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found his cousin seated in the library, a glass of amber spirit in hand, and an expression of profound discontent upon his brow.

“Drinking before dinner, Richard?”

he inquired mildly.

Richard did not so much as glance his way.

“Are they gone, then?”

“If they refer to the party from Longbourn,”

said , advancing further into the room.

“then yes—they have departed. Your fortress may lower its drawbridge, I suppose.”

“Excellent,”

Richard said, taking another sip.

“And pray, why are you here?”

“That,”

replied .

“is precisely the question I came to ask. You were neither present to receive our guests, nor gracious enough to see them off. Such conduct is hardly in keeping with your usual manner.”

Richard shrugged, apparently more inclined to seek refuge in his glass than in conversation.

“Richard,”

said, his tone adopting a certain gravity.

“when are you expected to report for duty?”

At this, Richard turned sharply.

“How do you know of it?”

“I did not know for certain—I merely guessed,”

replied, maintaining a studied calm.

“You received a letter this morning, which seemed to disturb you. Since then, you have been shutting yourself away in here. And before you protest, let me reassure you—I have no intention of informing your mother.”

Richard gave a short nod, conceding the point.

“I am to report before the month’s end.”

A silence lingered, too thick with unspoken things to be called companionable. At length, spoke again, more gently.

“Where is the next posting?”

Richard’s jaw tightened.

“Portugal.”

exhaled deeply.

Richard groaned and spun away.

“Do not regard me so, . As though I were some lamb led to slaughter. It is becoming tiresome.”

“Then I shall be obliged to avert my gaze entirely—unless, of course, you decide to sell your commission.”

Richard swung back around, heat in his voice.

“And then what, ? Shall I trot off to Rosemont like a prize bull sent to pasture? Spare me the lecture—I know it well enough.”

“I have no intention of offering you a lecture on Rosemont,”

said , shaking his head wearily.

“That particular subject, I believe, has been thoroughly exhausted by your parents. However, I may be prevailed upon to tell you about Haddonwood.”

Richard turned in surprise.

“Haddonwood? That horse-breeding stud of yours?”

“The very same,”

said .

“You know it was left to me some years ago. It lies conveniently close to both Matlock and Pemberley and is managed ably by Mr. Renshaw—Mrs. Reynolds’s nephew. He would not object to another steady hand, particularly one with sense enough to recognise a decent bloodline. I could make you a partner.”

“A partner,”

Richard repeated flatly.

“More charity, then. I might as well take my father’s purse and his most treasured waistcoat along with it.”

sighed, deeply and with no small degree of resignation.

“It is not charity, Richard. It is an opportunity. Though I can see how, to one so determined to remain miserable, the distinction might be lost.”

Richard gave no reply—his gaze fixed upon his glass, as if the answer to all his troubles might rise to the surface.

“Richard,”

said, settling into the chair opposite.

“this seems an excellent opportunity to remind you of a particular passage from your mother’s last letter to me. I believe her phrasing went something to the effect of—”, here he settled back, adopting a thin, quavering imitation of the Countess’s voice—“You would see no dishonour in marrying a lady with a substantial fortune and living upon her wealth, but to accept an estate from your own father? Oh, no, that is entirely beneath you.”

Richard stared at him, scandalised.

“She wrote that? To you, of all people?”

“Indeed. And I daresay it was near a verbatim recitation,”

replied.

Richard snorted.

“Well, she has always had a flair for the dramatic. One might suppose she was born for the stage.”

“A pity,”

answered dryly.

“With proper lighting, she might quite literally have brought the house down.”

A silence fell between them, that familiar quiet shared by cousins long accustomed to one another’s follies, and needing no words to understand them. After a moment, leaned forward, his tone turning more businesslike.

“Pray, tell me honestly, Richard—how much have you managed to save? Excluding, of course, the sum you entrusted to me for investment.”

Richard hesitated, then made a vague gesture.

“I might have—well—somewhere about __ pounds.”

raised an eyebrow.

“More than I expected—though still modest.”

He continued.

“Now, with the sum I have invested on your behalf—given how it has prospered—it is not inconceivable that, along with the proceeds from the sale of your commission, you might live in modest comfort. That is, of course, provided you do not take a particular fancy to Parisian tailoring or racehorses.”

Richard looked up, plainly surprised.

“I did not realise the investment had fared so well.”

“According to Mr. Gardiner’s last report, it has,”

replied.

“Though I must warn you—he would advise against withdrawing the full sum at present. It is not yet ripe, as he put it, and ought to be left another season or two.”

Richard nodded slowly, though his gaze remained distant. , however, was not finished.

“Richard, if you were to find a lady of sensible mind and frugal disposition, you might even consider marrying—someone practical, intelligent, not given to extravagance. Someone,”

he added casually.

“like Miss Mary, for instance.”

Richard groaned.

“, we have had this conversation before. I have no intention of marrying Miss Mary Bennet. I made that perfectly clear to her.”

“Have you?”

said again, his tone mild but with a hint of something more in his eyes.

“Then I must have quite misread the scene. For I could have sworn Miss Mary appeared most unwilling to leave earlier. Indeed, she lingered near the entrance like a soul in torment, casting anxious glances toward the hall, as if hoping—very much hoping—to find someone still within. Someone who was, perhaps, avoiding her.”

Richard huffed and turned away.

“I believe you have it quite the wrong way around, . If Miss Mary looked anxious, it was likely in the hope she might not encounter me again. That glimmer in her eye was not longing—it was dread.”

“Ah,”

said , with mock gravity.

“So it is that bad between you? What precisely did happen?”

“Nothing,”

Richard replied with a grimace.

“Nothing that ought to be spoken of in polite company. I told her that her beliefs were nonsense, her virtues overrated, and that Fordyce’s sermons ought to be hunted down and set alight in a grand pyre. I made her cry. Twice. I am certain I insulted every moral principle she holds dear. She would be entirely justified in wishing me to perdition.”

straightened at once, his expression one of unfeigned alarm.

“Good God, Richard! Why, in Heaven’s name, would you do such a thing?”

“I was not in the best of spirits,”

Richard muttered.

“I had received that cursed letter not an hour before. I should never have left this room. I was—angry. Not at her. But she was there, and I foolishly allowed my frustration to fall upon her.”

shook his head.

“Hmm. Your mother mentioned something to the effect that you were rather reluctant to join Miss Mary, and that she had to all but drag you from this room.”

“Indeed, it is true,”

Richard admitted.

“Though—if I am to be candid—a part of me, and not a small part, wanted to be with Miss Mary.”

gave a wry smile.

“That, too, was plain enough. Still, it falls to you to amend matters. How do you mean to set it right?”

“Set it right?”

said Richard with a scoff.

“, she would cast her boots at me if I dared appear before her.”

“I had not realised you harboured such a taste for theatrics,”

mused.

“Though I suppose it must be hereditary. After all, I—who once told a lady she was ‘tolerable, but not handsome enough to tempt me’—am now courting her in earnest. If I can recover from such a blunder, surely you, who are said to possess both charm and conversation, might yet stand a chance.”

Richard did not reply. His expression remained troubled.

rose and made for the door, but paused as he reached it. Turning back, he spoke with an unusual softness.

“Richard—remember my offer to help. Whatever you require to make amends with Miss Mary—you have it. You may hold me to it.”

With that, he opened the door and stepped out, leaving Richard alone in the stillness of the library.

Saturday, December 7, 1811

Longbourn

Elizabeth

“Where is Colonel Fitzwilliam today?”

Elizabeth asked as they passed the gardens at Longbourn. Jane and Mr. Bingley followed at a little distance.

“He has gone to call upon Colonel Forster,”

Mr. replied.

“The formalities for the removal of Wickham to Newcastle are now concluded.”

“Indeed?”

said she.

“Then the North is to be graced at last with Mr. Wickham’s charming society.”

“So it appears. As tomorrow is the Sabbath, I believe he is to depart on Monday.”

“And is the Colonel to accompany him on this journey?”

“I do not think so, Miss Elizabeth. I understand the matter is in the hands of the Militia.”

“Then the Colonel shall be present for the ball,”

she said, her pleasure not at all concealed.

“Ball?”

he echoed.

“Yes, Mr. ,”

she replied, eyes alight.

“a crowded room, stifling heat, music one can scarcely hear, and conversation one can scarcely escape. Surely all your favourite things.”

“Indeed,”

he said dryly.

“I hardly know how I shall contain my enthusiasm.”

“I expect it will look much as it did last time—your customary post beside the wall, arms crossed, as though standing guard over your own displeasure.”

“And yet,”

he returned.

“I recall you looked over often enough to be certain I had not vanished.”

She raised an eyebrow, surprised—and almost flustered.

“I was merely observing a curiosity. One does not expect statues to appear at dances.”

“Then perhaps I shall surprise you again,”

he said.

“I may even speak.”

Elizabeth’s eyes widened with affected alarm.

“With a person?”

“I know—it is exceedingly ambitious. But I am assured it may be done. Some even speak of dancing.”

She gasped.

“Mr. , you must take care! Such conduct might give rise to rumours most scandalous. Next, you shall be observed to smile in company. You risk expulsion from the solemn order of unsociable gentlemen.”

“I am aware of the danger,”

he said gravely, though the levity in his gaze contradicted his words.

“My reputation for hauteur has been too carefully cultivated to be so easily cast aside.”

“Oh, fear not,”

she returned with a smile.

“It would take more than one dance to redeem you. Perhaps a fortnight of cheerful civility, several unguarded laughs, and a compliment delivered without looking as though it pains you.”

“I shall endeavour to remember it. And tell me, Miss Elizabeth—do you intend to honour the assembly with your own participation in these scandalous activities?”

“Good gracious, Mr. ,”

she said with mock dismay.

“Are you suggesting you might ask me to dance? I daresay the very walls of the Meryton assembly would not withstand the shock.”

“That would be most inconvenient,”

he replied with an air of mock solemnity.

“For the sake of the architecture, I suppose I had better confine myself to my customary position—doing my part to support the eastern wall.”

“A noble cause,”

she said.

“Though I would advise a thorough inspection of the building first. One can never be too careful.”

“In that case,”

said he.

“purely in the name of experiment, I may hazard the first dance—to determine whether the structure can bear the shock. And perhaps repeat the trial during the supper dance.”

“Well,”

she said lightly.

“I may be persuaded to dance—if the music is lively and the company tolerable.”

“Tolerable? Such exacting standards may well leave you without a partner.”

“Better alone than limping,”

she said archly.

“You cannot imagine how many gentlemen appear to think that treading on a lady’s toes passes for gallantry.”

“Then the gentleman in question must endeavour not to offend your feet.”

She glanced at him, a smile she did not quite suppress.

“Is that a hint, Mr. ? That this mysterious gentleman might stoop to ask me for a dance?”

He stopped, and turned to her with quiet steadiness.

“No, Miss Elizabeth. I am hoping he might rise to the honour of asking.”

There was a pause—not uneasy, but of a kind that follows when something genuine has passed between two people, and neither feels inclined to disturb it.

“Well then,”

said Elizabeth at last, her voice lightly reflective.

“I suppose I must prepare to be the object of every jealous look in Meryton—for the space of at least two dances.”

“Let them glare,”

said Mr. quietly.

“It is all they can do.”

She regarded him sidelong, a smile playing about her words.

“Why do I have the distinct impression, Mr. , that you intend to enjoy their envy?”

He looked at her then—and smiled. It was no reserved expression of civility, but a smile unguarded and sincere.

“I already do, Miss Elizabeth,” said he.

Elizabeth regarded the gentleman walking beside her with the air of one much discomposed by the inconstancy of her own affections. It was scarcely a week since their courtship had begun; how could her feelings have altered so materially in so short a time? She began to feel like she was even ready to receive his proposal. He was certainly doing his utmost to render her resistance futile.

Yet, if he danced two dances with her at the assembly, she might well be compelled to yield—either to propriety or her mother’s will. If she did not, her mother would ensure she regretted it until her hair turned grey—likely by next Saturday.

“Mr. ,”

she began.

“should you dance two dances with me…”

“…your mother would believe the banns have already been read,”

he finished, his expression one of calm amusement.

“Miss Elizabeth, let us strike a bargain. A single dance—and certainly not the first. I make it a rule never to open a ball. Not even under threat of duelling—or poetry. You may determine which set I am to scandalise by my appearance.”

“You must think me exceedingly childish,”

she said with a shake of her head.

“to be so alarmed by my mother’s reaction.”

“I do not,”

he replied, quite seriously.

“In fact, if childishness it is, I am equally guilty. For my reluctance arises likewise from familial interference. Were I to claim your hand for the opening set, my Aunt Catherine would know of it before the fiddlers reached the second strain. She would descend upon us in a fury, borne along by indignation in place of horses, and insist that I renew my supposed affections for my cousin Anne—who would sooner marry a potted fern, were it capable of consent.”

“And do you fear your aunt?”

“I do not,”

he said.

“But I do fear her conversation. There is only so much one can bear of the phrase ‘duty to family’ before the notion of seeking a commission abroad begins to seem desirable. Besides, I would rather avoid a breach in a family already too small to withstand one.”

Elizabeth shook her head, half in sympathy, half in amusement.

“Mr. Wickham claimed you were betrothed to your cousin,”

she said, watching him closely.

Mr. turned to her, surprised.

“And yet you consented to our courtship?”

“By the time you requested the honour,”

said she, with a mischievous grin.

“Mr. Wickham’s reputation had already crumbled beneath the weight of his own falsehoods. Moreover, even at the height of my prejudice, I never thought you dishonourable, nor imagined you a rake. Indeed, I took you for a man of such strict principle that he might forgo a kiss in the absence of a chaperone.”

placed a hand to his chest in feigned outrage.

“Good heavens, what a grim portrait. And after all the offence I gave! I can only wonder how Meryton might have regarded me had I arrived with all the civility and cheer of Bingley.”

“Oh,”

said Elizabeth.

“they would have erected a statue in your honour outside the assembly hall. You would have been married within the week to the first lady you danced with.”

“And had it been you?”

“I would have been Mrs. before the week was out,”

she said.

“and spent the rest of my life wondering whether you smiled like that at everyone.”

He turned to her then, his expression softer than usual.

“Rest assured, Miss Elizabeth. I have never smiled thus at anyone.”

It was a dangerous thing, that smile—quiet, steady, and meant only for her. And for a moment, Elizabeth felt herself balanced upon a most perilous brink; one step further, and she might fall—completely, irreversibly into affection.

She gathered herself.

A change of subject was imperative, and fast. She reached for the first safe topic that came to mind.

“Mr. ,”

she began, her voice assuming a tone of practical concern.

“you must forgive me—I can scarce believe I am about to ask this. But as you are cousin to Colonel Fitzwilliam, I feel compelled to inquire: do you know what passed between him and Mary during our visit to Netherfield? Something occurred—of that I am quite certain. Mary has grown more silent than ever, and as she is never prone to excess conversation, her quiet now borders on the alarming.”

Mr. gave a short sigh and did not answer at once. Elizabeth allowed the silence stand.

At length, he said.

“Miss Elizabeth, my cousin insists there is nothing between himself and Miss Mary Bennet save for friendship.”

He hesitated.

“However, he has lately spent a good deal of time in the library, wearing the air of a man much troubled—so I am inclined to think otherwise.”

Elizabeth looked up.

“Then something did happen?”

“They had—as he put it—a conversation,”

said he.

“Of some heat. He said something which may have wounded your sister’s sensibilities. He regrets it now. But whatever the nature of his feelings—if any—I have resolved not to interfere. I offered what help I could. The rest must be left to them.”

Elizabeth shook her head.

“Forgive me, Mr. , but I cannot agree. Your cousin may have the luxury of remaining silent. My sister does not. He may return to London at his leisure—but Mary must remain here, to endure the scrutiny, the speculation, and the quiet disappointment of being left behind.”

He looked at her.

“Then you believe that she cares for him.”

“I believe,”

Elizabeth said, her voice growing firmer.

“that something passed between them which was beyond the affection of mere friendship. And if your cousin does not mean to pursue it with honourable intentions, then he ought to stay away entirely. We women already walk a line as narrow as a hairpin in this society. To endure a storm is one thing—to endure it for no reward is quite another.”

Mr. shook his head, slowly.

“Miss Elizabeth,”

he began.

“from what my cousin has told me, there is no danger of your sister’s heart being broken. Indeed, he is under the impression that Miss Mary can scarcely endure his presence. They have, by his account, not shared so much as a civil exchange, let alone a tender one.”

He paused.

“Yet that is not the impression I received when I last saw Miss Mary.”

She turned to him, curious.

“Then you do suppose my sister harbours any particular affection for your cousin?”

“Good heavens, no, Miss Elizabeth,”

Mr. said hastily.

“I have relinquished the office of discerning affection in young ladies—particularly those bearing the name Bennet. I should be thankful that my last attempt did not result in heartbreak for both your elder sister and Bingley. I now prefer to leave the workings of the heart to unfold as they will. I believe Miss Mary hoped for another conversation with my cousin—whether to reproach him, to seek clarification, or simply to maintain their connection, I cannot say. But I do not believe she is indifferent in the least.”

“Well,”

said Elizabeth thoughtfully.

“Mary is not the sort to pursue a gentleman with the intention of reproaching him. If she does still wish to speak with him, then I suspect she hopes for something more than mere resolution.”

Mr. fell silent again. He looked ahead, his expression thoughtful, even grave.

Elizabeth narrowed her eyes slightly.

“Mr. . You are harbouring a thought you are loath to express.”

He turned to her slowly—and smiled, a smile that nearly disarmed her.

“I am,”

he replied.

“Though I suspect it may not be to your liking.”

“Well, now you must tell me,”

she replied.

“I have never been more determined to hear something disagreeable.”

He gave a short laugh.

“Very well. After Ramsgate”—he paused, watching her to ensure she understood the reference. She did and nodded once—“I devoted myself entirely to protecting Georgiana. Every hour, every decision, I weighed with her safety in mind. And in doing so, I may have rendered her deeply miserable.”

Elizabeth’s eyes softened.

“My journey to Hertfordshire was not entirely by choice. My aunt more or less expelled me from her house after confining Georgiana within it. She told me that I was hovering too much. Last week, I spoke with my sister and shared all that has transpired since my arrival. And I found her—changed. Stronger. No longer the frightened girl I had once known, but a woman who knows how to guard herself.”

He turned slightly toward her.

“Your father once said something, when I spoke about Bingley returning to your sister. He said it was a good thing for a girl to be crossed in love now and then.”

Elizabeth gave a frustrated exclamation.

“Yes. That does sound like something he would say.”

“I must admit, I was horrified at the time,”

said Mr. .

“I regarded it as a grievous failure in guardianship—or, at the very least, an ill-conceived jest. But now, I am not so certain. I would never allow another Ramsgate—never again. Yet I cannot deny that the ordeal may have imparted to Georgiana a strength she might otherwise have lacked.”

Elizabeth was silent for a moment, her earlier indignation tempered by reflection.

“Then you mean to say,”

she said slowly.

“that we ought not to interfere. That Mary and the Colonel must resolve the matter between themselves?”

Mr. inclined his head.

“Offer her your support. Let her know she may rely upon you, should she wish it. But permit her to face—or forsake—the trial in her own manner.”

“Very well,”

said she.

“I shall give your advice consideration, though I make no promise to follow it.”

He laughed, the sound deep and somewhat approving.

“I should be most astonished if you did, Miss Elizabeth. Indeed, had you been of a more docile disposition, I dare say I would have never been taken with you.”

Her heart fluttered—betrayingly, yet delightfully. She had always hoped to find a companion in life who would value her mind, who would not dismiss her thoughts as mere trifles, as so many gentlemen were wont to do. That such regard should come from Mr. , of all people, was as unexpected as it was most thrilling.

Sensing the treacherous path on which her thoughts were galloping, she seized a safer route.

“Tell me, Mr. ,”

said she, her smile taking on an arch turn.

“you once claimed to have seen Mr. Bingley in love before. Considering that you are one of the most sought-after bachelors in the realm, should I dread the arrival of a parade of heartbroken young ladies at our wedding, hurling stones and bonnets in my direction?”

He assumed an air of exaggerated solemnity.

“Ah, so you are contemplating our nuptials. I am humbled—nay, utterly overcome.”

“You evade the question, sir,”

she cried, turning her head away, though a smile betrayed her protest.

“I seek facts, not flirtation.”

“Very well,”

said he, his tone adopting a mock gravity.

“Aside from the unsettling prospect of my Aunt Catherine storming the church, armed with her walking-stick and a pamphlet on noble bloodlines, I foresee little in the way of open rebellion. That said, you should prepare for a shower of glares and the occasional metaphorical dagger at the next London event you attend—particularly from disappointed young ladies and their scheming mothers.”

Elizabeth gave a sigh, as though in mock despair.

“How exceedingly dull. No stones hurled in anger? No threats of duels at dawn? My uncle shall be sorely disappointed. He has long maintained that Jane’s wedding—or mine—would far surpass his own in excitement.”

“And may I ask,”

said Mr. , visibly intrigued.

“what it was that rendered his so extraordinary? Was there a jilted suitor brandishing the banns like a gauntlet? Or had the clergyman run away?”

“Oh, nothing so grand,”

said she, with an air of nonchalance.

“He received a stone to the face—precisely here, just above the left eye—just as he was about to speak his vow. The scar remains, and he wears it with no small amount of pride, I assure you.”

Mr. came to an abrupt halt.

“Miss Elizabeth,”

said he.

“do you refer, perchance, to your uncle in Cheapside?”

Elizabeth, fully expecting the usual tone of hauteur, raised her chin with quiet dignity.

“Indeed I do, sir—the very same.”

To her astonishment, Mr. did not frown, nor fall silent, nor retreat into some cold reserve. Instead, and quite without warning, he laughed—openly, heartily, and with a warmth that startled even Mr. Bingley. Jane seemed as astonished as if she had seen the statue of a Roman general take up needlework.

Elizabeth stared.

“Mr. ?”

“Miss Elizabeth,”

said he, eyes bright with mirth.

“you cannot mean to say you are the niece of Mr. Edward Gardiner of Gracechurch Street?”

“You know my uncle?”

she asked, astonished.

“I do indeed, dearest Miss Elizabeth,”

said he—his tone so easy, so sincere, that it roused in her a warmth both unexpected and not unwelcome. It was the first time he had employed such an endearment, and it had fallen from his lips so naturally, she might almost believe he had long intended it.

“I have been acquainted with him for the past five years. He has long been a welcome guest at my house in town. Several of my investments—and Richard’s as well—are entrusted in his care. Only last month, I had the honour of presenting him to my uncle, the Earl of Matlock. Your uncle, madam, is one of the most sensible, discerning, and honourable men I have the pleasure of knowing.”

Elizabeth could scarce credit what she had heard and remained silent for some time. At last, she said.

“He never spoke of it to me, nor did my aunt.”

“I have not had the pleasure of meeting Mrs. Gardiner,”

he admitted.

“Nor have I ever called at their house; though not, I assure you, from any aversion to its location, nor from any prejudice against trade. The opportunity simply never arose.”

Her gaze, which had searched his with careful scrutiny, softened as her wariness gave way to something gentler.

“And if the invitation were extended, Mr. —would you accept it?”

“I would,”

he replied without hesitation.

“Though I do not pretend to enjoy the company of every tradesman—after all, for every Mr. Gardiner, there are five who view me as little more than a walking fortune. Still, I respect any man who earns his living honestly, and your uncle, Miss Elizabeth, is a gentleman in every sense that matters.”

“Well,”

said Elizabeth, her spirits rising with the moment.

“you may meet my aunt sooner than you expect. She wrote to me just yesterday to inform that she, my uncle, and their four children shall arrive by the end of this week for their customary Christmas visit—though somewhat earlier than usual this year on account of Jane’s engagement. After the holiday, Jane may accompany them back to London to select her wedding attire.”

“I shall be most delighted to make Mrs. Gardiner’s acquaintance, indeed. I can see how dearly you hold her, and nothing would give me greater honour than to be received into such a family.”

And in that moment, Elizabeth felt her defences dissolve completely, as frost beneath the warmth of the morning sun.