and so she forced herself back into the present moment.

"It was a marvelous sermon," she told Mr. Bertram, when he had finished.

"I am pleased that you approve. I am afraid that I myself had difficulty focusing on it."

Catherine blushed to the roots of her hair, but if Mr. Bertram had noticed her wavering attention and chosen this way to comment upon it, he still did not seem to be condemning her. Indeed, his expression was good-natured, and even a little self-deprecating.

"I confess," he said, “that I was distracted by the view from the windows.” (Catherine blushed a deeper shade of scarlet.) “I do enjoy a day like this one. Sunshine is beautiful, of course, but there is something poetic about the fog and the mist, do not you think?”

Catherine agreed, and though she certainly preferred to associate this weather with her favorite novels, she did not mention this to Mr. Bertram. She rather doubted that he would approve.

“Mrs. Bertram and I were planning to have a pleasant walk before returning to the parsonage, and we would be happy if you and Mr. Tilney would join us.”

“Oh, that would be quite agreeable!” said Catherine, agreeing for her and Henry both. 

“It is settled then,” he smiled. 

Catherine could hardly wait to be outside, arm in arm with Henry, enjoying the brisk breeze and the dreary atmosphere. She would have to make sure not to forget the Bertrams as they wandered, and to keep from getting too far lost in the chilling little scenarios she was about to conjure up in her mind. She gave an anticipatory little shiver. They were going to be especially eerie today, she could feel it. 

Chapter Text

My dear Lady Russell,

I must offer you my sincere congratulations. It is gratifying to see one's young people married and settled, and though I have never met the young lady in question, I am sure that she is a pleasant girl and that the match is a sufficiently good one. Though the Musgroves are not an important or noble family, I take your word for it that they are a credit to their village, and the youngest daughter of a baronet could do worse than the heir to a small estate. I think you have mentioned before that she is the least handsome of her sisters too, and so she appears to have done well for herself. The eldest Miss Elliot must do better, naturally, and I am sure that you are doing your best to find her a suitable match. It is fortunate for you that you have no daughters of your own, for though I am sure that you are invested in the welfare of the Elliot girls, you are spared the anxiety of a mother's feelings. She is starting to reach a dangerous age, is she not? You all must hurry to find her a husband, as she has no brothers to take care of her and her father’s estate is entailed away. I assume that you have already attempted and failed to secure a match with the heir, and so the situation is an urgent one.

I am fortunate, of course, that my daughter need not worry about such things. Rosings has no entail, and, at any rate, she is promised to my nephew. 

Still, I am pleased to know that you have gotten one of your god-daughters off of your hands, and hope that you will see the other two soon settled. One’s middle age should not be spent fretting over young ladies who are not one’s own children. 

Yours, etc.

My dear Lady Catherine, 

I thank you for your kind letter and your congratulations. It is indeed a pleasure to know that Miss Mary will be well provided for, and I can only wish that your hopes might be realized and that Miss Elliot and Miss Anne will be similarly settled before long. Their mother, as you know, was my particular friend, and though the girls are not my own children, the devotion I feel toward them is such that I consider them the daughters of my heart. Though my late husband and I were not as fortunate as you and Sir Lewis in our union, I have been blessed by the Elliot girls and do not consider them as poor substitutes for a child with the name of Russell. 

I am very glad that dear Miss de Bourgh's prospects are happy ones. I myself wished deeply for a union between Miss Elliot and her cousin, but the young man had other ideas entirely. I should not like to see either Miss de Bourgh or yourself disappointed by the young man in your case. I am sure, however, that I am merely being overly anxious due to my own experience with Mr. Elliot, and that your nephew is an honorable young man who wants very much to unite your family in such a satisfying manner. Pray, pay no mind to the worries of an old friend all too acquainted with the matrimonial pains of young ladies and the fickleness of young gentleman heirs.

All of my best to you and to Miss de Bourgh.

Yours most sincerely,

Lady Russell 

Lady Russell, 

I would thank you to keep your impudent opinions to yourself, particularly when you are so woefully misinformed on the subject itself. My daughter will of course marry my nephew Darcy, and while your god-daughter may have failed to secure the hand of her cousin, I can assure you that Anne will have no such trouble. To suggest otherwise is offensive. Your Elliot girls might be the daughters of a baronet, but they have none of the wealth, antiquity, and importance of the Fitzwilliams, the de Bourghs, or the Darcys. Our situations are not the same. To be both sincere and frank, my Anne is a much more attractive prize than all of your god-daughters put together, and my nephew Darcy is a much more eligible bachelor than Mr. Elliot could ever hope to be. I take your worries as a personal affront.

Do not write again, unless it is to apologize for your impertinence. I am most seriously displeased.

Lady Catherine de Bourgh

Chapter Text

It was always a pleasure to see a former pupil, Mrs. Goddard thought, and though Miss Harriet Seton had only spent a short time in Highbury, Mrs. Goddard remembered her as a spirited creature, small and pretty; ordinary in intellect but talented in those little feminine arts so attractive to young men.

"It is Mrs. Forster now!" said the former Miss Seton. "I have married a colonel!"

"And a proper wife you make him too, I am sure!" said Mrs. Goddard, with more hope than certainty. Seventeen was a good, marriageable age, but some girls were a younger seventeen than others and Miss Seton had always seemed particularly youthful. However, marriage was often good for a girl, and marriage to a responsible man like a colonel must surely be of benefit to those young ladies who still had some maturing to do.

"We are on our way to Brighton," said Mrs. Forster, "and I absolutely insisted that we come to Highbury. I told my husband that I must visit my old friends, and you were always so good to me, Mrs. Goddard."

"I am very glad that you were able to return. It is gratifying to see you again, my dear, and to see you doing so well. You have been missed."

"Oh, and how I have missed Highbury! I would stay forever if I could! I hated to leave, you know, when Mama wanted me back in Meryton, and I have thought of you all ever since. I do hope Miss Greene showed you my letters; I meant her to.”

“She did, Mrs. Forster, and I was always eager to hear your news.”

“And there was such news to write about! Not even half a year later and here I am, a married woman!” She lowered her voice slightly. “To own the truth, Mrs. Goddard, I was very upset when my husband informed me that we would be going to Brighton. I was just getting settled in Hertfordshire again, after leaving school. It is not very agreeable, all of this moving about. "

Mrs. Goddard murmured her sorrow to hear that. It was a sad fact of life that ladies went where their husband's led, dragged to places they might not choose for themselves. 

"But my husband solved the whole thing," continued Mrs. Forster happily, "when he said I could bring one of my closest friends with me to Brighton, and so now it does not seem so terribly bad!"

"I am very glad to hear it!" said Mrs. Goddard, and she meant it too. Close female companionship was invaluable to a young lady, and in cases such as these, a friend would make all the difference. "I am sure you will have a lovely time in Brighton, my dear Mrs. Forster. How lucky, that you have married an important man who can take you there!"

Mrs. Goddard had no doubt that Mrs. Forster's time in Brighton would be enormously satisfying. She was young and lively and pretty, in the company of a good friend and a responsible husband. How could it be otherwise?

Chapter Text

"And now, my old friend, though you will tell me not to fuss, allow me to express how sorry I am to hear that you have been feeling poorly (I did not mention it before, knowing, as I do, how you despise being worried over, but you know my odd little ways too well to begrudge them and we have known each other so long that I cannot help but be concerned)!

My dear Mr. Dashwood, you simply must look after your health! These things can turn very serious indeed, and more quickly than one might think. My own dear wife was carried away by a fever. No, Mr. Dashwood, you must not take it lightly! Only think of your daughters! If you will not visit my own excellent Mr. Perry, you should at least see one of your local men. I have inquired with Perry on your behalf and he has given me the name of an excellent physician near you in Sussex. His note is enclosed. Pray, take his advice, if only to give some peace to those of us who care about you.

And with that, I have done, until my next letter.

You must write to me soon, however, to reassure me of your recovery and to tell me of all of your goings on at Norland. Perhaps, when you are in full health once more, you will visit me at Hartfield. You may be sure that you are always welcome.

Your obedient servant,

Henry Woodhouse”

Henry Dashwood folded up his friend's letter, chuckling softly to himself. Henry Woodhouse was a notorious valetudinarian, fretful over his own health and fussy over the health of others, easily alarmed for very little reason. Dashwood would be writing him in no time, hale and hearty, having shaken off this trifling little fever without any need to consult with the recommended physician.

He would visit Woodhouse, he decided, once he was well again. He would make the journey to Surrey and pop in unexpectedly (Woodhouse would hate the surprise, but after all, they were old friends, and if he could forgive Woodhouse's mollycoddling, Woodhouse could forgive his spontaneity). Perhaps he would take his two eldest daughters with him. Woodhouse's youngest was only a year or two older than Elinor. It would be marvelous to finally introduce them.

He took off his reading glasses, placing them and the letter on his nightstand. His head really did ache, but it was nothing that a good rest wouldn't cure.

Chapter Text

How nice it was to meet a new friend in Bath, now that dear Catherine was married and unable to accompany her thither– and especially now that Mrs. Thorpe would be an entirely inappropriate acquaintance with whom to associate. Mrs. Allen had endured a most uncomfortable meeting with that lady just the other day, and had had to make it quite clear that she was not interested in maintaining their friendship. She was afraid she had rather blamed Mr. Allen for the whole thing (Mrs. Allen had always suffered from a cowardly streak), but it was not as though he would ever find out about it, nor care if he did. Mr. Allen was really quite good about helping her avoid awkwardness.

Her new friend was a very grand lady, a little older than Mrs. Allen– a widow with a recently-married son. Mrs. Allen had taken notice of the woman from the moment she’d set eyes on her. Mrs. Rushworth dressed expensively indeed, which Mrs. Allen admired, though she was not particularly stylish, which Mrs. Allen thought was a very great waste. To have all of that money and still look so dowdy! Why, her gowns always made her look quite ten years older! It was not just the cuts and the colors that were wrong… though they were. The greater sin was that Mrs. Rushworth still wore the fashions of yesteryear. Extravagant and handsome though they were, they made her look more at home among the elderly grandmothers than the glamorous young ladies, and middle-age was certainly no excuse to let go of one’s youth. With half of the Rushworth fortune, Mrs. Allen would have done so much better for herself. 

Still, Mrs. Rushworth was a good sort of woman, Mrs. Allen thought, and one should not be choosy when it came to friends.

She only wished Mrs. Rushworth talked a little less.

"It is rather lonely, without my James," she said. "This is why I longed for a daughter of my own, one to stay with me always. I am happy to see James settled, but a daughter for a constant companion would have been such a comfort."

"Oh, yes," said Mrs. Allen vaguely. She had never wished for children herself and had been rather relieved when they'd never materialized. When she wanted companionship, there was always one of the Morland girls to choose from. Perhaps she would take Sally with her the next time she and Mr. Allen came to Bath. How silly, not to think of her for this visit!

"James's wife is a nice girl, of course," said Mrs. Rushworth, "and will be, I am sure, very dear to me in time. But she and James are newly-married and have eyes only for each other, and so I have not yet had the time to make a friend of her."

"Oh, you will be very close soon, I am sure."

"Yes. She is from a very good family and it is an excellent match. She will know her duty to me, as James's mother. But everything is different for me, now that he is married."

"Oh my, what a beautiful bonnet," said Mrs. Allen, trying to turn the subject. "Did you see it? The one that tall woman was wearing, with the feathers. I must get one just like it."

"We were all each other had for so long, and now his responsibility is to his wife."

"I do not like the lace on that young lady's gown," said Mrs. Allen. "She should have spent more money on it, I suppose, so it would not look so cheap and tattered. But perhaps it was all that she could afford."

"I do hope he will not forget about me."

"But you are always dressed so handsomely, Mrs. Rushworth! You must tell me who makes your gowns."

"With any luck, the grandchildren will arrive quickly."

"And your reticule is absolutely beautiful! Such intricate beading!"

"James deserves to be blessed with the large family that I was denied. Hopefully his wife will provide the heir before too long. She is not small and delicate, as I was at her age. She will not have a difficult time of things, as I did."

This was taking a turn for the uncomfortable. Mrs. Allen liked Mrs. Rushworth, but she would need her to guide her to more appropriate topics of conversation.

"My dear Mrs. Rushworth, I absolutely must know what you think about long sleeves!"

Chapter Text

The two eldest Musgrove girls were excited to join their father on his trip to London, and especially enthusiastic to accompany him to the dinner parties and engagements hosted by his large group of friends and acquaintances. How sophisticated and elegant a place this was, especially in comparison with Uppercross! The Musgrove girls could get used to a life in town.

That is what Louisa said, anyway. Henrietta thought privately that she might tire of the glitz and glamour eventually. She liked the cozy domesticity of home. It was marvelous to be in town for a while, but she thought that after the novelty wore off, she would long for the country. Still, she was enjoying her visit now and was not yet eager for it to end. They were dining this evening with one of their father's acquaintances - a Mr. Edward Gardiner - and she was thoroughly prepared to have a marvelous time.

"And fortunately for the young ladies," said Mr. Gardiner with a smile, "we have two of my nieces staying with us, so they need not pretend to be interested in our conversations about business."

The nieces in question were a little younger than Henrietta and Louisa-- pretty girls, the younger tall and bold, the older slight and delicate. The Miss Bennets were good, chatty company, and certainly preferable to the tedious talk of trade that dominated the other end of the table. The ladies were all very glad to be spared the hearing of it, occupied as they were with their own much more important matters (such as balls and gowns and young men), and the quick intimacy of teenage girls thrown into proximity sprung up quickly between them all. 

"My aunt is taking us to the shops tomorrow," said Miss Lydia to the Musgroves, "and it would be such fun if you were to come along!" 

"Oh, that would be marvelous!" said Louisa.

"And then we are to visit with the Brownes, and as you are our friends, I am sure they will be happy to meet you!"

"I do not like the Miss Brownes," said Miss Kitty. "And neither does my aunt Gardiner. I do not think we will be visiting them at all."

"Do not be silly, Kitty," spat Lydia. "We are going." 

She spoke with an authority that made Henrietta suddenly uncomfortable. "We will have to get my father's permission, of course," she said, staring down at her hands to avoid the worst of the awkwardness. "He may wish us to stay with him, after all, and he would not like us to be a burden to your aunt."

"Oh, Henrietta," Louisa laughed, "I am sure Papa will allow it!"

She and Miss Lydia exchanged bright grins. 

"It is all settled," said Miss Lydia, and she linked her arm through Louisa's. "I do not see why our sisters take such a gloomy view of things."

"Henrietta worries too much," said Louisa. 

Henrietta felt a stab of betrayal. She did not worry too much, in general, and Louisa shouldn't say so to a girl they were barely acquainted with.

"So does Kitty," snorted Miss Lydia. "Come, I must show you the dearest little parasol I bought today. I shall take it out with us tomorrow and you can get one just like it!"

They walked away, arm in arm, shooting glances back at their elder sisters that felt oddly mocking. 

"Lydia does not know everything," Kitty sniffed. "My aunt Gardiner says the Brownes are vulgar girls. I doubt very much whether she will consent to a visit."

"And my father's permission is not as guaranteed as Louisa might think."

They scooted their chairs a little closer to each other. 

"Lydia can be dreadfully overbearing," said Kitty.

"Louisa, too, is very accustomed to getting her own way."

"We are the best of friends of course--"

"Oh, yes! And so are Louisa and I!"

"--but it is nice, sometimes, when she is away. Younger sisters always want all the attention for themselves."

"I quite agree."

"We can have a cozy little chat while they are gone. We will finally have a chance to be heard!" She leaned her head toward Henrietta's. "I am so glad that you are here this evening! I think we shall be good friends."

Henrietta smiled. She loved her sister very much, but how wonderful it was now to find a friend who saw her outside of Louisa's shadow.

Chapter Text

"If I were you, I would never leave Derbyshire."

"I always do seem to regret venturing away, though London has its own enjoyments."

"Oh, it would be a perfectly agreeable place if not for all the people about everywhere one goes."

"I do not necessarily object to the people themselves. It is the obligation to mingle amongst them that is the trouble."

"Being in company is indeed one of the more loathsome parts of life."

Misters Fitzwilliam Darcy and John Knightley were tucked away in a corner at one of Sir Richard Fanshawe's infamous dinner parties, hoping that their close confederacy and hushed conversation would render them invisible to the rest of the room. 

"Society is largely insufferable," said Darcy, "and dinner parties are worse."

"But nothing is as bad as a ball."

"I quite agree, and am most relieved that Sir Richard has not grown more ambitious in his entertaining."

"Keep your voice down," Knightley urged, glancing surreptitiously around. "He could be anywhere, and you know how he enjoys leaping out whenever he is least expected."

Darcy grimaced. His companion spoke nothing but the unfortunate truth.

"What forced you here this evening?" Knightley asked, whenever the coast was deemed clear. 

"An inconvenient sense of honor and propriety," Darcy said with regret. "And yourself?"

"My wife insisted," said Knightley, "though she knows how I would much rather stay with her and the children. You do not have a wife of your own yet, Darcy, but let me assure you that it makes appearing at these events even more intolerable when you have something much better taunting you from home."

Darcy had no plans to marry, but he nodded anyway. He'd rather be with Georgiana, after all, so he understood the spirit behind the feeling, and there was something pleasing about Knightley's attachment to his family. Not all men - and especially not many of their set in London - felt the same way.

They stayed in their huddled posture for quite a time, sometimes talking but mostly not, the intensity of their expressions and the solemnity of their manners keeping their fellow guests at bay. Only Sir Richard himself dared interrupt them, and though the combined force of their displeasure did not shorten his visit, he was distracted by the rest of the room soon enough and held them hostage for only two reminiscences about their fathers apiece.

The young men looked at each other, stony-faced, when finally he had gone.

"It could have been worse," said Darcy bracingly. "He once kept me cornered for a full hour."

Knightley gave a laugh that was half an understanding groan. "Do you know," he said, "I think I have just had a splendid idea. We should form a sort of pact, you and I, whenever you are in town, wherein we promise to accompany each other to these sorts of things. We can occupy ourselves and discourage further mingling, and though the evenings would still be pointless and painful, we could save each other from the far more agonizing alternative."

Other people, they both thought, and there was no reason to utter it aloud. They understood each other perfectly.

"I would not mind such an arrangement," said Darcy. 

"It would be a great relief," said Knightley, "to be assured of one person whose company was not unendurably tedious."

It was settled. They grew silent once more, very well pleased with themselves.

Chapter Text

John Dashwood did not know the Bertrams well - Lady Bertram was his wife's friend - but he could not fathom how so amiable and elegant a woman could have a sister such as Mrs. Norris. They were very unlike.

In all honesty, he had no personal qualms with Mrs. Norris. She had been nothing but solicitous towards him on this visit. He had found it strange, when first they had arrived, that she was so often at Mansfield Park - particularly when Mansfield was hosting guests and she had a perfectly good house of her own - but he quickly accepted it as one of the quirks of the world and did not let it mar his enjoyment of the grand old house and the pleasantness of its denizens. Mrs. Norris treated the Dashwoods with a kindness that was perhaps a touch too syrupy to be genuine, but John had never been one to quarrel with good manners… or, at least, the appearance of them. 

Still, he couldn't help but notice that the woman did not keep the mask of civility on all of the time. It slipped whenever she was around her young niece-- not one of the proper Bertram girls but a poor relation from the south, come to live with her richer relatives as a sort of charity case. It was astonishing, the way she spoke to the child-- and in front of guests, too! 

"She is a naughty little thing, Mr. Dashwood," said Mrs. Norris, catching his shocked expression after a particularly vicious scolding. "She must be taught discipline, lest she meet the same fate as her mother, my sister."

This might be true, but John was not sure that the disciplining should be aired in public. He smiled and nodded anyway.

"Between you and me, Mr. Dashwood," said, taking his politeness for friendship and leaning closer in a conspiratorial way, "though it is a very good thing that my brother and sister Bertram are doing, taking her into their home, I do feel sorry for them, and am rather relieved that she is more their responsibility than mine!" She let out a laugh that bordered on a cackle. “Of course, there is nothing so wrong with Fanny Price that a caning and the loss of a few meals would not quickly remedy, but I am afraid that my brother and sister are too soft with her. I would bring her up very differently, I assure you.” Her eyes fairly gleamed with the thought of how she might menace the child.

And this woman was a clergyman's wife! Still, John made a slight remark on the complicated nature of relations and the difficulties that arose as a consequence. Privately, however, he judged Mrs. Norris more harshly. Only imagine not doing whatever one could for family! 

Chapter Text

James Morland was flooded by old memories and found himself treading frantically to keep his head above the water. It was painful to be back in Bath, even now, more than a year after his engagement had been broken. He did not even think about Miss Thorpe on most days, as he so often told his parents and the new Mrs. Tilney– not lately , anyway. He should not think about her now. There was plenty to enjoy in Bath that did not involve blonde ringlets and green eyes and tall, beautiful figures. He was a young man, unattached and attractive, full of life. The world in general - and even this place in particular - still had many good things in store for him. He must not let one bad experience spoil him forever.

Still, he could not deny that it was difficult  to watch an old acquaintance falling in love in Bath the way James himself had, against the same backdrop and among the same sights. It was nonsense, he told himself, to make any comparison. People fell in love in Bath every day. Besides, he did not even know Philip Elton that well! He should not feel melancholy and mopish and jealous of the man. He should be wishing Elton well and striking out to find his own new match.

"She is an angel," Elton sighed.

As far as James could tell, Elton had met the young lady in question only three days ago. He wanted to tell him that many women seemed like heavenly creatures after so short a period. He wanted to remind him that angels could fall.

But he didn't. He simply smiled and nodded, listening to a list of Miss Hawkins's perfections, noticing that her fortune held a sparkling place at the top.

"Did you see her last night, Morland?" asked Elton.

James confessed that he had.

"Was she not the very picture of elegance?"

James had thought her overdressed and affected, but it was her passing resemblance to Miss Thorpe that had displeased him the most. "Indeed."

"And her manners-- so charming!"

James couldn't speak to her manners but he agreed anyway.

"I believe, Morland, that she will soon make me a lucky man."

"Then I shall risk precipitance and wish you joy."

James was not an ill-tempered man. He truly did hope that Elton's match would turn out to be  a good one. But his mood today was uncharacteristically dark and cynical, and so he privately thought that any fair lady one met in Bath was destined to bring nothing but trouble.

Chapter Text

Julia Yates was fairly certain that, had they met when they were only a bit younger, she and Mrs. Wickham would have been good friends. Mrs. Wickham was lively and spirited, quick to joke and laugh-- exactly the type that Julia had been drawn to in her days at Mansfield. She would have fit in easily among Julia’s usual group of young ladies, though she was younger than all of them. She would have joined in with their gossip and their games; she would have been enormously good company on shopping trips and at balls. 

But try as she might, Julia could not warm to Mrs. Wickham now. What would have been charming to her at twenty was becoming obnoxious only five years later. She and Mrs. Wickham were both wives and mothers, but while Julia had matured with time, Mrs. Wickham was still very much a girl. 

Though perhaps she was being judgmental. She had been quite as bad at Mrs. Wickham’s age.

"Good Lord, only look at Mrs. Heath's turban," Mrs. Wickham snorted. "It does not suit her at all. If I had her nose, I would be much more careful in how I presented it."

The turban was almost shockingly unflattering, and Julia would once have joined in mocking it aloud, but it seemed vulgar to comment on now.

"I can scarcely believe she is married," said Mrs. Wickham, "and to such a handsome man! She does not have his affection, I am sure of it. She is so very plain, and older than him too! You mark my words, she alone is not enough to satisfy his appetites."

Julia cleared her throat uncomfortably. This was not a subject she wanted to talk about. It was inappropriate, of course, but it also reminded her too much of her younger self. She would have been just as gleefully vicious once; she and Maria had loved nothing better than to tear their acquaintances to ribbons. 

"I have no doubt that he has a mistress or two." Mrs. Wickham looked like she herself would not dislike such a role.

"I know it is an odd match," Julia said, "but I believe they are quite happy together."

Mrs. Wickham let out a shriek of laughter. "You are so very innocent in the ways of the world, Mrs. Yates. Men such as Mr. Heath only marry ugly women for their money. Even if she were attractive, it would not stop his eyes from wandering, and as it is..." She trailed off suggestively. "Tell me, was Mrs. Heath a rich woman, before her marriage?"

"I have heard so," Julia admitted. "I do not know her well."

"There you have it, then," said Mrs. Wickham triumphantly. "Come now, dear, do not look so shocked. It is what men do. You must be prepared for your own husband to stray eventually."

Julia felt sick to her stomach. She had not married for love, of course, but love had grown, and though John was a devoted husband and had given her no cause for worry, she could not deny that many men of her acquaintance were not known for their faithfulness.

"But," said Mrs. Wickham, "what is good for the goose, you know..." She trailed off again. "As long as a wife is careful about it, she may have her own fun too."

"Mrs. Wickham."

"How very red you are! I thought you better than this. Your own sister, after all..."

"I should think that her case is evidence enough to disprove your theory."

"Oh, but your sister did not behave cautiously at all! That does not mean a cleverer woman could not manage it better." 

Julia clamped her mouth shut against her retort. There was no use in arguing. This visit would be over soon enough and she would avoid Mrs. Wickham in the future. 

"I am not advocating for such behavior!" said Mrs. Wickham unconvincingly. "I am merely suggesting that it is a possibility."

This might have been her own fate, thought Julia, had John been less in love. If he had not been carried away by thoughts of Gretna Green, perhaps they would have lived like Maria had with Henry Crawford-- or how Mrs. Wickham had with her husband, before they had been belatedly wed (Julia had heard those whispers and she had never doubted them). She might have been a woman trapped in a marriage bereft of all affection, stuck in perpetual girlhood and yet still growing cynical, entertaining adulterous thoughts and seeing no wrong in them. 

She had been spared her sister’s fate by a man who, despite his silliness, still held some principles. She had been spared Mrs. Wickham’s by a husband who had loved her while her fondness for him had needed time to grow. Things could have ended so much differently for Julia. 

What terrifyingly precarious things, life and love and reputation. Not for the first time, Julia thanked heaven that those other fates she had flirted with had not been her destiny.

Chapter Text

What marvelous people one met with at St. James's! Sir William Lucas thought. He had just been introduced to the Honorable Miss Carteret - the daughter of the Dowager Viscountess Dalrymple! - and a charming lady he had found her, too. How tall she was, and how noble! True, she was not particularly handsome, but that did not matter, in the light of her myriad other attractions. What a good listener she was! What patrician manners! How gracefully she had curtsied; how graciously she had conversed with him! What a fine acquaintance Miss Carteret might be; what a good connection, if he could make one! He hoped they would be thrown often into each other's company.

Perhaps it was fanciful for him to turn to matchmaking and to think immediately of one of his sons, and presumptuous to indulge in a daydream of introducing an impressive daughter-in-law to his friends in Meryton, but that certainly did not stop him. His eldest boy was recently married, but there was still John, or even Charlie. The amiable Miss Carteret was not too much older than either of them. Stranger couples had been thrown together. Only look at the two eldest Bennet girls and their handsome, wealthy husbands!

Good things often happened at St. James's. Sir William would dare to hope. 

Chapter Text

Dinner had gone well, Isabella thought. To be sure, they had all been rather quiet, but it had suited their little party and had not felt awkward at all. Emma would have despaired over so taciturn a meal, of course, and Isabella smiled to herself when she imagined the sorts of expressions her sister would have pulled had she been there with them that evening, but Mr. Woodhouse would have approved of their well-mannered and pleasant group - not overburdened by conversation, but enjoying themselves all the same - and Isabella had always taken after her father.

John and Mr. Darcy had just entered the drawing-room, murmuring in low voices over something or other, and though they had each smiled over at the small group of ladies, they had not yet made their way over to sit among them. This was rather unusual behavior, from what she knew of her husband and what she had heard of Mr. Darcy– neither were great talkers. They must be speaking of business. John did have that sort of air about him. Well, Isabella would simply have to entertain her guests by herself for a little while longer. 

She tried to engage them in conversation, and though Mrs. Annesley was amiable and easy, Miss Darcy scarcely said more than two words together. Rich young ladies could be proud and haughty, silent in order to express their superiority, but Isabella suspected that that was not what was holding Miss Darcy's tongue. The poor girl gripped her hands tightly in her lap; she bit nervously at her lip; her eyes darted frequently to her brother. Miss Darcy, Isabella guessed, was shy to a degree that caused her near-constant anxiety, and she ached to see it. She had been a mother for a while now-- she could not help but feel maternal towards any sweet young creature that had stumbled into her path. 

"My dear Miss Darcy," Isabella said, feeling bold enough to take the girl’s hands, easing them gently out of their tangle, "your brother speaks highly of your talents." 

Miss Darcy's face went pink, mortification mixed with pleasure. 

"She is a most accomplished young lady," said Mrs. Annesley, smiling warmly over at Isabella.

"You must try our pianoforte," said Isabella. "It has not been touched in ages." 

Miss Darcy gave a small, uncertain attempt at a smile. 

The poor dear does not wish to do something wrong , Isabella realized. She is worried about appearing rude . "It is a beautiful instrument," she urged, "and it would be a shame to leave it closed this evening, when it could be graced by such a proficient."

"I should like to play, if you do not mind it," Miss Darcy said, her voice barely above a whisper. 

"I would like it more than anything," said Isabella. "I was never a very talented musician myself, but my governess always played, and I do miss the sound."

Miss Darcy's smile was steadier now as she stood and walked over to the pianoforte. 

"You have done that child a great kindness, Mrs. Knightley," whispered Mrs. Annesley. "She is never more at ease than when she is at the instrument."

Isabella had supposed this to be the case, and indeed, as the music began to swell and fill the room, she saw that Miss Darcy was quite transformed-- no longer shrinking and shy but full of a self-assurance that was heartening to see.  Perhaps Isabella would be able to take Miss Darcy under her wing; perhaps she would be invited into the girl's small circle in town. Miss Darcy had nerves to soothe and courage to build, and though those things were not Isabella's particular strengths, she was quite a natural mother. She had a feeling that Miss Darcy might be in need of one of those.

Chapter Text

Margaret Dashwood tried not to gulp. None of the impressive houses she had lived in or visited had prepared her for Mansfield Park. If she had come here when she’d been a little younger - more fearless, less attuned to the etiquette of polite society - she might have fared better, but she was now a young lady of seventeen, grown a little self-conscious and bashful with age, and she was afraid that she found herself more than a bit overawed.

She wished that she had not agreed to take this journey with the Brandons to visit Sir Thomas Bertram. How was the colonel related to him? Marianne had told her, but she couldn't remember now. Cousins, perhaps it was, through his mother's side of the family. It did not really matter, but it was something to think about to distract herself from her nerves. She had never met such a grand, important man. He would probably find her very silly and countrified. She would probably embarrass the colonel. 

Sir Thomas was grave and solemn-looking (like the colonel was, before you got to know him better– perhaps it was a family trait); Lady Bertram reminded her a little of Lady Middleton (she could tell by Marianne's face that she, too, had spotted this resemblance). Neither seemed overly-welcoming and Margaret’s nerves were not soothed. 

"And this is my niece, Miss Susan Price," said Sir Thomas, nodding towards Margaret and gesturing to the young lady in question. "She does not meet with many young ladies her own age. I am sure she is very pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Dashwood."

This seemed like a cue to detach themselves from the party and Margaret did not mind one bit. Miss Price looked to be a little older than she was, and, while any young lady who lived in a place like Mansfield Park must be intimidating, she was nowhere near as intimidating as her relations.

But as it turned out, Miss Price was not the high, imposing creature that Margaret had guessed her to be. Indeed, she found Margaret as fascinating as a duchess and was full of questions-- about her family and her interests and Barton Cottage.

"How I should have loved to have grown up with two elder sisters," Miss Price sighed after learning of Elinor and Marianne. "How elegant that must have been!"

"But how lovely to have so many brothers and sisters around!" said Margaret, when once she had heard about all of the Price children. "And with so few years between you!" She loved Elinor and Marianne dearly, of course, but they had never truly been her companions.

"Barton Cottage sounds marvelous," said Miss Price. "It must be cozy, with only you and your mother there. Home was always so bustling and noisy when I was a girl, and though Mansfield is very grand, it does get lonely, especially now that my sister at the Parsonage has children of her own to occupy her time."

"It can be lonely at the cottage too," Margaret confessed. "Our neighbors, the Middletons, often have balls and parties, but I have very few good friends." Mrs. Dashwood was an excellent mother, but she could not provide the particular camaraderie of a girl Margaret's own age.

"I shall write to you when you return home," said Miss Price, "and I hope that you shall write to me here. My aunt Bertram always says that writing letters to her acquaintances is one of her life's great pleasures."

"I should like that," Margaret said, though she had never been a great letter-writer before. She could learn to become a better one. She hoped that she and Miss Price would grow close during this visit. It would make her stay at Mansfield so much easier and would give her something to keep her busy when once she had returned to the cottage. How nice it would be to correspond with a friend, no matter how far away!

Chapter Text

Richard Morland cursed under his breath, then said a silent prayer of repentance, looking around to make sure that none of the children had heard. Young Richard repeated everything these days.

My dear Morland, the letter read, I will be passing through your county in the next fortnight and should greatly enjoy seeing you and your family again. 

The last time Dr. Grant had visited, he had made such snide remarks about his meals that Mrs. Morland had finally fled the table in tears. It had been quite a shock to Richard, accustomed to his calm, unflappable wife, and he had said some harsh words to their guest on that occasion. It was rather astonishing that Grant wished to visit at all, after what had transpired. It still surprised Richard, every single time he received even a letter from the man.

My dear Grant , he wrote back, the thought of your visiting is an agreeable one, but I am afraid that there is a fever among the children and I should not wish for you to risk your health, even for the pleasure of your company. I would never forgive myself if you left Fullerton in worse condition than you arrived.

There. That should delay the visit for a while. Grant was squeamish about his personal discomfort. 

It was not, perhaps, Richard's most truthful letter. There was no fever, though little Catherine was teething and making everyone hear about it. Still, it was not the most peaceful time in the Morland household and he did not think that adding Dr. Grant's strong personality to the equation would improve things.

No, Richard was happy to prevaricate and lean on the Lord's mercy in this instance. The alternative would surely lead to harsher punishment.

Chapter Text

Pemberley always did have a way of throwing together strange bedfellows, Edward Gardiner thought as he considered his companion. Admiral Croft was related to Mr. Darcy in some convoluted way - his distant cousin's husband's brother-in-law, or something along those lines - and was a genial man with a big, boisterous laugh-- pleasant to converse with, even if his favorite topic was the sea, a subject with which Edward was largely unfamiliar.

"I am afraid I have had little to do on the water," he confessed, "besides fish."

"Ah, an angler, are you?" the Admiral said approvingly. "There is good sport here at Pemberley."

"Yes, Sir, I have found that myself."

"This is only my second visit, but Mr. Darcy is a generous man and I have certainly had my share of his hospitality– and his fish. But of course, you will be familiar with his virtues already, as you are much more closely connected to him than I am. Mrs. Darcy is your niece, if I am not mistaken."

"She is."

"And an exemplary mistress of Pemberley she is! She does not know anything about the navy, but she listens very politely whenever I speak of it."

Edward laughed. "It would seem that ours is a familial ignorance of maritime matters! My apologies, Sir, to you and to your esteemed profession. Perhaps we will redeem ourselves in time, however. My eldest boy, Ned, has been lately fascinated by ships."

"A smart lad," said the Admiral. "You might make a sailor of him yet. The navy would be proud to have such a boy, I wager."

"Indeed, though it might cause his mother some anxiety."

"Only let her speak to my wife. Sophy will set her mind at ease!"

Edward smiled and thanked him, not quite as sanguine about Mrs. Croft's powers of persuasion as the admiral, whose husbandly affection was blinding.

But this was a good connection to have, should Ned's inclinations continue to lead him toward the sea. Edward was pleased, for reasons both general and self-interested, to have made such an acquaintance. 

Chapter Text

Mr. Weston's new bride wanted to see the grand homes of Derbyshire while they were passing through that county, and so to the grand homes they were to go. Mr. Weston was not inclined to deny his wife anything, and he himself enjoyed seeing how the other half lived, and though he had some slight worry that the former Miss Churchill, upon viewing lavish estates and abundant grounds, might feel a tad discontented with the more modest Weston lifestyle, he did not dwell long on such thoughts.

"Pemberley is said to be particularly elegant," his wife said as they entered the grounds, and reports were soon proven correct. "Only imagine living here!" she sighed. Mr. Weston agreed that that would certainly be something.

They waited for the housekeeper with another man–  a fellow visitor, Mr. Weston supposed. He was not dressed as a servant but as a gentleman, the cut of his jacket more fashionable than Mr. Weston's own. He had an open, intelligent sort of face, and he greeted the couple cheerfully. 

"You have come a long way from Surrey," said the man when once all the niceties were exchanged. He was called Dawson, Mr. Weston thought, though he'd sneezed rather violently while introducing himself and Mr. Weston had not asked him to clarify.

"We are recently married," said Mr. Weston, "and a quick tour of the country seemed in order. My wife is from Yorkshire and we are to spend the holiday with her brother." It was unlikely to be a merry Christmas, but Mr. Dawson did not need to hear that particular detail. "Are you from the area, Sir?"

"I am a Derbyshire man, born and bred."

"And a beautiful county it is."

"I certainly think so, though I am prejudiced in its favor."

"This is our first time passing through and we have been most impressed by it."

"So this is also your first sight of Pemberley! What do you think of it?"

"It is magnificent," said Mrs. Weston.

"Very handsome," Mr. Weston agreed. 

"We are proud of it in these parts," said Dawson. "We look at it as quite our own. There were some improvements made here recently and I have come to make sure that they are fine enough."

"We were told, at the inn, that they have been met with general approval."

"I have heard the same, but one never knows. The master of Pemberley is said to be a bit of an eccentric."

"Oh," cried Mrs. Weston, "we have heard nothing but good things about him! We were told he is a generous, liberal sort of man!"

"Yes," said Mr. Weston, "and a little eccentricity in a rich and important landowner is to be expected. It matters little, when such a man has a reputation for being so pleasant."

Dawson chuckled. "I suppose you are correct. Still, I should like to see for myself that Pemberley has changed for the better."

"The housekeeper should be along any time now."

And indeed, she appeared shortly thereafter to guide them around those rooms that were open to the public.

"But wait," said Mr. Weston, when once they had started. "There was another gentleman with us! I cannot imagine where he has gone. He wanted particularly to see the improvements that have been made here!"

The housekeeper seemed to stifle a laugh. "Aye, Sir, unless I am much mistaken, that gentleman was my master. He likes to mingle among visitors here, on occasion, without their knowing. His little joke, Sir. Now, if you follow me, I will take you to the sitting room--"

Mr. Weston smiled. Perhaps the master of Pemberley was a bit of an eccentric, but he had been right too-- it hardly mattered, when the man was so pleasant.

Chapter Text

It was Miss Betsey Price's first visit to London-- the first proper one, anyway, now that she was out, now that she was getting a taste of those circles in which her elegant cousins moved. Her aunt and uncle Bertram had invited her along with them - as an act of charity, though they claimed she would be company for Susan - and she had jumped at the chance to get out of her father's house. It would be a good thing for Betsey to go to town, her mother said, and almost everyone agreed. Fanny alone had seemed nervous about the idea, but then Fanny was always nervous. 

"You must guide Betsey well while you are all in town, Susan," she had said, bouncing yet another fussy baby in her arms. "Your uncle and aunt will be depending on you--  as, of course, will Edmund and I."

She was fortunate, Fanny had said, that their aunt and uncle Bertram had taken a stronger interest in the Prices since– well, since she had been a girl. Be grateful, Betsey, said Susan, for every opportunity you are given, and be sure to behave yourself! 

Betsey had given her brightest, falsest smile. Of course she would behave! How generous her aunt and uncle were! She would follow Susan’s every example. She would never leave her sight!

Betsey and Susan had never gotten along, but she needed to stay in her sister’s favor now. Lady Bertram was not an attentive chaperone, but Susan was. It was Susan who could curtail Betsey's freedom, if she wanted. 

It was a fine assembly this evening, Betsey thought, glancing around at the beautiful gowns and the handsome young men. She was eighteen years old-- not firmly on the shelf, the way that Susan was, but ripe for the picking. She could make a match here, shining in the reflected glow of her uncle's importance. No one talked about the scandalous Bertram daughter anymore. The name had been restored. A niece of Sir Thomas Bertram’s must always interest an eligible young man.

Betsey fanned herself and tried to catch the eye of a good-looking gentleman-- unfortunately short-statured, but with an impressive, noble mien. He glanced her way; she lowered her own eyes bashfully and hid her coy smile a carefully-calculated moment too late. 

They were introduced, after a fashion. He was Mr. Harry Dashwood, the new master of Norland Park– his father had died the year previously. He was here with his mother and his younger sister, he said, though he knew not where they had gone. Betsey flushed as she felt his eyes rake over her, lingering on her neckline. She lowered her gaze again, but she pulled her shoulders back. She wanted him to look. 

Would she dance? he asked. She would be delighted, she answered, her eyes flickering up to his once before returning again to the floor. Some sort of feminine instinct told her that he liked when she played at being demure. Betsey would pretend to be Fanny this evening, meek and obliging and oh so very grateful for every scrap of attention she was given. 

They took their places. Betsey hoped her cheeks were still fetchingly pink. They grasped hands. She tried to make her touch linger, as though she hated to let go. They performed their steps. She darted glances at him, turning her head quickly every time he looked her way. 

He stayed by her side after their dances had ended. Betsey noticed Susan eyeing them, hawk-like. 

"I should join my sister," she said in a girlish voice just barely over a whisper. She did not want to risk Susan becoming overbearing.

"May I see you again?" asked Mr. Dashwood. She noticed that he was still looking down the front of her gown. She tried not to smile.

"I will be here for the rest of the evening," she said, eyes wide and innocent.

"But may I see you again after tonight?" he asked, voice low, still trying to catch every glimpse of her that he could. 

Betsey looked him over-- his thick, wavy hair and light gray eyes, the fashionable cut of his coat, his elaborately-tied cravat. She could decide later how far she wished this acquaintanceship to go, but she would encourage it in the meantime. "I should like that, Mr. Dashwood," she simpered. She lowered her head shyly but pushed her chest out again for good measure-- a dash of her own personality to spice up her approximation of Fanny's. 

It was Miss Betsey Price's first visit to London, and how exciting it would be if she left it with a rich husband.

Chapter Text

What a fortunate introduction this was, Thorpe thought. Rushworth was very foolish and very rich, a cuckold nursing his wounded pride. He was humiliated and eager for acceptance. He had twelve thousand a year. What the man needed was a friend! 

So Thorpe provided Rushworth with the surest ways to forget an unfaithful wife: wine and women.

"You are a good chap, Thorpe," Rushworth slurred one night. "Would that I could do something for you!"

“Well, there is one thing–” 

“Name it.”

“There are some debts– but no, I could not ask–”

“Consider them paid!”

Friendship was a beautiful thing.

Chapter Text

Musgrove was looking older and stouter, Mr. Bennet thought as he welcomed his old school friend ungraciously to Longbourn. He himself was trim and spry, despite the many hours he spent in a chair with a book. He looked quite ten years younger than his companion!

Mr. Bennet would hold on to that pleasant thought, for in every other way, Musgrove was the more successful of the two men. Musgrove's wife was not squandering all of his money. Musgrove's children would be amply provided for. Musgrove had sons - multiple to choose from! - to inherit an estate that was not entailed away.

The eldest boy had died several years ago, Mr. Bennet remembered, but that hardly mattered. The second was right there to take his place. 

"Ah, Bennet," sighed Musgrove, "I am gratified to see you looking so well."

Mr. Bennet returned the sentiment with more politeness than sincerity. "It has been many years since last we met. I trust Mrs. Musgrove is in health."

"Oh, yes. She sends her compliments, but our youngest is ill and she could not bear to be parted from him."

Sons to spare in the Musgrove family and no reason to fear for the daughters– not that Mr. Bennet dwelled overly-long on his. Jane and Elizabeth were sure to make decent matches, when the time came, and Jenny and the younger girls could scrape by together if his death should prove untimely. 

"Not seriously ill, I hope."

"No, only a cold, but Mrs. Musgrove does fret." He gave an affectionate chuckle-- Musgrove always had been sickeningly enamored by his wife. Mr. Bennet was glad that she had not accompanied her husband on this visit. The sight of the Musgroves together invariably made Jenny more fractious than usual. 

"Well, I trust he will recover soon."

"Undoubtedly, he will. He is a hearty little chap, my Robbie."

Mr. Bennet gave a taut smile. Musgrove was precisely the sort of company that he despised the most: content, fortunate, and not particularly ridiculous. If Mr. Bennet could not make sport of his acquaintances, he saw little point in fraternizing with them at all. 

"You have a very fine family of girls, Bennet," said Musgrove. "Your eldest is growing into quite the beauty!"

"Yes, she has inherited her looks from her mother, thank heaven." One could say many things about Jenny (and one did ), but it could not be denied that she had always been handsome-- particularly so in her youth, but surprisingly so now, after bearing five children. 

"You will be hounded by her suitors before long," said Musgrove with a wink. "I have several sons of my own, you know, and good-looking boys they are. Perhaps I will bring one of them along with me next time to see how they fare!"

Mr. Bennet forced a laugh. "Perhaps you should." He would not enjoy any Musgrove as a son-in-law, but he could not afford to close the door on any opportunity to marry his daughters into a better life. 

"Well, you have some time before you need to think about getting your girls settled," Musgrove said. "But a connection between our families would be no bad thing!"

It was old friendship that gave him the generosity to say so. The Musgrove boys - and particularly the eldest - would aim higher than the Bennet girls. 

The thought did not make Mr. Bennet any fonder of his companion.

Chapter Text

Frank Churchill was not a recent widower and he was unsure why Mr. Pritchard always treated him as though Jane was fresh in her grave. It had been almost a decade since she had died. It was true, of course, that Frank had not remarried-- perhaps that was why Pritchard acted like he was a broken shell of man. He thought he mourned still.

Frank did not mourn. He had not even been particularly broken when he had been a new widower. 

He had not, of course, rejoiced over Jane's death. Frank had always loved her, in his way. But those final years of illness had been difficult and he could not deny a certain relief, when once they were over.

"I know you do not wish to remarry," said Pritchard now, "but you need companionship , Churchill! Only let me introduce you to the charming Mrs. Darcy!"

They were at one of Lady Harcourt’s famous parties, filled to the brim with handsome, eligible young ladies, and Pritchard wanted to introduce him to a married woman. Typical.

"There," said Pritchard, pointing to a tall, slim young woman with dark, glossy curls. There was something reminiscent of Jane in her elegant beauty, the way her hair was pinned to show off the long, slender neck. She had the same quiet, almost aloof manner about her, too-- mysterious and alluring. She was standing with a short woman, aging but still pretty; not matronly at all; a young aunt, perhaps, or a much-older sister. Their arms were linked and there was a familiarity about them that spoke of a close relation. An aunt, he decided, more provincial and less refined. Sisters would not have so different an air. The tall girl leaned down to listen to the shorter woman whisper, laughing at whatever was said. She really was extraordinarily beautiful.

Well, perhaps he did not mind getting to know this particular married woman. 

But when the introductions were made, he found that he had been mistaken-- Mrs. Darcy was the older woman; the beautiful young lady was Miss Darcy.

Better and better.

Frank was a charming man, still in good looks. He had wooed plenty of women before, if only for an evening or two. He knew exactly what to do now. Always paying particular - and entirely proper - attention to Mrs. Darcy, he made himself agreeable to his new acquaintances.

"You must have married very young, Mrs. Darcy, to have a daughter out in society," he said. 

Mrs. Darcy laughed. "You are quite the flatterer, Mr. Churchill."

"Not at all, madam. I speak only the truth." And he did. Though he was not interested in Mrs. Darcy, she was a fine woman, marred by only the gentlest crow's feet and that slight coarsening of the figure that arrived with motherhood. 

"The Darcys have a magnificent estate in Derbyshire," said Pritchard. "I am sure you have heard of Pemberley, Churchill."

He had, though he had never seen it, and a lively conversation ensued-- though he could not seem to engage Miss Darcy for longer than a sentence. No matter. There was great allure in a chase. Frank wondered if the Darcys had any sons; if the property was entailed; if Miss Darcy might be set to inherit. 

He turned the subject to their families as Pritchard wandered away. The Darcys did have a son - what a pity - but that did not dampen his interest in the daughter. Frank regaled the women with the complicated circumstances of his youth, paying particular care to detail the tragedy of his mother's early demise and his removal from his father, the pressures he felt as the Churchills' heir and the difficulties of bearing his aunt's temper. He recalled Jane’s tragic death and failed to mention his own children. Mrs. Darcy was an attentive listener, saying all that was appropriate; Miss Darcy was silent. Frank was not discouraged. Jane had been distant at first, too; he knew how to warm a lady's heart. Let him only make a favorable impression, especially on the mother. The daughter would follow in time. 

He told them about Enscombe, about its sad lack of a mistress. "A good mistress is what makes all the difference in a home, as I am sure you know, Mrs. Darcy. It was my great misfortune to lose my wife, but it is Enscombe that deserves the most pity. A great home needs a woman's touch." He glanced over at Miss Darcy, but she was looking at the floor. "Have you be in town long?" he asked, changing the subject again.

"We have not been here a week," said Mrs. Darcy.

"Then I do hope we will meet again," said Frank. He looked over at Miss Darcy. Her eyes were lowered-- demurely, he thought. "Are you acquainted with Lord and Lady Osborne?"

"Oh, yes," said Mrs. Darcy, "we know them well."

"Then perhaps I shall see you at their ball."

"Perhaps you shall."

"They are most eager to introduce their younger daughters into society-- and to marry off the first. How unfortunate for them, madam," he said, feeling bold, "that Miss Darcy will outshine them all."

Miss Darcy's calm expression did not change, though her cheeks turned faintly pink. Mrs. Darcy smirked.

"Why do you smile?" he asked. "You must know that you and your daughter are the handsomest women in the room."

"Oh, you merely remind me of someone, that is all," she said. There was something in her tone that made Frank feel that this was not a compliment. "It was a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Churchill."

She took her daughter's arm in hers again. Frank watched them go, intrigued. He was not yet sure of the daughter's interest, but the mother's disapproval might possibly stoke it-- such was sometimes the way. He would make sure to secure at least two of Miss Darcy’s dances at the ball. Frank was well-practiced in making good use of music and candlelight.

Chapter Text

Mr. Palmer eyed the woman in front of them in the Octagon Room. He had been fascinated by her all evening.

“This,” said she, explaining to her companion the words of an Italian song, “is nearly the sense, or rather the meaning of the words, for certainly the sense of an Italian love-song must not be talked of, but it is as nearly the meaning as I can give; for I do not pretend to understand the language. I am a very poor Italian scholar.”

“Yes, yes, I see you are,” said the man. “I see you know nothing of the matter. You have only knowledge enough of the language to translate at sight these inverted, transposed, curtailed Italian lines, into clear, comprehensible, elegant English. You need not say anything more of your ignorance. Here is complete proof.”

“I will not oppose such kind politeness; but I should be sorry to be examined by a real proficient.”

“I have not had the pleasure of visiting in Camden Place so long,” replied he, “without knowing something of Miss Anne Elliot; and I do regard her as one who is too modest for the world in general to be aware of half her accomplishments, and too highly accomplished for modesty to be natural in any other woman.”

“For shame! for shame! this is too much flattery. I forget what we are to have next,” she said, returning to the bill.

The man continued to talk, though his voice was now so low that Mr. Palmer could no longer eavesdrop.

He'd always pictured himself with a woman like the one in front of them, cultured and sophisticated. Imagine, a wife who could translate from Italian, who understood art and music, who was impressive to her friends and acquaintances! How marvelous it would be, to have such a woman on his arm. How envied he would be!

He glanced over at his actual wife. Charlotte was the handsomer woman, to be sure, plump and glowing with health; the musical lady was thin and undersized. Palmer preferred Charlotte's lusty, earthy beauty; the other lady, though pretty, looked delicate and distant, like a marble statue-- pleasant to look at, but perhaps not as enjoyable to touch.

"May we go?" Charlotte said, her loud whisper carrying to the row in front. "I have had quite enough music to be going on with, and I have no acquaintance here– there is no one to talk to. Besides, I am starving. We still have some cake from this morning!"

The lady and her companions turned slightly at her voice, then hurriedly continued their own conversation. Palmer sighed dramatically for their benefit. "Very well. If you wish it."

Truth be told, he was not enjoying the singing either. He didn't particularly enjoy music in general. And the cake was very good. 

He took one final glance at the lady, Miss Anne Elliot. Perhaps she snored. Or her breath smelled. Or she demanded to go to concerts every week.

Charlotte was a quiet sleeper and always smelled of lavender water. She made him laugh, when they were alone together and there was no one around to judge him. She was always happy and spirited, except, perhaps, when she was forced to listen to a concert full of Italian songs.

He would take the wife he had.

Chapter Text

Sarah Morland confessed herself rather overwhelmed to be a guest at such a grand place as Pemberley.

Not that the invitation had been for her, as such. Mr. and Mrs. Tilney had been the intended recipients, though Mrs. Darcy had graciously extended her hospitality when once Cathy had explained that Sarah was staying with them at Woodston for a time.

"We would be delighted to see her!" she'd written. "My own younger sister, Kitty, will be joining us too, and as Miss Darcy is visiting her aunt in Bath, she will be eager for companionship. I am sure she and Miss Morland will get along splendidly."

Sarah was relieved to hear that there would be a girl around her own age to associate with at Pemberley, and once the introductions were made, she felt sure that she could be friends with this Miss Kitty Bennet. Kitty was small and delicately pretty - so unlike the sturdy Morland girls! - happy to talk and gossip, quick to burst into giggles. Sarah was well-liked wherever she went-- and, like the rest of her family, she was eager to be pleased by her acquaintances.

There was to be a ball held in the second week of the Tilneys' stay at Pemberley, and the girls spent hours practicing their steps, wondering about their future partners, and discussing their hair and their dress. Sarah had her best gown with her-- the soft, gray-green muslin, a gift from her sister (though, Catherine said, Henry had picked out the color. "Celadon," he called it, which sounded very sophisticated to Sarah). Kitty oohed and ahhed appreciatively, showing Sarah her own gown for the ball, a lovely pink satin trimmed with lace. 

They would do themselves great credit in these gowns, Kitty declared, even among the Darcys' impressive guests.

"And it will be quite an event, you know," she said. "The Darcys do not host balls, as a rule."

“I have never been to a proper ball,” Sarah said nervously. She was sure that her handful of assemblies did not count.

“Oh, they are marvelous! Just you wait!”

And when the evening arrived, Sarah found the ball quite as grand as promised (and though she had some anxiety about it, she thought she was managing to hide it well).

"I do not see Mr. Milton," said Kitty, frowning and biting her lip. Sarah had heard all about this fascinating young man (and how Kitty hoped to dance with him), and she was quite as disappointed by his non-appearance as her new friend.

"It is early yet!" she said, attempting to cheer Kitty up. "Look how many guests are still arriving!" She knew just what they could do while they waited. It was a game she and Cathy used to play, when they were in the shops or taking walks or (she was a little ashamed to admit) when one of their father's sermons was running a little long. They would look around at the people surrounding them and they would make up stories-- the secrets lives and loves and heartaches of their friends and neighbors, the things they kept hidden from the world. Sarah and Cathy would thoroughly entertain themselves in this way, not minding the mildly disapproving glances their mother threw their way.

Sarah explained the rules to Kitty, who did not seem to understand why this was such an amusing pastime but who was willing to give it a try. It was better than growing increasingly upset over the absence of her favorite gentleman. 

"Do you see that man over there?" Sarah asked, gesturing toward a short, dark man from behind her fan. 

"The one with the spectacles?"

"Yes, him. He married very foolishly in his youth. He has spent many years being nagged and scolded, and he now keeps his wife locked up in his attic."

Kitty looked a little shocked by how dastardly the secrets in this game could be, but she also looked rather excited. "I would believe it of him!" she said. 

"It is your turn," said Sarah.

Kitty looked around for a compelling subject. "The plump lady with the mole above her lip," she whispered. Sarah looked casually over to where Kitty indicated. The lady was handsome, with elaborately curled hair and an expensive-looking gown that was beautiful but that did not flatter her figure. "She is a princess of a far-off land. She is betrothed to a man she does not love, and so she has escaped to England so that she will not be forced to marry him."

"Very good!" said Sarah. "That man over there stole his eldest brother's inheritance and is spending it all on hunting dogs." 

"And that lady in blue with the flowers in her hair is sent by the eldest brother-- she will make the thief fall in love with her and then she will return all that remains of the money."

"That tall man in the green waistcoat is really a pirate."

"That is Jonathan Metcalfe!" Kitty giggled. "He could never be a pirate! He is much too quiet and reserved!"

"That is what makes him so clever," said Sarah. "He hides his true identity well!"

"The girl with the red hair is a foundling, here to discover the identity of her true father."

"The man by the table is the son of a duke. He hopes to forge a closer alliance with the Darcy family by marrying Mrs. Darcy's younger sister."

She had meant to make Kitty laugh and exclaim, for the young man was not particularly handsome, but instead her friend turned more vividly pink than her gown. 

"That is Mr. Milton!" she said, her voice half a gasp, half a whisper.

"Is he really?" said Sarah, taking a closer look. She would never have expected this to be the famous Mr. Milton. She had supposed Kitty to be more interested in the sort of man who had a face like a sculpture; someone who could easily be the hero of one of Cathy’s favorite novels.

"Oh, I am so glad he came!" said Kitty, flushing pinker than ever. 

It could not be clearer that she wanted to abandon their game and rush over to greet him. Sarah did not mind. 

"Go!" she urged.

Kitty looked very tempted.

"Go," Sarah repeated. "You have been waiting for him. But," she added, with a sly smile, "I expect you to give me a very exact account of everything he says to you this evening!"

Kitty grinned and practically skipped over to Mr. Milton. Sarah watched her go, looking forward to some good, girlish gossip when the ball was over.

Chapter Text

Lady Anne Darcy always enjoyed her time in London. Indeed, she wished she were there more often, though she supposed she should not complain. Her country-loving husband got her to town more often than she might have expected, and she was very good at persuading him to stay there longer than he’d originally planned. Though she missed her dear Fitzwilliam (she insisted, against George's wishes, in keeping their son at Pemberley; the air in town was not healthful for their boy), she did not intend to waste her precious time in London by pining over him. 

She had visited several old school friends so far this week; she was having a new (and very fashionable) gown made; she would attend a ball at the Metcalfes' this evening. True, she had to endure this visit from Lady Bertram at the moment, but surely it would be over soon and then she would be able to get on with more agreeable things.

It was not that she disliked Lady Bertram. They had even been good friends once, when they had each been newly-married and happened to meet at one of Sir Richard Fanshawe's dinner parties. The trouble was that laconic, languorous, lackadaisical Lady Bertram was better in letters than in person. 

Lady Anne could honestly say how deeply she valued their lively and expansive correspondence. They each waxed lyrically over their sons and gossipped merrily over their neighbors. They described their gowns and their parties. They chronicled the daily life of their households. Neither of their husbands were overly-enamored of this connection -  they were so politically at odds - but it did not matter one bit to their ladies. Let Sir Thomas and Mr. Darcy fight their figurative duels; it was none of their wives' business. They had better, more interesting things with which to occupy themselves.

Still, Lady Anne knew that their relationship was better maintained at a distance. Their visit this morning was almost painful. After talk of little Tom and Edmund and Fitzwilliam had been exhausted, the news of their acquaintances gone over, and their engagements for the next fortnight compared, their discussion ran dry. Lady Anne prided herself on her ability to make polite and pleasant conversation, but it was difficult to drag much more from Lady Bertram, now that that lady's interests had been thoroughly examined.

"How are your sisters?" she asked.

"Poor Fanny has had another child," said Lady Bertram, "and poor Elizabeth has lost one." She did not expand further and did not enquire after Lady Anne's own sister, and though Lady Anne expressed her best wishes the unknown Mrs. Price and her condolences for Mrs. Norris, Lady Bertram clearly had no more to say on the subject. Lady Anne would have liked to hear more about how Mrs. Norris was faring. She had met the woman twice and found her thoroughly disagreeable, but the loss of children was a matter with which she was all too familiar, and she wished she could be sure that her condolences would be passed along.  

She tried to talk about a variety of other topics - music (Lady Bertram did not care for it), books (Lady Bertram was not a great reader), servants (Lady Bertram left all of those matters to her husband and sister), the weather (Lady Bertram never did seem to notice it unless it was particularly dreadful) - but to no avail. Finally, Lady Bertram rose.

"I am afraid, Lady Anne, that I find myself rather exhausted this morning," she said, stifling a yawn. She placed a delicate but significant hand on her stomach.

Lady Anne's own stomach gave a jolt. So Lady Bertram was with child again, too. It seemed as though all of her acquaintance were. 

"My dear Lady Bertram," she said, forcing a smile, "you did not say!" 

"I had quite forgotten," Lady Bertram said languidly. "I do, sometimes, you know."

Lady Anne had never forgotten any of the times she had been with child. She supposed that was a luxury one was not afforded, when one's interesting conditions were rife with tragedy.

"I congratulate you, my dear Mrs. Bertram!" she said, as warmly as she could manage. "I hope this does not keep you from the Bancrofts next week!"

"If I am not there," said Lady Bertram, "it will be because I did not want to go, not because I was unable. It is only towards the end, you know, that the condition becomes a nuisance. I may do as I please until then."

Lady Anne, accustomed mostly to bouts of fruitless bedrest, nodded. She could not resist, however, adding, “But you are so tired this morning!”

“Oh, I am always a little tired,” said Lady Bertram, “and so it does not make much of a difference for me. I do not know why my sisters make such a fuss about being in this way. I have little trouble with it at all.” And with that, she took her leave.

Suddenly, Lady Anne wished she were back at Pemberley.

Chapter Text

Mrs. Musgrove might have two daughters married but Mrs. Bennet had three , and that was better in anyone's book, so there. And then , when you thought of their sons-in-law-- why, Mrs. Bennet was the clear winner! Oh, the younger Musgrove girl might have married a captain, which was impressive and romantic, but her Lizzy had ten thousand a year , Jane had five, and darling Lydia's Wickham was so charming and resourceful. Miles better than a captain-- and worlds better than a mere curate! Poor Mrs. Musgrove must be quite embarrassed to talk about her daughters to Mrs. Bennet, whose girls had all done so much better.

Mrs. Bennet expressed her hope that dear Henrietta and Louisa had not find their comfort materially altered since their marriages.

"Oh, laughed Mrs. Musgrove merrily, "they are each so in love that I doubt that they would notice if they were poor as church mice! That is what matters, in the end, is not it? That they are happy?"

Mrs. Bennet started. She had never really wondered if her girls were happy in their marriages. Well, why wouldn't they be? she reasoned. Jane and Elizabeth had married into great wealth; Lydia's husband was so very pleasing: they had nothing to complain about. And besides, happiness was not at all the point of matrimony! A marriage was successful if the wife was provided for and the husband was given children and heirs. If happiness sprung from the arrangement, then that was well and good, but one should only really expect a certain contentment that one was not a poor old maid– or worse.

Mrs. Bennet herself was not unhappy with Mr. Bennet (though he tried her nerves sorely), but nor could she say that she was happy with him. She was happy with her friends and her visiting and her news, she was happy that more than half of her daughters were off of her hands, but it would be unseemly, at her age, to be girlishly in love with her husband at all. Infatuation was meant for the young and it was quickly grown out of. Why would anyone base a marriage on things as flimsy as love and happiness?

Oh, Mrs. Musgrove always seemed perfectly cheerful, whenever Mrs. Bennet saw her with her husband, but she had always suspected this to be an act. No woman above forty saw her husband as anything more than an occasional companion– an agreeable companion, if one was lucky. More often than not, if her acquaintances' stories were anything to go by, husbands were tolerable, and that sufficed.

Mr. and Mrs. Bennet tolerated each other well enough. That was nothing to scoff over. Mrs. Musgrove, the stupid woman, had clearly not prepared her daughters for the reality of marriage. Once their so-called happiness had faded away, Henrietta would be left with a poor curate and Louisa a sullen sailor. Her girls would have a different fate.

Mrs. Bennet congratulated herself, not for the first time, on her exemplary skills as a mother.

Chapter Text

Bath was abuzz with the arrival: A rich young man, very handsome, highly eligible, ten thousand a year. 

"If only we were acquainted with Miss Darcy," sighed Miss Stone. "Then we might be thrown into his path!"

"Perhaps we will meet, quite by accident, in one of the shops," said Augusta Hawkins, already scheming. "We can befriend her, and then she will have such good things to say about us to her brother!"

Miss Stone snorted. "Miss Darcy is his aunt, and quite elderly besides."

Augusta bit her lip. That did make things more difficult.

But fortune smiled on her, as it often did. Lady Russell was hosting a dinner party, and it was quickly discovered that Mr. Darcy would be in attendance. Miss Emily Fairfield was Lady Russell's niece; Emily owed Augusta a favor; Augusta was invited to the party as Emily's dear friend.

Miss Stone was not pleased when Augusta crowed about this later.

"Well, really, Flora," Augusta reasoned, "it is better this way. It saves us from squabbling over Mr. Darcy! I would hate to ruin our friendship!"

Miss Stone did not seem soothed.

The evening of the party arrived. Augusta donned her most striking, apple-green gown and had her hair styled elaborately. She wore her best jewels and even dabbed on a little rouge. She wanted to make an impression.

The party itself was elegant and Augusta stood out nicely in the sea of white and cream of the other ladies. She curtseyed prettily when she was introduced to Mr. Darcy and she bestowed upon him her most beguiling smile. He was handsome indeed. She would have found him so anyway - all rich, important men were handsome, once you really looked at them - but he truly deserved all of the praise that she'd heard in his favor. He was uncommonly tall, with a fine figure; his hair curled in soft, chestnut swoops; his eyes were bright and blue; his features would not have been out of place on a statue.

Augusta was determined to win him.

She stayed as close to him that evening as propriety allowed, flitting over when he drifted too far. He always looked rather surprised to see her near him. Astonished by her beauty and her attention, she did not doubt. She asked him about his home, his family, his pursuits. His answers were short and to the point; he did not prattle away, but allowed her, with his generous brevity, to guide the conversation. 

Augusta liked that very much. She found men of few words to be quite charming.

"Mr. Darcy," she said, as the end of the evening neared, "do you have a barouche-landau?"

"I-- no," he said, taken aback.

"Oh, you must get one!" she said. "You must!" And she made all of her best arguments to convince him to consider it.

"I think things went quite well!" she gushed to Miss Stone the next morning. "He is on the way to being very much in love with me already."

How clearly she could picture herself, riding in style in Derbyshire.

Chapter Text

Mrs. Ferrars was not actually Mrs. Norris's friend, but she liked to pretend anyway. Introductions to grand, important ladies were for the Lady Bertrams of the world, not for the humble Mrs. Norrises. To be sure, she was adept enough at getting her share of the benefits from her sister’s marriage to Sir Thomas, but it would have been nice to be worthy of such things in her own right. She was the eldest, after all. The best match should have been hers . But Maria had always had all of the beauty and the luck.

Still, here Mrs. Norris was, drinking tea with Mrs. Ferrars and her daughter-- something that would not have happened without Lady Bertam’s connections. That was something, at least.

Mrs. Ferrars was quite similar to Lady Bertram, and their conversation consisted mostly of long stretches of silence, punctuated with yawns and observations on the weather. Mrs. Norris sat a little away with Miss Ferrars, chatting much more productively. The young lady was soon to be married, and Mrs. Norris couldn't help but think that her intended was a fortunate man indeed. Fanny Ferrars was a charming girl, so handsome and poised! To be sure, her name did not immediately inspire affection, but it was clear that this Fanny was more satisfactory than either Mrs. Norris's youngest sister or niece.

In fact, Fanny Ferrars was exactly the kind of child that Mrs. Norris had imagined for herself, before it became clear that no child was in her future. She had always secretly longed for a daughter - a Miss Elizabeth Norris, as sophisticated and elegant as her cousins Maria and Julia would be - and with her fair coloring and tall stature, it was quite easy to imagine Fanny Ferrars in that role. 

"I hope, my dear," Mrs. Norris said, "that your young man understands what a treasure you are!"

Fanny smiled. "Oh, he does, I assure you. My John is perfect in every way! Except, perhaps, in one..."

Mrs. Norris urged her on. "My dear, you must fix this flaw before you are married, for not all men make tractable husbands." 

"Unfortunately," sighed Miss Ferrars, "it is not something that can be rectified. He has three half-sisters, you see, and his father is excessively fond of them. They will be a constant thorn in my side, I just know it." She gave a little shudder. "I can only hope that we will not be forced to associate with them very often."

"Oh, my dear, that is unfortunate. But there are things you can do, once you are married, to remedy this evil." She leaned closer to Miss Ferrars and lowered her voice. "A wife can have great influence over her husband, when it comes to regrettable family ties such as these. Is Mr. Dashwood fond of his half-sisters?"

"He likes them well enough, I think. I have never met them and cannot judge by his behavior toward them. But I do not think they are particularly close at all."

"That is good news indeed! It would be much harder to untangle a tighter bond. You will need to plant doubts in Mr. Dashwood’s head about the supposed charms of these girls, my dear. You will have to help him see them with clearer eyes. I am quite sure that, given the opportunity, they will try to get from their half-brother all that they are able. Such is always the way.” Only look at the way her own sister Fanny preyed on the sympathies of her richer relatives!

"I believe you are correct!" said Miss Ferrars. "I had planned on discouraging our visiting with them more than once every couple of years, but your method is much better."

"Oh, yes," said Mrs. Norris. "You must simply whisper steadily in his ear. Your charms are such that he will not resist you. Depend upon it, you will both be of one mind before long, and his half-sisters will be all but forgotten."

"That is an agreeable thought indeed," said Miss Ferrars.

"The secret to happiness in matrimony is to guide your husband towards your own better judgment. It is the task that all of us ladies have when once we become wives." She patted Miss Ferrars on the hand. "As long as you mind my words, Miss Ferrars, I am quite sure that you will find perfect felicity in the married state."

Chapter Text

Miss Caroline Bingley could not be kept down for long. True, it was a blow to her pride that Mr. Darcy had chosen for his wife the detestable Elizabeth Bennet, but at least that was the only injury Caroline had sustained. How mortifying it would have been if she'd had to nurse a broken heart on top of it!

No, Caroline was doing perfectly well, thank you very much. She could find a better man than Mr. Darcy, and where better to look than in Bath? What a brilliant idea it had been to travel there. Louisa must be commended for her stroke of genius. 

"It will be a relief for you," Louisa had said, "to have such a delightful distraction." Indeed, it was good to think of anything but the galling image of the newly-wed Mrs. Darcy making herself at home in Pemberley, an estate upon which Caroline had been pinning her own hopes.

And so, following the odious double wedding, Caroline and the Hursts had made their way west, and after calling on an old school friend, Mrs. Wallis, they were soon introduced to a most charming man-- one Mr. William Elliot. 

He was not much to look at, of course, Mrs. Wallis said in a nearly inaudible whisper, as she and Caroline took a turn around the room, but that should not deter her, not in the face of more important things. Mr. Elliot, after all, was the heir to a baronetcy.

Caroline cast an appraising eye over the gentleman. She had been pleased by his air and his manners, but this information made him infinitely more intriguing. She was suddenly quite worn out by this refreshing turn. She must sit by the fire.

"What a pity it is, Miss Bingley," said Mr. Elliot joining her there, "that we have not been acquainted before now. An oversight, I dare say, of our mutual friends the Wallises."

"For shame, Mr. Elliot," said Caroline with her most sparkling laugh. "I would never be so ungenerous a friend to blame my dear Isabelle for anything! And as this is the first time that I have ever set eyes upon her colonel, it would be disgraceful to charge him for the crime of not being aware me . He is your old friend, I hear, so you must judge his guilt for yourself, but I do not know that it would be just of you to condemn him. After all, I have found that the best acquaintances are often made entirely by chance, and thus we should be grateful that our meeting was not a contrivance.”

"Very wise, Miss Bingley,” said Mr. Elliot, “and so perhaps we must simply blame fate. Our paths were never meant to cross before now." 

Caroline was too shrewd to be taken in by pretty words and suggestive tones of voice, but also too shrewd not to play at feminine susceptibility. She lowered her eyes immediately; she ducked her head and turned away. She could not blush on command (more was the pity), but she knew how to create an illusion. When next she peeked at Mr. Elliot, he seemed very pleased by the performance.

The next fortnight continued much the same way, the two of them flirting for all they were worth. She should not be alarmed, Mrs. Wallis had told her, if she should hear rumors of Mr. Elliot's interest in his cousin, Miss Elizabeth Elliot, for there was nothing serious in it. He only had eyes for her. Indeed, Caroline was not alarmed. She had seen Miss Elliot for herself in the Pump-room. She was beautiful, to be sure, but it was only a matter of time before she started being derided for the old maid that she was (for Caroline had heard tell of her father’s reduced station in life, and it was only an important name that protected her from the repulsiveness of nine-and-twenty). Caroline was young and handsome and rich. She was the greater prize. Besides, the baronetcy was all but Mr. Elliot’s already. He had no need to marry his cousin. It was Caroline who would be reigning at Kellynch Hall. With a proposal surely on the horizon, she grew smug and complacent. Lady Elliot. The name would suit her well.

And then Mr. Elliot's attentions ceased entirely. Furious and mortified, Caroline paid a visit to Mrs. Wallis.

"I am afraid, my dear," said Mrs. Wallis, cringing away from Caroline's glare, "that Mr. Elliot and his cousin--"

"You told me that I was not to worry about the cousin!" said Caroline, her voice climbing shrilly. 

"And you had nothing to fear from Miss Elizabeth Elliot," said Mrs. Wallis. "But that was before the younger sister arrived in Bath-- Miss Anne."

Caroline had some very loud and angry things to say in response to this, and Mrs. Wallis declared she was unfit for visiting this morning and that Caroline was upsetting her in her fragile condition.

"What a foolish idea this was," Caroline spat at Louisa, as they hastily made their way back to town. She would never again set foot in Bath, nor ever acknowledge that wretched Mrs. Wallis. 

Her resolve was tested, however, a couple of months later, upon receiving rather an interesting letter from that loathesome lady. Mr. Elliot, it seemed, had absconded– and not with Miss Anne Elliot. He had involved himself in a minor scandal, the details of which Caroline skimmed. The important thing was that the Elliot family was outraged and embarrassed, and if Caroline would only make her way to Bath immediately, she might be able to use such feelings to her advantage. Would not it be wonderful revenge, if Caroline were to be on the scene, to jump the line of succession, to be a comfort and a solace to the baronet himself? Sir Walter Elliot would be more eager than ever to wound Mr. Elliot, and this was a chance for Caroline to land an additional blow. She was very sorry, Mrs. Wallis wrote, for her role in earlier events, for she would never wish to harm a friend. This, she said, was her way to make up for that, to prove to Caroline her constancy, and to make amends (and against her husband’s wishes, besides!). If only Caroline might remember her, Mrs. Wallis implored, when once she had made her conquest.

A slow smile unfurled itself across Caroline's face as she folded the letter. What an unexpectedly agreeable missive! From everything Mr. Elliot had told her of Sir Walter, he was a silly man, defenseless against flattery and admiration and praise. All of her wiles and talents - useless against Mr. Darcy - would serve her well in this new pursuit. Sir Walter Elliot would be wrapped around her finger in no time. 

And when, in a year or so, she gave birth to a miniature baronet, how diverting it would be to imagine Mr. Elliot's face as Kellynch Hall fell from his grasp.

Truly, Caroline was destined to win. 

Chapter Text

Mrs. Dashwood had not been to church last Sunday - she had been nursing a violent cold and had not been able to stir from bed - and so she had not caught a glimpse of the new couple there. She was, consequently, quite looking forward to meeting them at the Middletons' this evening, for Sir John said they were young and handsome, with a small litter of children; he had found them charming and was happy to have them in the neighborhood. It could not be plainer that Lady Middleton was against inviting them to their home, considering them too low to socialize with, but Sir John had never stood on such ceremony, and Mrs. Dashwood was always eager for new acquaintances. She had a suspicion that her friends would be more important to her than ever soon enough, as Margaret had just turned sixteen and Mrs. Dashwood did not know how much longer it would be until her youngest, like her sisters before her, would leave the home. 

Mrs. Dashwood, therefore, was eager to be pleased, and she found that she liked the Wickhams instantly. They were certainly a striking couple-- both tall and dark and uncommonly handsome. Mrs. Wickham was young and lively and had a quick, infectious laugh, and she and Margaret were soon engaged in conversation away from the rest of the party.

"Ahh, I know how young ladies are," said Sir John indulgently. "I cannot hope to entertain them half as well as they can entertain themselves."

"You must excuse Mrs. Wickham," said her husband politely, "for she means no offense to you, Sir John. She has four sisters of her own, you see, though she rarely has an opportunity to meet with them, and so she is powerless to resist the society of any young lady between fifteen and five-and-twenty-- even at the expense of neglecting a very kind and generous host." Mr. Wickham gave an elegant little bow. 

Mrs. Dashwood admired his good breeding and general air of pleasantness. She wished to know the young man better, and as Mrs. Wickham and Margaret were still giggling together without room for a third, and as Sir John was distracted by Mr. Oliver and his plans for some forthcoming sport, she took the opportunity to engage him in conversation. She soon found him to be as amiable as she had supposed, able to speak with intelligence and wit, and a good listener besides. 

"How happy you must be, to have your eldest girls so fortunately settled," he said, when after she had done telling him of Elinor and Marianne. "Your youngest is a fine young lady." He looked over to where Margaret sat with his wife. "Mrs. Wickham seems fond of her already!"

"She is a great comfort to me, with her sisters married."

"I have no doubt of it. And yet," he glanced at her again, "she must surely be reaching a marriageable age herself."

"Yes, indeed," said Mrs. Dashwood with a small sigh. "A mother always wishes to see her children married well, but I confess that I would not mind if Margaret were not to marry early."

Mr. Wickham answered politely. Mrs. Dashwood, pleased by his feeling and tact, but wanting to know more about him - his parents, his home, his education - turned the conversation from her own bittersweet future and coaxed him gently to those subjects instead. After a few embarrassed false starts, he told her of his idyllic childhood in Derbyshire, of the great estate he had lived on, of his father, the favored steward, of his godfather, a great and beneficent man. 

He told her, too, of his godfather's son-- a spoiled, unpleasant boy who had grown into a proud, cruel man. Jealous of his father's attachment to his rival, he had made Mr. Wickham's boyhood miserable, and, in adulthood, tried to ruin his life. 

"Pray, do not pity me, Mrs. Dashwood," he said, for she had exclaimed in horror upon the conclusion of his tale, tears in her eyes. "I have been misused by that gentleman, and he has taken much from me, but I am content with what I have salvaged."

Mrs. Dashwood commended him on his strength.

"I only ask," he said apologetically, "that you not mention any of this to Mrs. Wickham. The subject upsets her, you see, and I hate to see her in pain."

Mrs. Dashwood promised him that she would never utter a word of it. 

"I thank you," he said. "I have heard Sir John mention you as an uncommonly good and virtuous woman, of course, and I have seen as much myself, in our short time together. I knew that I could trust you with my unhappy history."

“I am most gratified that you did,” said Mrs. Dashwood. “I have always found it comforting to share my troubles with a sympathetic party.”

“Indeed, I have found the same thing!” He paused delicately, then said, “It has been a difficult several years for Mrs. Wickham and I. You have heard of my own hardships, but there has been great strain on Mrs. Wickham as well.” He paused again. “You have been a compassionate audience, Mrs. Dashwood. I would hate to try your patience for too long.”

She demurred, feeling tenderly towards his plights (and, though she would never press him, curious about Mrs. Wickham’s).

“My wife’s family does not approve of our marriage,” he said finally, looking down. “I was neither rich enough nor important enough for their taste. We have not seen them in years, and it weighs heavily on my dear Lydia.”

“How shocking!” said Mrs. Dashwood. She would never understand the way some parents interfered with their children’s lives and loves. 

“You are very kind. I am afraid that my wife and I have not received such goodwill in some time.”

“That is a great pity, but I can assure you, Mr. Wickham, that you and your wife will always receive it from me.” Margaret and Mrs. Wickham let out identical peals of laughter from their corner. Mrs. Dashwood smiled at the sound. “And I dare say that Margaret feels the same.”

“I thank you,” said Mr. Wickham, bowing his head. “Mrs. Wickham and I have been fortunate enough to have each other through these wearisome years, but it is gratifying to think that we might now have friends with whom to share our burdens.” His glance lingered again on his wife and Margaret, a soft smile curling his lips.

The party broke up soon thereafter, with the expressed hope that they might all be together again soon. 

"You see, it is just as I have told you!" said Sir John, as the Dashwood ladies took their leave. "A charming couple and a marvelous addition to our society at Barton Park!" 

Mrs. Dashwood warmly agreed. She liked the Wickhams. She hoped they would stay. Mrs. Wickham would be a good friend for Margaret, and Mr. Wickham was a fine young gentleman-- a little like Willoughby, she thought, but not so very wicked. It was a pity that he was already married, or she might consider him for Margaret.

Chapter Text

My dear Miss Darcy,

Henry and I have scarcely arrived home from our visit to Pemberley and already I am writing to you! He laughs and tells me that I had better unpack my trunk and leave my letter for the morning, but as you and I have become such good friends over the past fortnight, my gowns will simply have to wait. What nice long chats we had about music and novels and all manner of things! If I have one complaint about Woodston, it is that I have yet to meet another woman with whom to sit and talk about Mrs. Radcliffe. Henry says that he suspects several of our neighbors would be happy to discuss her books with me, but I always find myself unable to bring them up whenever I am visiting. Our neighbors are all so fond of Henry and I worry that they will find me frivolous and silly.

Not that novels are frivolous and silly, of course. It is only that I am younger than many of the other ladies and married to a most-beloved clergyman, and I always feel as though I should be discussing Henry's latest sermon with them instead. 

Have you started reading anything new in the short time since I have left? I am between books, having finished one in the carriage, and I am eager to begin another-- hopefully something dreadful, full of secrets and danger. Do thank your brother for me again. It was most kind of him to loan me some books from his beautiful library. I am sure I will find them all agreeable, even the one that seems a bit more sensible than the others. I wonder if that one was included mistakenly, though Henry says that if it was an accident, it was a fortuitous one, for it is worth the read. I will trust his judgment, for he is really quite excessively clever, and as your brother saw fit to include it in his collection, then it must be excellent.

Do write whenever you can. I would be so pleased to hear all that is going on at Pemberley, and of course, all of your own pursuits! 

Yours most sincerely, 

Catherine Tilney

Dear Mrs. Tilney, 

Thank you for your charming letter! It has been a gloomy several days at Pemberley, full of such incessant rain that I have been unable to wander out of doors, and a letter from a friend always cheers one most effectively. 

My brother - a greater reader than I - has high praise for novels, and very little patience for those who find them frivolous and silly. To be sure, his tastes do not always run the way ours do, but as you saw for yourself, Mrs. Radcliffe is well-represented in his library, and he kept much better pace with you than I did when we were all discussing The Italian . If Mr. Tilney thinks your neighbors would gladly speak of books with you, I am inclined to trust him, and if he should be wrong and you find yourself harshly judged, then I can only say that such narrow-minded opinions are not worth your anxiety. I trust that you have, by now, settled on a new novel and that it as dreadful as you desire. 

I have been reading gentler fare: a book of poems that my father cherished. He was a great lover of poetry and passed that love to me, and it is a comfort to read the words that he so often read aloud himself and to see his writing in the margins, making note of his particular favorites. My brother is not overly fond of poetry and has told me that I might consider my father's collection my own, but I do not think it should ever be taken from Pemberley. Those books are as much a part of it as the walls and floors. 

I have been learning a new piece on the pianoforte that is quick and foreboding and makes me think of poor, distressed heroines running through the forest, trying to escape a pursuer. Mrs. Darcy smiles whenever I play it and says that she thinks you would like the imagery.

Please write again, with all of your thoughts on what you have read and with all of your news from Woodston. I do hope, though our friendship is recent, that you consider it as true as I do myself, and thus ask that you might call me by my Christian name. 

Yours sincerely, 

Georgiana Darcy

My dear Georgiana

I am so gratified to know that you think of our friendship as I do, and beg that you call me Catherine!

I have indeed found a new novel and am enjoying it immensely, though the heroine swoons astonishingly often. I do not know that I have ever swooned, though I have practiced, in case I should ever have occasion to do so (how Mr. Tilney would laugh if I told him!). As agreeable as it is to be reading something fresh, I rather long to return to some old friends, simply to see if they feel the same to me now as they did when I first read them. Will they still be delightful? Will they have changed, now that I am older and (I hope) a little wiser? I would hate to find them altered for the worse or to have outgrown them in some way.

I have read some of that last paragraph aloud to Mr. Tilney, who says that our favorite novels remain a part of us - that we remember them the way we do our younger selves, forgiving a little foolishness and recalling the feeling we had when first we read them - and as he himself still enjoys Mrs. Radcliffe, I dare say my memories of The Mysteries of Udolpho will remain untarnished. 

Your piano piece sounds marvelous, and so evocative! It seems like exactly the thing to listen to while reading some thrilling scene or other. I am not at all musical myself, so I will have to imagine it the best that I can-- like stomping footsteps and crashing thunder. I can picture our poor heroine perfectly, looking over her shoulder as the notes chase her down. 

Yours, etc.,

Catherine Tilney

My dear Catherine,

Pemberley is rather quiet today. My brother is attending to some business with his tenants and Mrs. Darcy is visiting her sister at the parsonage. I would usually go with her, but I find myself a bit unwell and have been instructed to rest. It is nothing worse than a cold, but my brother worries. 

I like the way you describe books as friends. They do feel like friends-- or the best ones do, at least. When I return to an old favorite, it feels like returning to Pemberley after some time away-- a sense of warmth and comfort and contentment. The heroines are my old friends too, and I experience all of their hopes and fears as though they were my own. In the very best books, I see my own emotions written out in the ways I can never quite express. 

I laughed when I read that you practiced your swooning-- not in a mocking way, but in recognition. I used to walk around and around the garden, pretending to be a princess, one who had to conceal her identity (I never had a very good reason for why it had to be a secret, but of course, that was not the important part of the game). My brother would often find me, reciting poetry dramatically to the roses. 

Perhaps it is being bedridden that has done it, but I find myself longing to regale the flowers as I used to. The garden is starting to bloom beautifully and I am anxious to be out in it. I have always thought that Pemberley looked its best in spring. 

I hope you are well, and Mr. Tilney too.

Yours sincerely, 

Georgiana Darcy

My dear Georgiana,

I was most grieved to hear of your cold and trust that you are completely recovered by now. How disagreeable it is to be ill and trapped indoors, unable to enjoy one's usual pursuits. It is even worse, I warn you, when one's husband is ill. I am afraid that Mr. Tilney is not brave in his suffering, only please do not tell him I said so. 

I visited with one of our neighbors this morning. Mrs. Oliver is a pleasant sort of woman, and younger than many of my other Woodston acquaintance, and so I decided to be bold and ask her whether she might wish to walk to the library with me some time. To my delight (and, I confess, my relief!) she agreed, and as she saw no reason for us to wait, we ventured out as soon as our bonnets were tied. Mrs. Oliver, it turns out, is a great reader and has recently become fond of Mrs. Burney. It is lovely to know I will have someone with whom to discuss Camilla . I might read it again myself! I only wish you were here with us, to share your own thoughts and opinions. Perhaps, if Mr. and Mr. Darcy could spare you, you might come to stay at Woodston. It is no Pemberley, by any means, but it is a dear, sweet place, and I would love to show you all of my favorite spots-- the view from the drawing-room, the cottage among the apple trees, and the corner of the attic where I always drift toward when I am reading something especially thrilling.

It would all be made even sweeter by your company.

Yours, etc., 

Catherine

My dear Catherine, 

I hope you were not excessively grieved, for it was little more than a sore throat and a headache. I am in perfect health now and did not mean to worry you in the slightest! I did laugh at how you described Mr. Tilney. My father was the same way, though my brother is the equally exhausting opposite-- he refuses to admit when he is ill and we must force him into rest. 

I am so pleased to hear that you have found a friend in Mrs. Oliver! You will have delightful conversations together, I am sure, and many pleasant walks to the library.

And oh, I would love to visit Woodston and talk about Camilla with you and Mrs. Oliver. I long to see any spot that is dear to you, and the attic sounds perfectly atmospheric for the most dramatic of passages. 

But before we make any plans, I have an urgent request of my own: will you come to Pemberley again? My brother has, by some miracle or other, been persuaded to host a ball, and he has asked me to issue you and Mr. Tilney with an invitation. I need scarcely say how pleased we would all be to see you! Mrs. Darcy urges me to impress upon you how necessary it is to have you here, so that you and my brother may talk of books if the dancing becomes too tedious. She teases, of course, but there is truth in it too--  he and I do enjoy the comfort of friends in a ballroom.

Please write back soon, and please say yes. 

With hope,

Georgiana Darcy

Chapter Text

"Yours is a charming parish, Mr. Elton."

"Ah, yes. Mrs. Elton, you know, takes great pride in our high standards. And of course, we must maintain a certain degree of elegance in our position, do not you agree?"

"Elegance has its place," said Edmund mildly, "but I always think our worth is better measured by the way we succor those in our care."

"Quite so," said Elton, with an affected little laugh, "though one must strike a balance between duty and dignity. We are called to a higher purpose, and thus the line between the clergy and the congregation should remain distinct."

Edmund paused, considering his phrasing. "I believe the dignity of the cloth lies in the service it renders. Our humblest efforts do more honor to our office than any elegance of manner. Visiting the sick, aiding the poor-- do not these best demonstrate the purity of our calling? 

"Indeed. Quite so. But there is something to be said about maintaining the quality of the society one keeps, the better to spread one's influence." He gave another one of those false laughs. "After all, the good that we do counts for little if our efforts do not spread abroad!" 

"I do not think any good deed can ever be diminished or devalued. Verily I say unto you, inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me. "

Mr. Elton said nothing, his expression a mixture of embarrassment and defiance.

"I mean no offense, Mr. Elton," said Edmund quietly. "But I cannot help but feel that we are entrusted with things greater than our own aggrandizement. We are meant to offer comfort, correction, and care-- not only from the pulpit, but in the quieter moments, though they may go unseen by the world at large." 

Mr. Elton managed a tight-lipped smile. "Ah, yes. Quite so. Very noble. I have taken no offense, sir, I assure you. But really," he said, in a challenging sort of way, "do not you find it a rather thankless business? So much expectation for so little credit!"

Edmund was calm but firm. "We do not act for our own credit."

Mr. Elton laughed, as falsely as before, though more awkwardly. "Well, I suppose it is easier for you , with the living at Mansfield Park. We do not all of us serve such generous patrons."

"That is true, but we do all serve the same Master."

He rose and bowed politely, not sorry to leave. 

Chapter Text

They were each sociable young men, Wentworth mused, inquisitive and full of conversation, and in theory, they should have had plenty to talk about. In practice, however, he and Mr. Bingley could not seem to stop circling back to the same subject.

“This is a fine room,” said Wentworth.

Bingley glanced around. “It is all Mrs. Bingley’s doing, of course. I can assure you that I lived differently as a bachelor.”

“I know the feeling.”

They both grinned wryly, silently noting that they had done it again. 

“Do you enjoy music?” Bingley ventured.

“I do,” said Wentworth, “very much. Indeed, I believe music is one of life’s great pleasures. I often felt so, when I was at sea, and I fear I must exhaust Mrs. Wentworth with how often I ask her to play.”

“Her performance at the pianoforte is delightful.”

“I was gratified that Mrs. Bingley joined her this evening. Mrs. Wentworth does not sing herself.”

“And Mrs. Bingley does not play, though her singing is so charming. It was a pleasure to see them together. I could have listened forever.”

Wentworth chuckled. “We have not been left long,” he observed, “and yet we cannot keep from mentioning them. What is this now, four or five mentions apiece?”

Bingley laughed, unabashed. “I suppose we ought to try harder.”

“We could discuss books,” Wentworth suggested. “That seems a neutral subject.”

“I am not much of a reader myself, however Darcy might try to make me one. Mrs. Bingley’s encouragement has been more productive, though, and I have exerted myself more often lately.”

“What have you been reading?”

“ Robinson Crusoe .”

“And how do you like it?”

“I am not ten pages in.”

“Slow progress is progress nevertheless.”

“Indeed. Jane recommended it. She thought I might like it better than Darcy’s interminable essays. Have you read anything good lately?”

“Travel accounts, mostly, with Mrs. Wentworth. She asks me whether I have seen the places detailed, and whether the author is quite accurate, and if I might someday take her to see what we have read about.” 

“And would you?”

“Wherever she likes.”

They both went quiet, aware that their wives had crept in again.

Wentworth cleared his throat. “You said you have children?”

“Yes! Little Charles has just turned one. His smile is exactly like his mother’s.”

“My sister says that Freddie is his father in looks but Mrs. Wentworth in temperament, for which we should all be very grateful.”

They each took another sip of port.

“I meant,” Bingley said after a moment, “to ask you about the Navy. That is, what it is like. I imagine it is quite exciting.”

“It is. And also tedious and lonely. The sea is constant company, but not very good conversation.”

“Then it is lucky that you have so amiable a partner with you now.”

“I feel exceptionally fortunate.”

“As do I.”

Another pause. 

“We are not very good at this,” Bingley said.

“We are trying.”

“Do you think Darcy and Knightley have more serious conversations?”

“It certainly appears so.”

“They are as devoted to their wives as we are, and yet they can discuss land and business and all manner of things. But then, they are serious men with serious work to do. They have estates to manage, tenants to oversee, improvements to make. There is always something demanding their attention. I should hate to have half of their responsibility.”

“I am content with my lot; I would not change it for theirs.”

They fell silent once more.

“It must be time to rejoin the ladies,” Bingley said eventually, glancing toward the door.

“I think Darcy may be moving that way.”

“Do you think we will ever get through a full evening without circling back to them?”

“I sincerely hope not,” said Wentworth.

Chapter Text

They had been introduced scarcely a quarter of an hour before, yet Lady Middleton and Miss Elliot had already discovered a gratifying commonality: neither cared in the least for anyone else present. 

“I am never impressed by the society in Bath,” Lady Middleton began. “I am always reminding Sir John that he must be exceedingly careful when forming an acquaintance here.”

Elizabeth Elliot inclined her head. “Anything less would be most imprudent. I am always fastidious in guarding my own circle.”

“Indeed, I hardly recollect a single face since our arrival, and have not spoken willingly to a single person outside of my party."

“Very proper. Conversation is almost always tedious. I rarely attend to it at all.”

“Oh, nor I. I can listen for half an hour together and never hear a word.”

“Then you are superior even to me. I generally contrive to hear only enough to disagree with.”

They fell into a contented silence, each lady perfectly indifferent to the other-- and both satisfied that this was one of those rare instances of forming a truly suitable acquaintance.