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entered the parlour alone, resolved to seek Mr. Bennet’s consent. Elizabeth, having slipped in through the back entrance, was already within.

He had scarcely crossed the threshold when Mrs. Bennet descended upon him with such effusive delight that he nearly considered retreating.

“Oh, Mr. !”

cried she.

“Your aunt has just been with us! She came quite expressly to see Mary—and has only just taken her leave!”

halted abruptly.

“My aunt? The Countess?”

he asked, with a guarded tone.

“No, no, not the Countess!”

cried Mrs. Bennet.

“Your other aunt—Lady Catherine de Bourgh! Mr. Collins’s most illustrious patroness!”

At this pronouncement, turned to Elizabeth, and their eyes met in mutual apprehension.

“What did my aunt say?”

he asked, trying, and failing, to maintain an even tone.

“Oh, she asked for Mary directly,”

replied Mrs. Bennet, with an air of great consequence.

“They walked in the garden, and upon returning, she declared Mary to be extremely sensible and—what was the word?—ah yes! Attentive. A very handsome commendation, I assure you! Lady Catherine was in the most agreeable humour. Though she would not take any refreshment before she took her leave.”

's expression could have served as a study in contained horror. This was a development he had long dreaded. Yet he had not expected his aunt to arrive at Longbourn so soon—nor to depart in such a manner as to leave the Bennets exultant.

There was, in short, no time for subtlety. The knot must be unravelled without delay—though not before he addressed Miss Mary herself, and made what amends were owed.

Summoning all the composure he could muster, he turned to Mrs. Bennet and said.

“Mrs. Bennet, I wish to speak with Miss Mary—”

The lady shrieked and clapped her hands.

“—with Miss Elizabeth present,”

he added, in a tone that admitted no dispute.

This pronouncement left Mrs. Bennet in the rarest of states: silence. She turned to her second eldest daughter and stared.

“With Lizzy?”

she brought out at last.

“What can Lizzy have to do with anything?”

“I shall walk with you and Lizzy,”

said Miss Mary, rising with quiet composure, and taking no notice of her mother’s bewilderment.

suspected Mrs. Bennet to contrive some maternal stratagem to keep Miss Elizabeth within. But to his great relief, the lady remained quite overset, her lips parted in wordless protest, and made no move to prevent their leaving.

A few moments later, they entered the garden. Miss Mary and Elizabeth took their seats upon a bench, while remained standing before them—at a loss, visibly discomposed, and deeply uneasy for Miss Mary's sake.

“Miss Mary,”

he began, his voice grave.

“might I beg you to tell me—what precisely did my aunt say to you?”

Miss Mary looked up, and did not fail to notice the gentle crease of worry between her brows. Her lips parted as though the words pained her.

“Mr. ,”

she said, almost timidly.

“are you betrothed to your cousin?”

all but groaned aloud. This again?

Before he could find his words, Elizabeth interjected.

“No, Mary,”

said she.

“Mr. —Fitzwilliam—has already acquainted me with his aunt’s wishes. But neither he nor his cousin harbours the least desire for such a match. Lady Catherine remains, I fear, immovably fixed upon the notion—but she stands quite alone in it.”

“No one in my family,”

added.

“save Aunt Catherine, has ever supported such an engagement. I am under no obligation, either by principle or inclination, to marry my cousin. My mother, God rest her, never once alluded to any such arrangement made in our infancy.”

Miss Mary drew a steadying breath.

“Oh—thank you,”

she said, her countenance much eased.

“I was exceedingly anxious on your behalf, Lizzy. And yet, I was reluctant to think ill of you, Mr. . I am truly glad we have had this conversation.”

“As am I, Miss Mary,”

replied .

“Though I must own myself curious—your mother informed me that my aunt spoke of you as being sensible, which, I must admit... is somewhat astonishing.”

No sooner had the words left his lips than he perceived his misstep. An unfortunate turn of phrase, indeed.

Elizabeth raised her brow with mischievous delight.

“Why, Mr. —do you mean to imply it is improbable that anyone should find Mary sensible?”

nearly groaned. It was very like her to seize upon his misstep.

“Elizabeth, you cannot but know that is not what I intended,”

he said.

“I only meant that my aunt is not one to bestow compliments unless they serve some very particular purpose—usually with a view toward her daughter, or herself.”

“Well then,”

said Miss Mary, her countenance unmoved.

“allow me to explain. Lady Catherine began by extolling her own sincerity and frankness, virtues which she declared universally acknowledged. There followed a speech—a rather lengthy one, I regret to say—at the conclusion of which she inquired whether I were engaged to you.”

’s brow rose imperceptibly.

“When I answered in the negative,”

continued Miss Mary, with an air of mild indifference.

“she required of me a solemn promise never to become engaged to you. I gave her my word without the slightest hesitation. It was, I think, not the dramatic refusal she had anticipated. She appeared somewhat discomposed by it.”

stood mute, his lips parted in silent astonishment.

“Yes,”

said Mary, nodding thoughtfully.

“that is precisely the expression she wore when I gave my promise. I now see it is a family resemblance.”

pressed his lips together and asked.

“And what did she do next?”

“She accused me of trifling with her,”

said Mary.

“Three times, as I recall. When she could not provoke me into betraying any secret longing for your hand, she was forced to concede that I was not at all as she had feared. The interview was concluded.”

exhaled slowly, a mixture of amusement and despair in his expression.

“But before she departed,”

Mary added, with a faintly ironic smile.

“she told Mama that I was a sensible girl—one who listens.”

Elizabeth could contain herself no longer, and burst into laughter.

glanced between the sisters, one utterly composed, the other radiant with amusement, and murmured.

“Well, I hardly know whether I ought to apologise or offer my gratitude.”

“So, Lady Catherine has returned to Kent, perfectly satisfied that you shall never marry the man to whom I am betrothed,”

said Elizabeth, her voice full of laughter and mischief.

At this, Miss Mary turned swiftly to her sister.

“I had noticed you addressing one another by your Christian names. Then it is true? You are betrothed?”

stepped forward.

“Miss Mary,”

said he.

“I have not yet had the opportunity to speak with your father and secure his approval, so this may be somewhat premature; however, your sister has done me the great honour of accepting my proposal.”

“At last!”

said Miss Mary, throwing her arms about Elizabeth in a rare display of affection.

“I am so very glad for you,”

she added, her voice charged with a warmth she made no attempt to conceal. Then, casting a sidelong glance at , she added with a hint of playful mischief.

“And what a relief—thus am I spared the necessity of breaking my promise to Lady Catherine, after all.”

laughed, and Elizabeth laughed with him.

“Indeed not,”

said he.

“And yet—as your future brother, Miss Mary—I must entreat your forbearance once more. Did my aunt say anything further? I find it difficult to believe she managed to leave Hertfordshire without pronouncing something so thoroughly offensive as to require my apologies to half the country.”

Miss Mary hesitated, a slight narrowing of her eyes as she weighed truth against discomfort.

“Miss Mary,”

said again, his tone gentle, “please.”

She sighed and turned her gaze away for a moment.

“Very well,”

she said softly.

“She began the conversation by declaring me plain.”

rose immediately, his jaw set in determination. Elizabeth followed, her amusement vanishing in an instant.

“Of course she did,”

Elizabeth said, her voice thick with bitterness, as she stepped forward and took her sister’s face gently in her hands.

“Oh, Mary.”

drew a long, steadying breath and turned to her with solemn conviction.

“Miss Mary,”

said he.

“I would not presume to further insult you by offering apologies on my aunt’s behalf; the affront was hers, and she alone must answer for it. But let it be perfectly understood: unless Lady Catherine should see fit to return and deliver a full and sincere apology to you in person, I shall no longer acknowledge her as a relation. She shall not be received at Pemberley, nor admitted to any house under my name. I shall forgo all visits to Rosings, cease all correspondence, and deny her any means by which she might trouble you—or any member of this family. Upon that point, you have my solemn word.”

Miss Mary looked up at him in surprise and gave a slow, deliberate nod.

“Thank you, Mr. .”

smiled, his expression softening.

“Would you mind calling me —or Fitzwilliam, if you so prefer?”

Mary tilted her head in confusion.

“Fitzwilliam? But—is that not the Colonel?”

“Ah,”

said , a rare glimmer of amusement lighting his eyes.

“within the family, he is known as Richard. He has steadfastly refused to answer to Fitzwilliam since the age of twelve, and even now, he will feign deafness if addressed by it.”

“Very well, then,”

said Mary, with a smile.

“Fitzwilliam it shall be. And pray, do call me Mary.”

He bowed with sincere warmth.

“I am honoured, Mary. Now, I believe I must have a word with your father.”

Yet, found no such good fortune. Mrs. Bennet, whose eyes darted between him and Mary as they made their way to the parlour, at length informed them that Mr. Bennet had already gone out—and that he had done so prior to and Elizabeth’s return.

waited patiently in the parlour for some time, until the sun began its descent, at which point he and Bingley returned to Netherfield.

That evening, shortly after the gentlemen had withdrawn from the dining room, requested a word with his aunt. Bingley, supposing the matter to concern family affairs, offered to excuse himself—but bade him stay.

“No, Bingley. I ask you to remain. What is to be said may concern us all.”

The two gentlemen stood in the study as the door opened, admitting the Countess—who, to their surprise, was not alone. Miss Bingley accompanied her.

straightened. Bingley glanced sharply between the two ladies.

“Caroline?”

he said, with a brother’s uneasy instinct.

“What is it?”

Miss Bingley stepped forward, her hands clasped before her and her countenance unusually pale. She did not so much as glance at as she began, but spoke in a quiet, deliberate tone.

“Mr. , I have sought your aunt’s leave to speak with you. There is something I must say—something that has been long overdue.”

inclined his head in silent assent. She drew a steady breath and continued.

“I wish to offer you a sincere apology—not merely for past discomforts or ill-chosen words, but for the pride, presumption, and selfishness I have displayed over the course of many years. I mistook my desire for admiration, and your civility for encouragement. I believed you must come to care for me simply because I wished it so—and I pursued that notion with a blindness I now most bitterly regret.”

Bingley’s countenance grew sombre, whilst , still seated, was struck with astonishment. Despite the recent change in her manner, he had never expected such an apology from Miss Bingley.

She continued without pause.

“I was raised in a house that admired only the appearance of gentility, not its substance. And when I was sent to the Seminary in Surrey, I saw clearly, for the first time, all that I had not been born to. There were girls there—girls of landed families and long-established name—who treated me as an amusement at best, and as an impostor at worst. They spoke of relations I could never claim. They compared my drawing unfavourably, corrected my manners at table, and laughed behind their fans when I mispronounced a name or stumbled in conversation.”

Here, her voice faltered.

“I resolved, then, that I would never again be made an object of ridicule. That I would cultivate such refinement, such impenetrable composure, that no one might presume to condescend to me without incurring my contempt in return. And when I entered society, I mistook pride for fortitude. I imitated coldness, imagining it to be grace. And I directed my hopes toward places where they were never welcome.”

She raised her eyes to meet his—not boldly, but with resolve.

“I perceive now that I was mistaken in my understanding of you, Mr. . I spoke of estates and responsibilities as though they were ornaments to be worn—not duties to be borne. I regarded Pemberley as a scene of elegance, not as a home requiring wisdom, temperance, and benevolence. I admired your fortune without once considering the judgement and steadiness it must demand from its master. I presumed I might become mistress of such a house, having never reflected on what it truly requires. I should have remained thus, had it not been for your kind aunt. I am most sincerely obliged to her for revealing to me the nature of my own errors.”

Miss Bingley lowered her eyes once more and added, in a softer voice.

“I do not presume to ask pardon for the hopes I once entertained. But I would beg forgiveness for the manner in which I bore myself. You were ever civil, even when your affections could not accompany your attentions. And I returned that civility with vanity and folly. I see it now—and it grieves me.”

was silent for a moment, his gaze thoughtful, and marked with a softened regard.

At length he spoke.

“Miss Bingley, I receive your apology in the spirit in which they are intended. What is past cannot be recalled. If your conduct once caused me unease, allow me now to say that your candour reflects credit upon you, and your fortitude does honour to us all.”

Miss Bingley gave a small nod before turning to her brother.

“Charles, I know I have interfered in your affairs more than once—imagining myself prudent, when in truth I was governed by apprehension. I have spoken rashly, and acted with little consideration. If I have caused you any distress, I would beg for your forgiveness.”

Bingley rose then, and his voice was kind.

“You are my sister, Caroline. And I am proud of you for speaking thus.”

A silence followed—one neither oppressive nor burdensome, but contemplative.

At length, Miss Bingley stepped back.

“Then I shall not intrude upon your evening further,”

she said.

“I only wished to express what should have been said before now.”

She curtsied with dignity and withdrew.

The Countess, who had watched in silence throughout, spoke.

“It is no small matter, to behold oneself with true clarity,”

she said softly.

“And still more rare to speak of it.”

nodded.

“She has accomplished both. I trust the world will show her greater kindness in return.”

“I hope so, William,”

the Countess replied softly.

At that moment, Bingley—who had been gazing intently at the door his sister had only just passed through—turned toward the Countess.

“My Lady,”

said he, with considerable feeling.

“I am most deeply obliged to you. After all that has passed, no one would have blamed you had you banished Caroline from every respectable drawing-room in society. Yet you chose”—here he faltered slightly—“a course more generous. You extended mercy where society might have demanded an exile. As master of this house and her brother, I must confess myself greatly in your debt.”

The Countess cast him a look which, in less formal company, might have been called affectionate—though not without a glimmer of playful intent.

“Think no more of it, Mr. Bingley. If I am not much mistaken in the purpose of this gathering, we shall shortly be relations—and I have ever held a tender regard for family.”

At this, allowed himself the briefest smile.

“Elizabeth has been so good as to accept my proposal,”

said he.

“But as I have not yet spoken with Mr. Bennet, nor obtained his consent, I would be obliged if the matter might remain, for the present, amongst ourselves.”

“My dearest William!”

said the Countess, rising at once and taking her nephew’s hands.

“That delightful girl! I am excessively pleased. Miss Elizabeth will do you a great deal of good. She will laugh at you until you laugh at yourself—and that, believe me, is a gift.”

, for once, laughed outright.

“I hope so, Aunt. I sincerely hope so.”

“Shall I write to your uncle then?”

she asked.

“Or do you mean to speak to Mr. Bennet first?”

straightened.

“There is something you ought to know first,”

said he, and offered a concise account of the recent events at Longbourn.

As he spoke, the Countess’s expression shifted with an animation worthy of the stage: her eyes widened, her brows rose, and her lips moved from astonishment to scorn. At last, she let out an audible breath and declared,

“Gracious heavens. Did I hear you aright—Catherine called Miss Mary plain? What, pray, has possessed our family? Has rudeness become a hereditary virtue?”

, wisely, allowed the question to pass unchallenged.

“I have promised Mary that Aunt Catherine is to be considered no kin of mine—unless, or until, she deigns to offer a sincere apology.”

The Countess raised a single brow, elegant and incredulous.

“Well, well. That is quite the transformation. You, who once asked me not to speak to Catherine for fear of a family breach, now—! This is Elizabeth’s doing. And I am quite delighted by it.”

made no response, for his aunt appeared to be occupied with a plan of her own.

“William,”

she said at length.

“do speak to Mr. Bennet tomorrow and obtain his blessing. But do ask him not to make the engagement public just yet. While I have always been prepared to bring Catherine to order, if need be, I do prefer peace to war. If an apology is the price of peace, then we must see that it is delivered.”

looked sceptical.

“And how, aunt, do you propose to achieve such an eventuality?”

“My dear William,”

said the Countess.

“that is a matter best left in my hands. I need to send two letters by express—one tomorrow, one the day after. That will set things in motion.”

could not imagine what her scheme might be. He had discussed such matters often with Richard, who had once said, only half in jest, that he would willingly forfeit a limb to discover the source of Lady Catherine’s long-standing unease with the Countess.

It was well known in the family that Lady Catherine never stayed with the Earl and Countess when in London, preferring instead the sanctuary of 's townhouse—an arrangement that seemed more strategic than sentimental. Whatever the cause, Richard had always believed that his mother held some covert influence over her sister-in-law, and now, with a certain sinister pleasure, she appeared ready to use it.

“William,”

said the Countess, her voice gently recalling him from his reverie.

“I must speak with you regarding Richard.”

Before could reply, Bingley rose from his chair.

“My Lady,”

said he, with a courteous bow.

“I believe I shall take my leave for the evening. I wish you both a very good night.”

With a brief nod in ’s direction, he departed, and the door closed gently behind him.

“He is a good man,”

remarked the Countess, not without warmth.

“He is,”

agreed.

The Countess settled back into her chair.

“Very well, then. Am I mistaken in thinking that Richard went to Town for the express purpose of selling his commission?”

“I do not know for certain, Aunt,”

replied honestly.

“But you suspect it?”

paused.

“Yes, I do.”

The Countess gave a small, grim nod.

“Then—does that mean he intends to accept Rosemont?”

hesitated. He had spoken to no one concerning Haddonwood, though the time for concealment had passed.

“I do not think he does,”

he said at last.

The Countess, usually the model of composure, regarded him as if he had uttered something utterly unaccountable.

“Then, in heaven’s name, how does he propose to live?”

she demanded, her voice quivering with rare emotion.

“One cannot exist on gallantry alone, however handsomely it may be worn.”

looked up to see that her usual equanimity had nearly deserted her.

“I have offered him a partnership in Haddonwood,” he said.

She blinked.

“Your horse breeding stud?”

He inclined his head.

“The very same.”

“Did he accept?”

“No,”

replied.

“Not as yet. But he asked questions—asked what would be required, what the investment might entail. I told him I would not accept a single farthing from someone I regard as a brother. You may imagine his reaction.”

“I need not imagine it,”

said the Countess tartly.

“I can hear it in my head this very moment. That Fitzwilliam pride—it is insufferable. Men so full of their own judgement, they mistake it for divine law.”

said nothing, which was often his wisest course when his aunt grew impassioned.

“What he requires,”

she went on, rising with more energy than elegance.

“is a proper humbling. A comeuppance. A challenge to this—this invincibility he wears like a uniform. He thinks himself unassailable. What he needs is a sharp dressing-down, and not from some commanding officer. From someone who does not care how many medals he owns or how perfectly he ties a cravat.”

again remained silent. He could think of no person so equipped or so willing.

The Countess fetched her handkerchief and pressed it once to each eye—though whether from heat, weariness, or sentiment, he could not say. Then, with a softness that took him entirely by surprise, she stepped forward, bent slightly, and placed a kiss upon his brow.

“You are a good boy, William,”

she said.

“Richard is not your brother by blood, but let him be so by choice. It may yet save him.”

And with that, she turned and departed the room, leaving seated in the waning light of the fire, thoughtful, unmoving, and filled with a quiet solemnity that did not easily pass.