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Chapter Text

Pemberley, 7th April 1817

It was a mild morning at Pemberley, the kind that promised a full, golden spring. The drawing room was quiet save for the flick of paper and the soft, rapid padding of small feet fading down the corridor, followed by an echoing peal of laughter, distant and then near again.

Elizabeth Darcy barely looked up as she reached for her tea, her fingers brushing the porcelain with practiced ease, though her eyes were focused elsewhere, precisely on the letter she’d just broken open.

Across the room, Fitzwilliam Darcy lowered The Times with narrowed brows, his tall frame at ease but never quite lax.

“Bad news, my love?” he asked, tone light, but his glance sharpened nonetheless as he noted her pursed lips.

Elizabeth, seated near the wide window that opened to the budding garden, offered no immediate answer. Instead, she reread the missive slowly, and a twitch of amusement stirred the corners of her mouth. Her eyes, dark and luminous as ever, flicked up to him.

“No. Not bad. I'd say... Surprising.”

Darcy grunted.

“That often does mean bad.”

She passed the letter over, tilting her head in mock gravity.

“It seems we are invited to Rosings.”

A pause. Then:

“…What?”

“Oh, Fitzwilliam,” she said with a laugh that sparkled in the room like the morning sun, “do not sound as though you have been summoned to the gallows.”

“It is not so unlike it,” he muttered, unfolding the letter. “And a fortnight, no less.”

The last time Lady Catherine de Bourgh had darkened Pemberley’s threshold was nearly two years ago. That particular spring had bloomed slowly, as though nature itself had been wary of the tension brewing within the estate. At the time, young William - barely ten months old - had just begun to walk, tottering through the halls on stout little legs, black, fierce curls bouncing, eyes round with curiosity. Elizabeth, glowing with new motherhood, had worn her grace like armor, every smile carefully placed, every word chosen with care.

Lady Catherine, in turn, had worn her feathers like a battle standard, both literal and figurative. She had scrutinized Pemberley’s every corner and criticized every possible deviation from what she considered proper. She had even dared to remark on the “unbecoming” sweetness of Mr. Darcy’s attentions toward his son: “it is quite improper for a gentleman of your station to behave as a nursemaid,” she had announced, affronted at the sight of him crouching to kiss William’s brow.

And yet - despite her rigid disapproval - she had lingered too long by the nursery door. She had concealed a start when Will, waving a pudgy hand, had chirped a “Ladii Cathin!” with cheerful reverence. It had been, Elizabeth recalled, the only moment in which her formidable ladyship’s face had shown any sign of softening. Brief, almost imperceptible. But Elizabeth had seen it.

Now, Fitzwilliam scowled at the letter as though it might catch fire from his gaze.

“She signs it ‘Your aunt in fond anticipation’. Either she is mellowing, or the ink is forged.”

“She is your aunt, dearest,” Elizabeth murmured, rising to pluck the letter from his hands and press a kiss to his temple. “And I believe even Lady Catherine can find charm in your offspring. Will is not so easily withstood.”

“Will is three. That is an age of unpredictable powers.”

“Indeed. He has already managed to melt you.” She gave him a teasing glance.

“Because, unlike Her Ladyship, I am not made of iron.”

“No indeed, you are not” She laughed as she stepped away.

Outside, beyond the window, the sound of little boots on gravel could be heard, followed by the crisp voice of Mrs Reynolds attempting to redirect the small lordling from what must be his latest misadventure.

Elizabeth smiled to herself.

This visit would be… interesting.

Chapter Text

Hunsford Parsonage, April 8, 1817

The morning spring sun streamed through the small parsonage windows. Mr Collins was sitting at at his writing desk, his pen above a sheet of thick, yellowing paper. The ink had dried in the well. He had not noticed.

“Such a visitation,” he whispered aloud, for the fourth or fifth time that morning, “from Mr. Darcy himself... and Mrs. Darcy, formerly Miss Elizabeth Bennet, of course - blessed among women now…”

His thoughts trailed as he imagined what speech he might offer on their arrival. Something appropriately humble but morally rich. Something that would please both his noble patroness and display his pastoral excellence. Perhaps some Fordyce's quotations?

From the hearth, a faint rustling interrupted his thoughts. Charlotte, seated by the cradle, lifted her eyes from her sewing.

“They will be tired from the journey,” she said lightly. “Best to spare them any speeches, at least until after tea.”

Mr. Collins did not catch the irony. “Indeed! You are correct, my dear. The occasion calls for… moderation. Perhaps only one reflection shall suffice, on the importance of child-rearing in a Christian household.”

Charlotte glanced at the sleeping form of baby Samuel Abraham, cheeks like peaches and hands balled into tiny fists. “He seems unimpressed by the idea.”

Collins leaned over the cradle, in exaggerated awe. “This child shall be our proof of propriety. A testament to Lady Catherine’s sound counsel and my spiritual guidance. Unlike some households that-”

“-have dared to re-decorate in pastels and let their children play outside?” Charlotte murmured.

He blinked at her. “Precisely.”

Samuel snorted softly in his sleep, as if offering his own commentary. Collins took it as a sign of approval.

Charlotte returned to her sewing, her mouth twitching with amusement. One might have expected the years with Mr. Collins to dull her humor, but instead it had merely become quieter, better timed. A private game of survival.

“Shall I lay out your coat for dinner with Her Ladyship?” she asked, rising. “The one with the particularly… inspiring buttons?”

“Ah yes,” he said, puffing his chest. “A garment suited for occasion and station. Lady Catherine always notices the finer details.”

Charlotte disappeared into the other room, where perhaps, if luck held, she might have two full minutes of peace.

Collins, left alone, persisted in his musings “To instruct… but not overwhelm. To lead… without pride. To impress… delicately.” He nodded to himself. “Yes. That will do quite nicely.”

Chapter Text

Pemberley, April 9, 1817 

There was nothing in Fitzwilliam Darcy’s manner, as he bent to fasten a stray button on his son’s traveling coat, that might have suggested he’d once been considered the most solemn man in Derbyshire. His large hands moved with steady precision, brushing off a speck of lint, while William George Darcy fidgeted at his knee.

“Papa, may I bring Sir Lionel with us?” Will asked, clutching his beloved wood-carved knight in one hand, a small booted foot tapping restlessly against the nursery carpet. “He would miss the company otherwise.”

“You may, young Captain,” Darcy replied warmly. “But you must take care not to lose the noble Sir.”

Will paused, momentarily stunned by the very idea of misplacing the Hero of his grand garden campaigns. “I-I shall!”

“A wise decision, my boy.”

From the corner, a smaller voice cooed contentedly. Frederick Edward, sitting rather neatly with a plush red fox in his lap, was gentler in features than his elder brother, with hazelnut wavy hair that caught the sun in golden streaks; though he shared their mother’s deep eyes, from which he directed soft, but at once steady and deep glances. At almost eighteen months, he showed a stark contrast to his brother’s bounding energy, Fred preferred observation to intrusion, calm to chaos, observing the world like a young philosopher. Yet he smiled whenever Will did, and Will smiled often.

“Master William has been up since dawn,” Mrs. Reynolds announced proudly as she swept into the room. “And young Master Frederick hasn’t blinked since breakfast, I daresay. A most attentive observer, I’m quite sure of it.”

“They’re well prepared,” said Elizabeth, entering with her bonnet in one hand, “far more than their father, who has yet to pack a single item.”

Darcy gave her a look of mock suffering. “I am prepared in spirit. And I’m only going for your sake, believe me.”

“And, of course, for Georgiana’s peace of mind.” He nodded with a quiet grumble. Elizabeth smiled, understanding, and only a little mischievous.

“In seeing your great enthusiasm,” she said, stepping closer, “I now feel compelled to extract a promise.”

He sighed. “How many promises must one man make to visit his aunt?”

“Just one.” She tied her bonnet, eyes gleaming. “That you will try.”

“To behave?”

“You will try to, yes, dearest,” she repeated, tapping his chest lightly. “Nothing more. And I shall try, too.”

He caught her hand and kissed her knuckles.

A small rustle interrupted them. Will had climbed into the armchair and was now sitting cross-legged, brows furrowed in serious thought.

“Mama?” he asked innocently. “Is this the same ‘Lady Aunt Cath'rin’ that always looks like she’s just eaten a whole lemon?”

There was silence.

Elizabeth turned very slowly to her husband.

Darcy, shoulders stiffening, managed a strangled sort of cough.

“And where did you hear that?” she asked.

“Uncle Bingley said it when she sent us that big letter. He whispered it. But I heard him.”

Fred, for his part, offered a quiet, approving “Bah.”

Elizabeth covered her mouth. Darcy stood straighter, aiming for gravity and achieving very little.

“We shall speak to your uncle,” he said at last.

“Yes,” Elizabeth agreed, her voice trembling. “After we manage to stop laughing.”

Chapter Text

Rosings Park, April 12, 1817

Lady Catherine stood before her mirror, examining her image with the intensity of a military commander inspecting her battalion.

Her maid adjusted a lace collar, and Lady Catherine watched the delicate fingers with a slight frown.

"Make sure the ribbons are properly arranged," she instructed. "We must make sure to maintain proper decorum.”

Her mind, however, was far from decorous matters. She brushed an invisible wrinkle from her gown, her thoughts in a swirling disarray.

"Will they have turned Pemberley into some frivolous salon? A nursery of impertinent joy, with no thought for the noble preservation of bloodlines?" Lady Catherine muttered under her breath, straightening up with a snap of her bodice.

She thought of William George Darcy, and the wild energy in his eyes when she’d last seen him. The way his babyish voice had called her 'Ladii Cathin!' still clung to her mind, uncomfortably sweet, as though it belonged to another creature altogether.

'Had the child grown grotesquely wild?' She wondered, imagining the little brute bouncing off the walls, all wild curls and unchecked manners. She shuddered, her fingers tightened around the handkerchief in her lap.

'It’s an obligation', she assured herself, 'to preserve the noble lines of the house'. Although - in truth - there was no small part of her that also longed to see if the boy had indeed matured in the wrong direction. Perhaps now, with more of a voice, he would acknowledge  again his superior relations.

She studied the grounds, mentally arranging their accommodations with the precision of an architect.

“Elizabeth shall be placed in the east wing,” she murmured to herself. “It’s far enough from me to avoid the disarray she will bring. It’s practical, she'll be near to the nursery, and the view of the garden will be a small comfort for her, I am sure.”

As for Fitzwilliam - his room would be at the farthest end of the west wing, one of the grandests.

The finest china had been prepared with most accuracy. She had instructed the staff to ensure every chair was positioned to her exacting standards, every linen impeccably pressed. No detail would be overlooked.

Despite her best intentions to appear entirely impassible to the charms of the Darcys’ domestic happiness, something stirred beneath her calculated reserve.

'It is all for the good of the line', she reminded herself. But there was something far more human underneath it all. Perhaps, just perhaps, the child had softened her a little. Just a little. Only a little.

But she would never admit it.

Chapter Text

April 14, 1817

The carriage jostled gently along the spring-softened roads, its wheels crackling against gravel, while outside the countryside opened into greening fields and primrose-dotted hedgerows. Within, a more contained wilderness unfolded.

“Mama, Sir Lionel is guarding us,” William George Darcy informed her gravely, his curls bouncing with the sway of the journey. “From bandits. And... frogs.”

“Frogs, indeed?” Elizabeth raised an eyebrow. “The very worst sort of villain.”

Will nodded solemnly. “They sit very still but watch everything. Like what Papa had said to me about Lady Cath'rin.”

Elizabeth stifled a laugh.

Across from them, little Frederick Edward slumbered sweetly in the arms of his nurse, a sweet-faced lady of around thirty years, Mrs. Barlow. His little cheeks were flushed from the warm lap blanket, his tiny hand curled around one of her fingers like an anchor. His brother’s antics did not trouble him in the least.

Elizabeth tucked a stray ebony curl behind Will’s ear, her gaze lingering a moment on both boys. Little Will had his father's strong features softened by boyhood, his mother's dark eyes bright with thought and brows a little too expressive for his age, full of life. Fred was quieter, calmer, watchful as a cat in the shadows.

She leaned back against the carriage cushions, savoring this rare moment of peace. Outside, the rhythmic beat of hooves marked Darcy’s presence just ahead. He had preferred to ride - for the horse’s exercise, he said, though she suspected it was for his own nerves.

A long journey to the south awaited them, after all, they were to be received by Lady Catherine and Mr. Collins. The very pillars of ease and amiability.

Elizabeth grinned and lifted the small window flap. The sun caught her hair and Darcy’s outline as he rode beside them for a stretch, one hand loosely holding the reins.

“I hope you’re preparing your spirits, sir,” she called. “A dining table graced by Mr. Collins may offer more scripture than nourishment.”

Darcy turned his head slightly, his mouth quirking. “My greatest trial will be not disputing his theory that piety is increased by the manner of holding a soup spoon.”

Elizabeth laughed, pressing a hand to her mouth. “You are terrible.”

“You married me,” he said, glancing over at her with an expression that made her heart skip.

“My greatest miscalculation,” she teased, her smile wide and warm.

“Your greatest victory,” he replied, affectionately.

She laughed again, louder this time, and the sound startled Fred into a tiny snuffle before he settled again. Will, meanwhile, whispered something to Sir Lionel that seemed to involve secret assignments.

Elizabeth lowered the flap and leaned back, her smile slowly softening as the road slipped beneath them. She was glad Fitzwilliam was himself again. He had been anxious these past days, hesitant even, and she could not blame him. This journey was her request, after all. For peace. For family.

She glanced at Will, who now had Sir Lionel standing guard over Frederick’s knees. Her heart tightened.

Oh, and Charlotte - of course! - dear, gentle Charlotte. She had written last that spring had brought new parishioners, crop-eating bunnies, and a husband no less enthusiastic than ever. It had been too long since Elizabeth had seen her. She wondered what they would talk about.

Their lives had diverged in ways neither could have predicted, and yet Elizabeth felt the same sense of warm kinship each time she thought of her friend. She hoped Charlotte still smiled the same way she once knew.

“Mama,” Will whispered, climbing into her lap with careful dignity, “if the frogs attack, I’ll put Sir Lionel in your pocket. So he can protect you, too.”

“I am very grateful,” she whispered back, kissing his brow.

Will suddenly grinned mischievously. “Oh, and Aunt Georgie has Sir Evander watching over her, too. He’s a very brave knight, not as Lionel, but he'll be alright. He’s guarding her against all the terrible things in Bath, Mama.”

Elizabeth chuckled softly. “I’m sure Aunt Georgie is safe, my love. But I do appreciate Sir Evander’s vigilance.”

Chapter Text

Rosings, April 16, 1817

They arrived as announced, a little past two o’clock: one grand carriage and a horseman just behind, slowing slightly upon the gravel. Charlotte stood at the window, her hands neatly folded before her apron, her smile set.

Lady Catherine had stationed herself by the hearth of the formal drawing room, resplendent in violet silk and a turban adorned with ostrich plumes. Mr. Collins had been rehearsing his welcome speech all morning. Charlotte prayed he would forget half of it.

The arrival was executed with grace. Elizabeth Darcy stepped from the carriage, slim and sure in her cerulean travelling attire, lifting their youngest child into the nurse’s arms before taking the hand of the elder, a dark haired boy with determined little steps and a green coat two shades too fine for Rosings’ tastes.

Fitzwilliam Darcy, on horseback, dismounted with practiced ease and passed the reins to a waiting groom. His deep blue eyes bore the faintest edge of dread - somehow tempered by amusement.

The Darcys entered to the sound of Mr. Collins' florid monologue, which he had - despite every instruction - begun before they had fully crossed the threshold.

"My most esteemed guest, and your most accomplished wife! Your children, an ornament to your union! Rosings is ennobled by your presence - nay, I daresay it is elevated-"

"Mr. Collins," said Lady Catherine, in a voice that quivered just slightly under the strain of expectation, "allow the Darcys to be seated."

Young William executed a series far too low bows, one for each of those present, with admirable seriousness, then turned to Lady Catherine with the wide-eyed frankness only toddlers can summon.

"Lady Aunt Cath'rin! I am very much honoured to see you. I like your feathers, very much!" he declared, beaming. “You look like a very important bird. A noble bird! And... and your nose is like the mountain from the painting in Papa's study! I could see the whole world from up there.”

Lady Chaterine blanched, eyes widening. A most rare expression from Her Ladyship, noted Charlotte, who was nervously gripping her own hands in her lap, with a smile frozen on her lips. The child, unfortunately, hadn't finished. 

“I like your shiny necklace too. It’s like a little chandelier, and your dress is like a giant plum. And I like plums!” he proclaimed with wide eyes.

Elizabeth pursed her lips to keep from laughing.

"Do you live in this house all the time?" Will continued. "It’s very shiny. Does someone clean everything?"

Lady Catherine blinked, stunned by the speech. For one instant more, her expression wavered; then settled firmly back into proper hauteur.

"Indeed, young sir," Lady Catherine replied, recovering her poise with regal offense. "Rosings is maintained in a condition befitting its history."

Will nodded solemnly. "Yes, Papa said everything was very... old."

Mr Darcy coughed into his glove.

"Will," murmured Elizabeth, gently, tugging him close.

Charlotte - who knew very well the difference between a cough and a concealed chuckle - noted the twitch in Fitzwilliam Darcy’s cheek and the way his wife refused to meet his eye. They were both clearly fighting back laughter. She quite felt for them; the boy, with his innocent candor, was charming, too much so for such a room.

When Mr. Collins , mercifully, ceased his own welcoming speech, he bent now to shake the little boy’s hand, causing Will to whisper loudly to his mother, "So many words!"

Elizabeth made a strangled sound.

"I-" Mr. Collins looked genuinely confused.

Lady Catherine’s expression was torn between scandal and bewildered amusement. She turned, at last, to Charlotte.

“Mrs. Collins, I believe it is time for tea, if you please.”

“Yes, Your Ladyship.” Charlotte dipped a respectful curtsy and moved toward the bell.

Meanwhile, the youngest Darcy, Frederick, had remained mostly quiet in the nurse's arms, observing the entire display with wide eyes. Darcy, catching sight of him, crossed the room, extending his arms affectionately. Fred reached for him without hesitation.

"I’ll take him. Let Mrs. Barlow see to the nursery’s readiness," he said, not without a soft glance toward Elizabeth. She nodded, grateful.

Charlotte, returning with the tea tray, noted the gentleness with which a man like the tall, proud Mr. Darcy could cradle an infant.

Will was now beginning to climb into his mother’s lap, tired from the excitement. Elizabeth whispered something to him; he looked up at her with grave intensity, then turned again to Lady Catherine.

"Are you a queen? Your dress... you seem like one!"

This time, even Charlotte couldn’t stop a chuckle. She covered it neatly with the click of china.

Lady Catherine drew herself to full height. "I am the daughter of an Earl," she pronounced.

Will considered. "That’s like a king, but smaller?"

Mr. Collins, once again inspired, began, "Indeed, young Master Darcy, Lady Catherine’s noble lineage-"

"Thank you, Mr. Collins, that is quite enough," said Lady Catherine, quite loudly.

Charlotte watched Fitzwilliam Darcy, his mouth twitching at the corners, lean slightly toward his wife.

“Are we to survive this unscathed, my dear?” he murmured.

“Indeed, I quite begin to fear for our lives,” Elizabeth whispered back.

Charlotte smiled behind her teacup. Whatever the decorum demanded, the arrival of the Darcys - and particularly their children - had breathed fresh life into Rosings. It might scandalize the embroidered cushions, but Charlotte could not help but find it delightful. May heaven help them all.

Chapter Text

Rosings, April 17 1817

The first formal dinner at Rosings unfolded with the solemnity of a minor coronation. The table gleamed with endless forks, stiff napkins and fancy porcelain. Darcy took his place at Lady Catherine’s right, across from Elizabeth, who had already caught his eye with that faint flicker of mischief.

The Game had begun.

The idea had developed in his mind, innocently enough, the evening before when Mr. Collins, over tea, had launched into an enthusiastic treatise on the moral superiority of boiled vegetables over roasted, and Elizabeth, with an almost imperceptible tremble, had lowered her cup and whispered: “I feel my virtue improving already.”

He had laughed. Audibly.

Later, alone in the corridor between the east and west wings - after ensuring no footman lurked nearby - he had caught her hand and proposed terms: one point would be awarded each time the other stifled - or failed to stifle - laughter after a properly absurd remark from Collins or Lady Catherine. 

Also, of course, losing composure after William's eager remarks or unusual compliments counted too.

“Mr. Darcy,” Lady Catherine was saying now, as soup was served, “I do hope your sons are not being indulged with the modern nonsense of free affection. A boy too fondly kissed will surely grow soft in the bone.”

Across the table, Elizabeth’s lips quivered. She adjusted her napkin and, quite deliberately, did not look at him.

Plus one. He marked it in his mind.

“Indeed, ma’am,” he said, “we ration kisses as one would sugar during war.”

Elizabeth’s hand jerked to her mouth.

Two to nil, he tallied, mercilessly.

“Lady Catherine,” said Mr. Collins then, “has often reminded us of the superior temperaments formed by restrained parental fondness. Our own dear Samuel, only months old, was presented to her Ladyship for blessing, and already displays signs of ecclesiastical solemnity.”

“Quite,” said Lady Catherine, who had not held the infant at all.

Dessert arrived. With it, Will was brought in from the nursery.

He came into the room with the great enthusiasm the idea of dessert could bring to a child, eyes wide, curls fluffed from a pre-dinner tussle with gravity. He was directed to the seat next to Charlotte, who smiled as he climbed into his chair ceremoniously, like a knight mounting a steed.

Will sniffed the air, then leaned toward Charlotte with grave decorum.

“Your boy,” he whispered, “smells like soft bread. That’s nice. I like bread.”

Charlotte blinked, then beamed. “That’s very kind of you.”

“Also,” Will said, examining the gilded porcelain before him, “are these plates for eating, or for looking at? They’re so pretty. I think this one is for a fairy... Or for a unicorn. It’s too nice for people.”

Lady Catherine coughed.

Elizabeth was trembling. Fitzwilliam watched, intent.

“Mama,” Will added, “I don’t think I can eat off a fairy plate. I might break it.”

A tremor rippled down Elizabeth’s arm.

Three to nil, for him. It seemed like William's own game was at its very peak.

Then Will turned to Mr. Collins, who had just begun a long sentence about providence and orchard maintenance.

“Mr. Collins,” Will said, clearly puzzled, “you talk like the sky when it’s about to rain. But then it doesn’t rain at all, and we just wait a lot.”

Fitzwilliam nearly choked on a candied walnut. Blast it. 

Elizabeth was lost - face turned entirely toward her lap, shoulders shaking.

Four to one. 

Lady Catherine was speaking again, something about wallpaper and continental influences. Fitzwilliam did not hear her. His eyes were on Elizabeth.

When she finally looked up, flushed and biting her cheek, he gave her the smallest, wickedest nod. She narrowed her dark eyes in challenge.

The Score, as of April 17

- Fitzwilliam: 4

- Elizabeth: 1

Chapter Text

Rosings Garden, April 19, 1817

Spring in Rosings Park brought lush green landscapes dotted with small islands of violets, the scent of roses eager to bloom and the buzz of bees in full activity. The scenery offered much tranquility, nearly enough to counterbalance the weight of formal dinners and polite yet strained conversations

Elizabeth, with her dark curls now slightly loosened from their usual restraint, wandered among the blossoming shrubs, her skirts trailing lightly over the dew-dappled grass. She glanced at the path ahead of her, where Charlotte was waiting with a basket in hand, the same serene expression as always, though now marked by a quiet exhaustion that Elizabeth could sense even from a distance.

“Charlotte,” Elizabeth called, approaching her, “I must say, you have chosen the perfect refuge from the madness indoors.”

Charlotte smiled softly, her eyes flicking briefly toward the windows of Rosings, behind which the sounds of an overenthusiastic Mr. Collins could be heard,  no doubt expounding on the merits of the latest theological text.

“One must take what moments one can,” Charlotte said, with a glance at her daughter, Agnes Catherine, playing with William in the shade nearby; young Frederick, being summoned by his brother, was slowly trailing behind, hand in hand with the nursemaid.

“If it is a quiet spot we must seek, I find this garden to be the most comforting.”

Elizabeth stood beside her, the familiar warmth of their friendship drawing them together in silent understanding. She did not rush, but stood beside her friend, taking in the scent of roses and grass.

“Do you ever feel,” Charlotte began, her voice soft but carrying an edge of something unreadable, “that perhaps we become entirely different women once we are mothers?”

Elizabeth’s heart softened at the question. She glanced toward her friend, then at her children. William was gently offering a smooth rock to his brother, who accepted the gift quietly.

“I think it is an inevitability, don’t you?” Elizabeth answered, her gaze meeting Charlotte’s. “We are so altered, in ways we cannot predict... I know I was when William was born.” She smiled faintly. “And Frederick, too. In a different way.”

Charlotte nodded in agreement, but the words that followed were thoughtful, careful. “The change is... profound.” She hesitated, her lips pressing together for a moment before continuing. “I suppose that is why Samuel means so much to Mr. Collins. You would understand... An heir, an assurance. It’s something I could never give him quickly enough.”

Elizabeth felt the gentle weight of Charlotte’s confession settle between them, the honesty of it. Charlotte had borne two children for Mr. Collins, one of them a boy. But the price for that had been her own quiet struggle, a sacrifice hidden beneath layers of soft smiles and polite exchanges.

“I cannot help but feel some satisfaction,” Charlotte continued, her tone low, “that I gave him what he wanted so much. And I know that Samuel will never want for anything, he is his father's pride.” Charlotte’s eyes softened, though there was a glimmer of something distant, even wistful. “But Agnes... she is a blessing in her own way. She will not be valued as much by him, but she has my heart.”

Elizabeth’s heart gave a subtle lurch at the mention of Agnes, who had been born three years before her brother.

“She is lucky to have you, Charlotte,” Elizabeth said softly. “I think she will be a strong companion for you. After all, is not love itself what makes us whole, more than entitlement?”

Charlotte smiled warmly at this, but it was tinged with something unspoken, a private relief of a woman who understood the quiet burdens of marriage in a way that few others could.

Elizabeth paused, turning her gaze back toward the house. She felt an unusual heaviness then, one that had never been part of her own experience of motherhood. She had never known the kind of pressure Charlotte faced: the expectation to produce a son, to fulfill the duty that was expected of a woman in her position.

How different their marriages were... In hers, she had found a partner in every sense of the word, one who adored their children and had never once made her feel that her worth depended on their gender. Fitzwilliam had been thrilled when she’d first shared the news of William's coming, and then again, all the same with Frederick. There had been no disappointment, no hint of judgment. Only happiness. Only love.

She smiled faintly, her thoughts drifting briefly to a soft, golden late autumn evening long past, when he had first learned he was to become a father. Fitzwilliam had twirled her in the garden at Pemberley, laughter in his eyes and such joy in his heart. That had been a moment she would never forget. The warmth of it remained with her even now.

Charlotte caught her gaze and smiled knowingly, her eyes sparkling in a way that suggested she had seen more than Elizabeth had meant to reveal.

“You know, Lizzy,” Charlotte said softly, “I can tell that you are thinking about it. But I do not want for your pity. I am content with my lot. Samuel, Agnes... they are my treasures. And I have found peace in this life.”

Elizabeth hesitated for only a moment before replying, her voice full of quiet respect. “You are a remarkable woman, Charlotte.”

A brief silence passed between them before Charlotte gave her a quiet, understanding smile. “And you, Elizabeth,” she said with a hint of teasing, “are far too easy to read.”

They both laughed softly, quietly, as though they were sharing some small, private joke that only they could understand.

As the sound of Lady Catherine’s disapproving voice drifted faintly from the windows of Rosings, Elizabeth couldn’t help but feel a sense of comfort in the quiet, private connection they shared. It was a gentle reminder that there were still moments of peace to be found in a world so often filled with decorum and expectation.

Chapter Text

Rosings, April 20 1817

Lady Catherine stood tall and unyielding in the drawing room, framed like an ancient statue against pale silk drapery. William Darcy approached her, clearly proud of what he believed to be the perfect bow.

“Good afternoon!” he chirped, his voice clear and bright, every syllable rounded with confidence.

Her lips thinned. “William,” she began, sternly, “you must learn the proper form when addressing a lady of rank. It is not simply ‘Good afternoon.’ You will say, ‘Good afternoon, Lady Catherine.’”

The boy blinked, unmoved. Behind him, his younger brother, Fred, stood braced against a low ottoman, balancing on one hand.

William’s gaze returned to Lady Catherine. No defiance, no rebellion - just an unsettling composure that seemed far too impressive for a child of his age.

“Yes, Lady Cath'rine. I apologize,” he said, his tone formal. Then, with an almost radiant cheer, he added, “Good afternoon, Lady Cath'rine. I really hope you're enjoying the fine weather!”

Lady Catherine faltered for a moment.

There was something disarming about it - the sincerity behind his words. As though he had not simply memorized a phrase, but understood the delicate art of social pleasantries.

Behind her, Mr. Collins, seated and fidgeting with a cuff, murmured aloud, “Yes… yes, there is something to be said for this. ‘The Lord Made Children to Reflect Their Parents’ Demeanor’… a fitting sermon title, indeed… yes, a most instructive example…”

Fitzwilliam Darcy leaned against the frame of the doorway, with his arms crossed and his expression unreadable. Watching.

Will turned with gravity toward his brother. “You say ‘afternoon,’ too, Freddie,” he encouraged, gently patting Fred’s arm.

Fred blinked, his dark eyes round and serious. He looked from William to Lady Catherine, then raised a finger - wobbling slightly - and pointed to the shelf behind her.

“Shak’speer,” he declared.

A pregnant silence filled the room.

Lady Catherine turned slowly, her gaze settling on the toddler, who beamed up at her with immense satisfaction.

“Shakespeare?” Mr. Collins croaked, clutching his knees. “Did- he did! Remarkable! A divine spark indeed!”

Fred giggled, dropping onto his bottom in delight. William knelt beside him, clearly proud.

Lady Catherine remained still, her gaze fixed on Fred. The cool, imperious air that usually defined her demeanor faltered, a crack appearing in her composure.

“I must attend to something,” she said abruptly, her voice strained. “Excuse me.”

She swept from the room in a flurry.

Mr. Collins, after a reverent pause, turned to Fitzwilliam, still observing the scene with quiet amusement.

“I believe the child is… gifted,” Collins breathed. “Glory to God, of course… but such clarity of diction at this age! Such providential memory! He must have remembered our conversation from yesterday… no doubt.”

Fitzwilliam raised a single brow, his lips curving into a small smile.

William reached for Fred’s hand and gave it a warm squeeze. Fred squealed and threw himself into his brother’s arms with a delighted thud.

They sat there, tangled on the floor, giggling as Collins continued his muttering.

Fitzwilliam, still leaning against the doorframe, thought about the look on Lady Catherine’s face before.

And smiled.

Chapter Text

Rosings, April 21 1817

The fire had dwindled to a soft flicker, casting shadows along the eastern wall. Elizabeth sat at her dressing table, brushing out her hair in slow, indulgent strokes. The house was hushed, steeped in the quiet of the late hour.

A faint creak.

Then the hush of motion. The panel in the servants’ corridor clicked shut.

“You’re late,” she said, not turning. The corner of her mouth already quirked upward.

“I had to evade a couple of servants,” Fitzwilliam’s voice answered, low and dry. “They patrol the halls like sentries for marital propriety.”

Elizabeth smirked at her reflection. “And yet, here you are. My hero.”

He came up behind her, already shedding his coat. His hands found her shoulders - warm, familiar - and he bent to whisper in her ear.

“What is a sentry to a General?”

She groaned. “You’re going to call me that again, aren’t you?”

“Indeed. General of the Opposition,” he murmured, kissing her temple. “Commander of my better judgment. Occupier of the East Wing.”

She squeezed his hands where they rested on her shoulders. He kissed her neck as she tilted her head, laughing low in her throat.

They moved to the bed in a practiced rhythm, unhurried, familiar. This was not - after all - the first time he had crept into her room under cover of darkness. And it would not be the last.

They whispered, legs tangled, sharing warmth.

“The sermon title,” she murmured, nose tucked into his collarbone. “‘The Lord Made Children to Reflect Their Parents’ Demeanor.’ He said it aloud three times.”

“Four,” Fitzwilliam corrected. “If you count the muttering behind the potted fern, this afternoon.”

“And Fred. I still can’t believe it.”

“‘Shakespeare,’” he intoned, mock solemn. “Though last week it was ‘Byron.’ Once he said ‘vindication,’ but I think he meant ‘blanket.’”

Elizabeth laughed into his shoulder. “Will is training him.”

Fitzwilliam pulled back, just enough to see her face. “Will’s watching everything. I think he’ll rule us all before he’s ten.”

She chuckled softly. “With Fred as his second-in-command.”

He grinned, kissing her long and slow. “We’ll need to form an alliance by then. You and I. Against a pair of tiny revolutionaries.”

“Do you think she’s softening?”

He scoffed, and then paused.

“A little,” he allowed. “Or at least, she’s cracking her composure.”

“Ah. A sure sign of affection.”

“You jest, but I saw her hold Fred today. For longer than three seconds.”

“Did she drop him?”

“No. She blinked. Twice. Then handed him back.”

Elizabeth dissolved into laughter. Fitzwilliam pulled her closer, sheets rustling.

When his hand slipped beneath the linens with intent, she caught it and raised a brow.

“You know the house has ears.”

He sighed, long-suffering. “Yes. And they all lead to my aunt.”

She smiled sweetly. “Exactly. Kisses only.”

“Kisses only,” he echoed. Then, after a pause: “Though... some of your kisses are suspiciously strategic, madam.”

She silenced him.

Later, when the fire had died to embers and only moonlight lit the room, Fitzwilliam dressed with slow, quiet care.

Elizabeth stirred as he fastened his coat. “You’ll take the servants’ passage again?”

“I’m tempted to parade down the main staircase,” he murmured, smirking. “But I suppose I’ll be discreet. For your sake.”

At the threshold, he turned once more, smiling back at her in the dark.

“We’re almost halfway there.”

He vanished into the wall without a sound.

The Score, as of April 21:

- Fitzwilliam: 12

- Elizabeth: 9, still bringing up the rear but plotting her counteroffensive

Chapter Text

Rosings, April 23 1817

The morning was dim and windless, the kind of grey that did not threaten rain, but promised nothing better. Fitzwilliam Darcy walked beside Mr. Collins in what had begun as a mercifully silent circuit around the rose garden.

Alas, it did not remain so.

“I have often considered,” Collins began, solemnly, hands clasped behind his back, “that the true measure of fatherhood lies in one’s ability to instill godly order. Particularly in sons. Young boys must learn to bend to rightful authority, or they will never grow properly.”

Darcy made no reply.

Collins took this as encouragement.

“As I mentioned to Lady Catherine just this morning, the rod and the staff must comfort and direct. I myself was not permitted to speak at table until I turned seven. A discipline that fosters humility.”

“Mm,” said Darcy, noncommittal.

Undeterred, Collins pressed on. “One must not permit undue affection. Boys are impressionable. If allowed too much liberty, they begin to think themselves equals. Or worse... friends.”

“I shall take care not to befriend my son,” Darcy said gravely.

Collins blinked. “Yes. Well. Quite. And firmness at mealtimes is essential. I recall a particularly instructive verse from Ecclesiastes which I quoted to young William when I learned he refused his carrots yesterday.”

“Indeed,” said Darcy mildly. “I’m sure it seasoned the carrots delightfully.”

Collins hesitated. “I- well, yes. One hopes the soul digested the lesson, if not the vegetable.”

They walked on in brittle silence.

“I do find,” Collins tried again, “that many modern fathers err on the side of indulgence. Children ought to feel the full weight of righteousness. Not humour, certainly not camaraderie.”

Darcy looked skyward, expression solemn. “I believe it may rain.”

Collins squinted upward. “Rain? But-”

“Best not risk it,” Darcy said, already turning.

Collins trotted after him. “Oh, of course, of course! One mustn’t expose oneself unnecessarily to damp. Especially when setting an example of prudence.”

Darcy did not answer. But he walked rather faster than necessary.

Later, Elizabeth found him in the library, seated before the fire with one boot propped on the grate and the faintest glimmer of wicked satisfaction tugging at his mouth.

She leaned against the doorframe. “You’re smiling.”

He didn’t look up. “I took a walk.”

“With Mr. Collins?”

“Mmm.”

She padded closer, slipping behind his chair to run her fingers through his hair. “And how did the godly patrol go?”

He tilted his head back to look up at her. “He quoted Ecclesiastes.”

Her fingers paused. “Oh no.”

“In regard,” he said slowly, “to a child refusing boiled carrots.”

Elizabeth gasped in mock horror, then leaned down to kiss his forehead.

“Did you smite him?”

“Only with mercy.”

She laughed, and he reached up to catch her hand where it rested on his shoulder, drawing it to his lips.

Chapter Text

Rosings Grounds, April 24 1817 

The early afternoon sun was low and golden, bathing the gardens in light. Elizabeth walked slowly along the gravel path, Fred cradled against her hip, his head warm against her shoulder. One of his hands was curled into the edge of her shawl, the other held fast to a sprig of crushed mint he’d insisted on carrying.

Ahead of them, Will marched with purpose. “I discovered a slug near the tulip beds this morning,” he announced, not turning around. “He was attempting an invasion, so I relocated him to a safer region near the cypresses”

Elizabeth bit back a smile. “Very tactful of you.”

Will nodded, satisfied. “He resisted at first. But I reasoned with him.”

Fred stirred in her arms. “Sluggard,” he declared, unprompted.

Elizabeth blinked. “Where did you-?”

“Pro'verbs,” Fred said, then yawned. “He was lazy.”

“Of course,” she murmured, adjusting his bonnet with reverence. “Naturally.”

Their wandering brought them to the edge of the rose garden, where Lady Catherine stood attentively inspecting the buds in bloom. She did not move as they approached, nor greet them; she merely observed, her hands folded at her waist, eyes narrowing. 

A moment of truce floated between them: neither confrontation nor welcome.

Will hesitated only briefly before stepping off the path toward a patch of violets. He knelt carefully, and chose the smallest one with solemn precision. 

Then he turned and approached Lady Catherine, the flower pinched between his fingers.

Elizabeth watched in silence.

Will offered the bloom up, his voice bright but measured. “For you, Lady Cath'rine. Because you like order, and this one was standing up straight.”

Her Ladyship's gaze lowered, first to the child, then to the trembling violet. Her expression remained unreadable. Slowly, she reached out and took the flower with two fingers, her back no less straight, her tone no less cold.

“It is improper,” she said, her voice dry as chalk, “to carry one child and shepherd the other as though you were a governess.”

Elizabeth met her gaze evenly, Fred shifting against her chest.

“I suppose improper suits us, Lady Catherine,” she said quietly. “It suits them, too.”

Fred hiccupped once, then rested his cheek against her collarbone. Will moved closer to his mother, watching the exchange with interest.

Lady Catherine looked again at the flower in her hand, as if trying to remember why it was there. Her mouth tightened, then - just faintly - relaxed.

Without further word, she turned and began adjusting a rosebush, her movements exact, her posture unchanged. The moment, it seemed, had never existed at all.

Elizabeth didn’t move. Will glanced up at her, hopeful, and she let a hand rest gently on his head.

“Well done, Captain,” she whispered.

He grinned.

And though nothing more was said, Elizabeth smiled, a quiet, inward thing. A single violet had been accepted. 

It was a beginning.

Chapter Text

Rosings, April 25 1817 

The drawing room gleamed under the weight of formality. Dessert had just been served - small custards, sugared fruits, and a grand almond cake - and the company sat in stiff, strained posture.

Lady Catherine presided with martial elegance. Charlotte sat composed across from her husband, who had begun a fresh monologue on the spiritual symbolism of parsnips.

And then William arrived.

He trotted in, guided by the nursemaid, solemn as a visiting ambassador, curls slightly askew, cheeks flushed with the importance of staying up for dessert. At his entrance, Lady Catherine’s hand visibly twitched on her spoon.

“Come here, William,” she said, in a tone that was a smidge short of commanding.

He obeyed with gravity, offering a bow. She regarded him. He regarded her right back.

“Has he begun Latin yet?” she asked abruptly, turning to Fitzwilliam and Elizabeth.

“He’s begun... knighthood,” Elizabeth said cheerfully. “Just yesterday, he named the old Elm tree ‘Sir Rowan Tallbranch.’”

Fitzwilliam, across from her, coughed into his fist. Elizabeth directed an innocent smile at him.

Lady Catherine sniffed. “That hardly fosters intellect. What plans have you made for his proper education? A tutor should be secured before he forms ungovernable habits.”

Collins decided to seize the moment.

“If I may be of assistance, I should be most happy to correspond with several worthy gentlemen of the cloth. I daresay the child could benefit from the rigour of Dr. Bowlby’s Seminary in Bath... no-nonsense fellows, excellent at moral scourging and proverbs-citing. Or perhaps young William might find his place at the Milton Academy for the Instruction of Virtuous Sons. Their infants kneel for an hour daily. It is most edifying.”

Will, now seated next to his father, leaned toward him and whispered something.

Fitzwilliam choked on his wine.

Elizabeth arched a brow. “What was that...?” She whispered 

“Later,” he murmured hoarsely, dabbing at his mouth.

She narrowed her eyes. “Point for me.” 

Elizabeth then turned to Collins with the serenity of a woman preparing to light a fuse.

“That sounds charming, Mr. Collins,” she said sweetly, her eyes twinkling. “Though I wonder whether William might be dismissed for failing to demonstrate sufficient penitent writhing.”

“Madam!” Collins flushed crimson. “Surely you do not jest about the sacred posture of penitence.”

“Never,” she said gravely. “Only its application to toddlers.”

Fitzwilliam’s mouth twitched. One point more.

“I recall,” Elizabeth continued, with a thoughtful finger to her chin, “a cousin of mine who was removed from a school for refusing to recite Leviticus backwards. It caused a small scandal in Meryton.”

Fitzwilliam coughed into his napkin. Another point.

“I would not think Leviticus suitable for a three-year-old,” Lady Catherine remarked sternly, though with a rare flicker of interest.

Collins puffed up. “Ah! But the discipline of the Word—”

Elizabeth cut in. “Quite right. Will, darling, perhaps you can recite your own verse?”

Will looked down, contemplating, then beamed at her. “‘By branch and limb, we ride at dawn! To the worm hordes, we shall yield not!’”

Elizabeth inclined her head, satisfied. “A most efficient example of moral order.”

Fitzwilliam surrendered in a restrained laugh. “Stop,” he muttered faintly.

Lady Catherine’s eyes narrowed. “I fail to understand how this table has descended into... proclamations to arboreal knights.”

Elizabeth smiled, a queen in checkmate.

At the close of the evening, Lady Catherine stood a little stiffer than usual, having not once steered the conversation to her satisfaction. Collins was still mumbling about penitence postures. Charlotte, to her credit, looked mildly entertained behind her teacup.

And as the Darcys prepared to rise, Elizabeth brushed past her husband with a conspiratorial glance.

“Your son said,” he murmured with a grin, “that if he must go to Dr. Bowlby’s, he’d rather be a snail.”

Elizabeth grinned. “I knew I liked that boy.”

The Score, as of April 25:

- Fitzwilliam: 15

- Elizabeth: 19, and a kiss was awarded to Will for the strategic assist

Chapter Text

Rosings, April 27 1817 

The east wing servant corridor was quiet, lit only by the moonlight on polished floorboards and the occasional creak of settling wood. Fitzwilliam moved with silent precision, with the confidence of someone who had made this passage many times before. The handle of the far guest chamber turned soundlessly beneath his hand. The door gave a soft sigh as he slipped inside.

Elizabeth was already waiting, barefoot on the rug, her dark curls unbound and spilling over her shoulders, her night-robe cinched carelessly at the waist. She turned at once, her expression softening in half amusement and half affection.

“Ah,” she whispered, voice barely louder than breath, “I was just wondering what had become of my favourite night thief. Here he is at last.”

He smiled and shut the door behind him. “I come bearing my surrender.”

She raised a brow, amused. “Oh?”

“To the reigning champion of composure. My pride is in tatters.”

She stepped close, resting a hand lightly on his chest. “Your pride was always too composed. It deserved to unravel a little.”

He caught her hand and kissed it, slow and deliberate, letting his lips linger against her skin. The faint scent of rose from her mingled with warmth and something that always made him think of home.

“I could not bear to lose these hours with you in such company,” he murmured. “Even my pride agrees to that.”

Her smile dimmed into something quieter, more grateful. “Thank you,” she said. “For enduring it. Collins, Catherine... It is no small thing.”

He shrugged, fingers brushing a stray curl from her brow. “They are paper cuts. Mild things. I have endured worse, and gladly, if it means I end the day here.”

She leaned into him, nestling beneath his chin, her fingers absently curling into the lapel of his robe. “I really want peace. Between you and her. Understanding and friendliness are too much to ask, but I’ll be very glad with peace, it still matters to me. I know I’m... the very reason that was lost in the first place.”

He wrapped his arms around her, drawing her close, holding her as though she might vanish if he let go. “And also the reason it could be found again,” he said. “She does not admit it, but you’ve put a crack in her fortress. And William has too, in his own... strategic fashion.”

Elizabeth laughed softly against his chest. “He does have a way of conquering earl’s daughters and dragons alike.”

He tilted her chin up and kissed her - a long, deep kiss that tasted of silk and sleep, a promise conveyed through breath rather than words. She melted into it, her hands sliding to the back of his neck.

“Very well, we shall be very discreet,” she whispered into his mouth.

No more was said for a while. The rustle of fabric, the sigh of linen sheets, the soft knock of knees beneath the covers - these became their only conversations now. Her fingers tangled in his hair. His mouth followed the curve of her neck, her shoulder, each touch anchoring him more deeply in the now.

What followed was not haste, nor novelty, but something far older and deeper - love worn soft by years, yet still fierce in its pull. The kind of passion that knew every inch of the other and craved them still. They laughed softly against each other's mouths, exchanged teasing murmurs - half-sentences, half-memories - until speech gave way to the press of lips, the slow arc of fingertips, the quiet rhythm of knowing. Her hand found his face as though to memorize it again. His voice broke on a whisper of her name, not as question but as answer. And when they reached the quiet edge of everything, it was with foreheads pressed together and eyes wide open, the last sound between them a shared laugh and the soft gasp of joy that followed. Not wild, not desperate - only certain. Only theirs.

Later, wrapped in the hush of afterglow, she curled into his side, one hand over his heart. He traced idle lines along her back beneath the sheet, watching the rise and fall of her breathing, the furrow between her brows now softened, her lips parted faintly in sleep.

They had missed this - this ease, this unspoken joy.

They drifted off together, bound in a familiar tangle of limbs, the warmth between them enough to keep the cold mannerisms of Rosings at bay.

He woke with the first pale grey of dawn, the air cool against his bare shoulders. Careful not to wake her, he dressed by the fading moonlight. Before leaving, he leaned down, brushing his lips across her brow.

She stirred faintly, murmured something in sleep, but did not open her eyes.

“Until later, my love,” he whispered.

And with that, he vanished into the quiet of the house.

The Score, as of April 27

- Fitzwilliam 17

- Elizabeth 25, a most impressive comeback 

Chapter Text

Rosings Gardens, April 28 1817

The garden was warm under a mild April sun, the box hedges clipped just days before, tulips rising in careful rows beneath the yew archways. Lady Catherine stood beneath the portico, her gaze fixed on the Darcys - once again invading her peace, though with less offense now than she might have admitted.

Elizabeth, bonnet in hand, was chasing a laughing William in wide circles across the lawn. Fitzwilliam Darcy, towering and still somehow relaxed, stood nearby with the younger boy in his arms. Frederick watched the game with quiet solemnity, one hand gripping his father's collar, the other gently shaking a small silver rattle. Every so often, Darcy would murmur something to him, and Frederick's dark eyes would lift and blink thoughtfully, as though quietly assessing the world laid out before him.

The laughter rang clear.

Lady Catherine did not step forward. She merely watched. The image had repeated itself over the last few days, but this time there was something more - something harder to turn away from. Perhaps it was the ease between them.

She found herself, for the first time in many years, watching the Darcys with a subtle curiosity - an almost disarming sense of admiration for the way they interacted with their children. She had never seen the like in her own family, where affection had always been governed by obligation rather than joy.

William Darcy, his dark curls bouncing with each step, caught sight of her under the portico. He paused mid-run, turned toward the border of tulips, and with evident deliberation chose a tall yellow narcissus - neatly snapped at the stem, with great care.

He trotted up to her, cheeks pink, boots dusty. “For you, Lady Cath'rine,” he said, smiling up at her as though it had never occurred to him she might decline.

Lady Catherine looked down, her lips parting slightly. She had, two years ago, made the mistake of being charmed by his infant farewell - and it appeared the boy had not forgotten his influence.
She took the flower, not quite awkwardly, but certainly not with ease.

“Thank you,” she said. A pause. Then, as if the word itself startled her, she turned at once and walked back into the house.

Behind her, laughter resumed - the natural music of the Darcys being themselves. She did not quite frown, though her face settled into its usual severity. She held the flower a moment longer than necessary before passing it to a footman without comment.

A faint, fleeting grimace touched her lips - almost a smile, something that maybe could be construed as approval.

Mr. Collins, who had been loitering nearby, stepped beside her as she entered the corridor.

“What extraordinary good fortune the Darcys enjoy, Your Ladyship,” he said, eyes full of misplaced reverence. “Two sons so gifted, and their mutual... ah... devotion. Quite admirable, if occasionally unorthodox.”

Lady Catherine, composing herself, did not respond at once. But there was a pause in her step, and when she spoke, it was quieter than usual.

“Yes,” she said, without looking at him. “They are… fortunate.”

And with that, she ascended the stairs, leaving Mr. Collins blinking in confusion at her retreating back.

Chapter Text

Rosings, April 29 1817

The corridors of Rosings bustled with quiet, orderly activity. Servants moved efficiently through the halls, trunks were drawn from storage, and Mrs. Barlow had already begun the meticulous process of packing in the nursery. The muted rustle of folding garments filled the rooms.

Their departure was set in two days, but the house already felt as though it was beginning to bid them farewell.

In the middle of the drawing room, William was sprawled across the rug, Sir Lionel clutched in one hand, a folded map in the other, once his father’s, now repurposed as “the grand road to Pemberley.”

“Papa,” he announced solemnly, “If we leave after breakfast, Sir Lionel says we can reach the hills before the sun sleeps. But we must avoid the camping trolls.” He peered up with grave authority. “They’re always napping, but we can’t trust that.”

Fitzwilliam knelt beside him, a grin tugging at his mouth. “Sound strategy. And do we have the proper provisions for such a journey?”

William nodded vigorously. “Mama said she will pack biscuits. And Sir Lionel’s sword is sharp.”

From across the room, Elizabeth looked up from the open ledger in her lap and met her husband’s gaze with a smile, a shared glance of indulgence and affection. They had been reviewing final arrangements for the journey home, but Will’s antics, as ever, brought welcome disruption.

Then William, as if struck by an entirely separate thought, set down the knight and stood, brushing crumbs from his trousers.

“Papa,” he said, more softly now, “Lady Feathers smiled again. She thinks no one sees her, but I did. When I said 'thank you' for the jellies, yesterday.”

Fitzwilliam blinked. “Lady... Feathers?”

William nodded with certainty. “Lady Cath'rine. But she has those big feather things in her hat. So, Lady Feathers. I like her better now.”

Fitzwilliam barked a laugh, quick, genuine, startled. Elizabeth covered her mouth to stifle hers, eyes dancing.

“Well,” Fitzwilliam said, pulling his son into his arms, “that’s rather observant of you, little man.”

“She’s not always cross,” Will added matter-of-factly. “Only mostly.”

“Indeed,” Fitzwilliam murmured, kissing the top of the boy’s wild black curls. “You may be the only man in England who’s made her smile more than once.”

Later that afternoon, while the children napped and the sun stretched long shadows across the carpets, Elizabeth joined Fitzwilliam on the settee in the library. The sounds of Rosings quieted behind the walls, only the occasional clink of silver or the steps of distant servants remained.

“It’s strange,” she said softly, tracing the embroidered seam of his sleeve, “how long and short this visit has felt.”

He hummed in agreement, watching her closely. “You were remarkable,” he said. “Grace under siege.”

Her brow arched slightly. “You say that as though we were encamped behind enemy lines.”

He laughed. “In some respects.”

She leaned her head against his shoulder, content, if weary. “I am glad we came. Even with the… trials. It matters, I think. That we did not stay away.”

“You cracked the ice,” he said, resting his chin atop her head. “Lady Feathers may never thank you for it, but I will.”

Elizabeth chuckled quietly. “Don’t let William hear you call her that.”

“It’s too late. The code name has taken root.”

They sat like that in silence, wrapped in quiet affection. The weight of the house around them still pressed heavy, but less than before. There had been tension, yes, but also a softening. A truce. A beginning.

And, soon, they would be home.

Chapter Text

Rosings, May 1 1817

The air at Rosings felt oddly lighter that morning. The breakfast room - usually a chamber of firm silences and firmer opinions - was filled now with the clink of teacups, the rustle of linen, and the delicate chaos of departure.

The Darcys were dressed for travel: Fitzwilliam in his dark navy riding coat, tall boots polished, gloves tucked beneath his arm; Elizabeth in simple, elegant traveling attire, her curls pinned neatly beneath her bonnet. Beside her, William perched on the edge of his chair, legs swinging, cheeks pink with the excitement of movement.

Even Frederick had made an appearance, nestled in his mother's arms, with his cheek resting against her shoulder, big dark eyes surveying the room with quiet curiosity.

Lady Catherine presided at the head of the table, tall and rigid in her carved chair, regarding the Darcys with a cool detachment that could have passed for civility.

Breakfast passed with practiced decorum. William crunched toast and whispered knightly plans to himself. Fitzwilliam sipped tea with steady calm. Elizabeth offered gentle pleasantries to Charlotte, who looked tired but quietly pleased.

At the end, napkins were folded, cups cleared. The family rose.

William took two confident steps forward, paused, and looked up at the imposing figure of his great-aunt.

“Goodbye, Lady Catherine,” he said - for the first time, pronouncing the name correctly -clear, polite, and earnest. There was not a hint of mischief in his tone, only the open warmth and sincerity of a child.

Lady Catherine blinked. The pause was long enough to feel like a decision.

Then, with the gravity of a queen bestowing a rare favor, she inclined her head and said, “Goodbye, child.”

Elizabeth caught Fitzwilliam’s glance across the room, his eyes alight with quiet surprise, though his expression remained schooled.

And then, inevitably—

“My dear Mr. Darcy,” came Collins’s voice, reverent and nasal, “It is my sincerest hope that this brief sojourn has reminded you of the manifold blessings of Providence and familial obligation. I daresay there is much cordiality yet to be shared between Rosings and Pemberley, of course, with both the estates standing as shining examples of propriety and refinement - proceedings which I, of course, shall always endeavor to support in any way I am able - humble as my means are...”

“Big hat,” piped up a tiny voice, clear and cutting, “You ta’k too much.”

The room froze.

Collins halted mid-sentence, blinking in confusion, as his eyes dropped to the small figure of Frederick Darcy, who gazed up at him with an unflinching stare, his tiny mouth set in a serious line.

The silence that followed seemed to stretch forever, until a soft, incredulous snort echoed across the room - Lady Catherine. Her composure, momentarily lost, was quickly masked with a cough.

Then the floodgates opened.

William burst into giggles, his little hands clutching his stomach. Fitzwilliam nearly choked on his breath, laughing so hard he had to steady himself. Elizabeth could barely contain her own chuckles, burying her face in Frederick’s hair to muffle the sound. Even Charlotte’s lips twitched, though she made a brave attempt to suppress it.

Collins, utterly dumbfounded, stood gaping for a moment. His face was an amusing portrait of stunned bafflement as he slowly processed the truth of the situation.

Elizabeth, after a great effort, composed herself just enough to lean toward Fitzwilliam, a barely suppressed smile tugging at her lips. “One year and a half of age, and he's already a greater judge of character than half the men in Parliament.”

Fitzwilliam, still struggling to contain himself, glanced from his son back to Elizabeth, his voice tinged with affection. “Must be your influence, I’m sure,” he said, tousling Fred's hair, while his son looked up at him serenely, satisfied in his success.

The moment lingered for only a beat before Collins, attempting to recover some shred of dignity, stepped back, muttering something incomprehensible under his breath.

Outside, the carriage stood ready at the circular drive. Fitzwilliam’s horse waited with saddle in place; a groom held the reins. Mrs. Barlow was already seated, and took Frederick gently from Elizabeth’s arms. A footman helped William up after a delighted squeal of, “Off to the hills, Mama!”

Fitzwilliam turned to Elizabeth. He reached for her hand, then drew her in, without preamble, for a kiss, brief but whole. His hand lingered at her back.

She touched his lapel lightly. “Try not to race the wind.”

“Only enough to beat you home.”

She laughed softly, and he mounted with practiced grace, his silhouette tall and straight in the morning light.

As the wheels turned and the manor faded behind them, Elizabeth looked once back toward Rosings’ tall windows. A curtain stirred - perhaps a servant, perhaps a watching Lady Aunt.

She then turned forward, toward her boys, toward Pemberley. The road ahead gleamed faintly in the spring sun.

Together, they had weathered it.
Together, they were going home.

Chapter Text

Pemberley, May 7 1817

The carriage rolled slowly along the gravel path that led to Pemberley, the familiar hills and ivory stone walls adorned with climbing ivy growing closer with each passing moment. Fitzwilliam sat tall in the saddle, his dark blue coat catching the light as he rode alongside the horses pulling the carriage. Elizabeth, with Will on her lap, inhaled deeply the cool air of home, fresh, earthy, and welcoming.

The house came fully into view, its stately windows glimmering in the afternoon sun. But it was the warm, familiar feeling of the estate that filled her chest with a quiet, unspoken joy.

As the carriage came to a halt, the door opened with a soft thud. Georgiana was waiting at the steps, her dark brown hair neatly swept back, a soft smile lighting her face, a smile that filled Elizabeth’s heart with affection.

The moment William's feet touched the ground, he was off like a shot.

“Aunt Georgiana!” he cried, throwing himself into her arms before she could take a step forward.

Georgiana laughed, scooping him up and twirling him with joy. She kissed his cheek and laughed again, "Oh, Will! I’ve missed you so!"

Fred, still nestled in Mrs. Barlow’s arms, turned his curious gaze toward his aunt. Georgiana reached out, lifting him tenderly. Fred wrapped his arms around her neck, his quiet voice murmuring, “Aunt Geo’gie,” before resting his cheek against her shoulder.

William, still grinning, tugged at her skirts.

“How did Sir Evander fare against the ogres of Bath? Did he protect you well?”

Georgiana’s eyes softened as she smiled warmly. “Sir Evander performed valiantly, of course! He rescued me from the ogres - and fought off a pair of rude hornets as well. After his brave battles, I let him rest in the nursery, alongside his trusted companion, Sir Merric.”

William’s face lit up. “I’m sure he’ll be well-rested soon! I made sure Lionel was just as brave at Rosings,” he added proudly.

Georgiana chuckled, tousling his curls as she gently set Fred down beside him.

Fitzwilliam and Elizabeth finally stepped forward, smiling. Georgiana’s arms enveloped them both, pulling them into a warm embrace. Elizabeth felt the tension of the past weeks melt away as she returned the hug.

It was quiet now, everything feeling perfectly in place. The house, the family, the affection between them all… It was as if no time had passed since their last moments together.

Elizabeth took a deep breath, savoring the serenity. “It feels good to be home,” she murmured, her eyes following the gentle interaction between Georgiana and the children.

Fitzwilliam, standing beside her, squeezed her hand gently. “It does.” His gaze softened as he watched the children laugh with Georgiana, the weight of the past fortnight fading with the simple joy of their return.

Elizabeth smiled, recalling the comical moments, the ridiculousness of the game, and the unspoken challenge they’d faced during their time away.

“My love, if I think about it, I truly believe that our children are more deserving than either of us to win our little Game of Composure,” she said, her smile sly. “I think we must concede the victory to them both, don’t you agree?”

Fitzwilliam laughed softly, his voice warm with affection. “Fair enough. I’m certain we can live with that. And had they been formal competitors, I believe they would have bested both of us, fair and square.” With a smile, he added, “I daresay we shall need a new wooden knight for Will's growing cavalry forces, and another animal to give Fred's plush fox some company.”

“You spoil them dreadfully,” Elizabeth teased, mock-reproachful. “They’ll become 'ungovernable'… or so someone once warned.”

He pulled her close with a bark of laughter, wrapping his arm around her waist. Leaning down, his lips near her ear, he murmured, “Shall we visit again sometime in the future?” His eyes danced with mischief.

Elizabeth laughed, her heart light and content. “Not for a while, I think,” she replied, her smile playful but sincere.

The Score, as of May 7

Victory was awarded:

- To William Darcy, for his impressive diplomatic progress, knightly excellence, and a successful charm offensive. Not only did he pronounce "Lady Catherine" perfectly, but he presented her flowers and made her smile.

- To Frederick Darcy, for exceptional character discernment and unshakable poise. Declared the truth plainly and without hesitation. He made Lady Catherine laugh.

Chapter Text

By popular request, I'm leaving some (very) roughly drawn sketches here, with summary descriptions of the characters I imagined... I'm already telling you that there will be some new entries! I'm not spoiling you names yet tough... I don't know where this family will take me in the future, I make no promises... but well... I'd wish to introduce you to these new faces little by little and avoid info-dumping for no reason 

Again, thank you all so much for all the support you've shown me. I'm so so grateful for all of your lovely comments and kudos. It has been a delight interacting with you all :')

Here you go!

Some of my mental mess