Reprise: Dispelling the Gloom

Happy October! The leaves have finally begun changing color and so now I feel it is the proper time to mention that holiday so many Americans love to celebrate…

National Produce Misting Day!

(Okay, not really, but apparently  — if you believe the Internet, and I’m not sure you should — there is a National Produce Misting Day on October 2!)

So yeah, I meant Halloween. It’s October! It’s spooky season! And because I’m swamped with teaching and writing about one new sentence a week right now, I thought I’d dust off a story I wrote for a the 2022 October theme (“Which Witch?”).

Here’s Dispelling the Gloom, originally written in four parts. I’ve done no editing of the story, so I hope it has aged well. Enjoy!

 

Dispelling the Gloom

Part I

 

She could not recall much about her great aunt Matilda, for Elizabeth had been only a child when that lady had passed, but she did recollect the old woman’s last visit to Longbourn. On the very day of her arrival, even before she had taken off her bonnet, Matilda had crooked her finger at Elizabeth and said, “Remember, my dear: the gloom will be your friend and your legacy.”

“Poor thing,” Elizabeth later heard her mother tell her father. “Aunt Matilda has become quite addle-pated!”

After lugging a large dictionary under her father’s desk and looking up the word “addle-pated,” seven-year-old Elizabeth had tried to convince herself that her mother was correct. If Aunt Matilda was indeed losing her wits, then her words could hold no power over Elizabeth—could they?

But seven-year-old Elizabeth was just old enough to know that her mother was rarely correct when it came to judging others’ characters. So no matter how much she tried, she could not dispel the notion that her great aunt had been giving her a very important—and very disturbing—message.

Though Matilda’s words had haunted Elizabeth for the entirety of that lady’s visit, Elizabeth did not often think of them afterward. Indeed, when the source of this wisdom departed Longbourn—and then, three months later, the world—Elizabeth all but erased the words from her memory.

Only now, thirteen years later, as she stood in the midst of a deep and unsettling fog, did the words come rushing back to her. Shivering, she pulled her old, black cloak about her, wondering if she ought to turn back to Longbourn, though what awaited her there—a petulant Lydia and an even more petulant Mrs. Bennet—held little charm. Elizabeth knew that she ought to return home soon, for Jane’s sake, if not for her own. How her sister managed to care for Lydia, in bed with a cold, and listen to their mother’s unceasing chatter about the man who was fast on his way to breaking Jane’s heart, Elizabeth could not fathom. She only knew Jane was a far better person than she would ever be.

Case in point: Jane would never have thought the words that came into Elizabeth’s head the moment she saw Mr. Darcy, of all people, stride into the clearing that she herself was just about to enter.

What is that arrogant killjoy doing in my meadow?

To her credit, Elizabeth was surprised and vexed (reactions that rarely lent themselves to wisdom and never to civility). She had left the house seeking solitude and, given the chill mist and dark clouds, had quite expected to find it. Instead, she found Mr. Darcy—the last man in the world she wished to see—standing in the middle of one of her most beloved haunts.

Though Elizabeth was not exceedingly fond of cold, damp weather, she did not mind it quite so much here. The meadow that stretched between Longbourn and Netherfield was enchanting when laced with fog, the wispy clouds swirling above the ground as if they were suspended in time and space. The previous autumn, Elizabeth had stretched out on the grass and stared up at the fog, wondering if it appeared substantially different from that angle. Alas, fog was fog; it all looked the same, whether standing in the midst of it or lying below it. The only thing that had changed was her cloak, which should have appeared darker, soaked as it was with dew and condensation; instead, it had glistened, as if it were catching the light of the hidden sun. With an astonished laugh, Elizabeth had shaken the water from her cloak, oddly disappointed when the exterior resumed its dull black hue.

This past disappointment was nothing to the dismay she felt now. Why had Mr. Darcy, the man almost certainly responsible for her sister’s increasing unhappiness, returned to Hertfordshire? Elizabeth was convinced that Mr. Bingley’s departure from Netherfield owed much to Mr. Darcy’s machinations. Oh, Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst had surely urged their brother to leave, but Elizabeth guessed Mr. Darcy was largely at fault for the party’s decampment more than a fortnight ago.

Then again, his presence here might be an auspicious sign. Indeed, Mr. Bingley could very well be close behind him! Why else would Darcy appear so miserable, except that he had been unable to convince Bingley to stay away from Longbourn?

Elizabeth looked about the meadow expectantly, waiting for Mr. Bingley to come bounding out of the fog, laughing as he called, “Come, man! Do not look so dull! We are almost at Longbourn!”

Instead, the near-total silence of the meadow deepened. Elizabeth became conscious of her own breathing, fast and shallow, as she squinted into the distance, trying to make sense of this inexplicable scene.

Why is he here, alone and despondent?

For that was how he appeared—not just cross or put-out, but despairing. Shoulders rounded, head in his hands, he sank onto a large, craggy rock that jutted out from the earth, just a few feet from her. This version of Mr. Darcy seemed so fantastical that she could not help take another step nearer. Was the fog obscuring her vision?

A stick broke beneath her boot, the sharp crack rupturing the silence. As Darcy whirled around, she instinctively pulled her cloak more tightly about her. Do not let him see me!

To her amazement, he did not. Though he stared directly into her eyes, he seemed to look through, rather than at, her. Was he unable to see through the fog? If so, why could she see him? Had they found themselves in a ballroom or drawing room, she might have supposed him purposefully ignoring her, but here, in this foggy meadow? No, he seemed genuinely confused.

“Who is there?” he called out, his deep voice tinged with—anger? Anxiety? She could not tell. She only knew that he looked as perturbed as she felt.

“Expecting someone else, Darcy?” called a voice from the opposite direction.

She blinked at the sudden appearance of Mr. Wickham, who broke through the fog with a spring in his step and a grin on his face.

Lips parting, she stared at him. There were a number of reasons to be surprised, of course, not least of which was the fact that Mr. Wickham was smiling—or was he smirking?—at the man who had kept him from his rightful inheritance. Yet what struck her most in that moment: Wickham had seemed to materialize out of nowhere, dispelling the gloom with a bright—no, a brash—radiance. From their first meeting, she had thought of him as a sort of light-bringer, one who amused and charmed nearly everyone around him. Now, though, she saw something else. This light he carried? It did not illuminate, it blinded.

 

Part II

When revelation stumbles over the threshold of our hearts, disordering our tidy beliefs and leaving a wreckage of assumptions in its wake, should not fate bestow upon us a compensatory transformation? Should not the metamorphosis occurring within reveal itself in a flash of beauty and brilliance without?

Perhaps—but no such magic found Elizabeth in the moments following her epiphany.

Had Darcy and Wickham been able to see her—and it was clear to her now that they could not—they would have observed no glow of understanding on alabaster cheeks, no fiery light of wisdom shining from a pair of fine eyes. No, they would have seen her mouth hanging open as she stared, goggle-eyed, at the scene unfolding before her.

Wickham approached Darcy with a swagger that belied all his past behavior. Once, he had claimed to be avoiding an unseemly conflict; now, he seemed to be courting it. Everything in his bearing and tone suggested a man who had come not to reason or defend but to provoke and attack.

“You had better have come alone,” Wickham said, crossing his arms.

Elizabeth stared at Darcy’s back, ramrod straight as if he sat not on a rock at the edge of a meadow but in a very fine chair behind his study desk. She wondered that he allowed Wickham to loom over him. Why did he not stand?

Seconds passed, then a full minute. Would he lash out? Lunge forward?

He continued to sit, silent and still.

Wickham shifted uneasily on his feet. “Well? Are you not going to say something?”

Darcy’s response: the barest of movements, the slightest angling of his head.

She wished she could see his countenance, but it was Wickham who faced her, Wickham whose cheeks colored, then paled, Wickham who stumbled back a step as if he had seen something dark and dreadful in Darcy’s expression.

“Recall,” said Wickham, a tremor in his voice, “why you are here.”

Again, no sound, no words, and Elizabeth wondered if Darcy had discovered his own form of magic—not invisibility, but silence.

“When I learned you had returned to Hertfordshire, I supposed you had seen reason.” Wickham spoke quickly, as if he expected interruption from this man who had said not a word. “I supposed you wanted, at any cost, to protect your sister’s reputation.”

Elizabeth gasped, and Darcy abandoned his stillness to turn and look in her direction.

“I told you to bring no one!” Wickham cried, stumbling back another step. “Who is it? Bingley? Your cousin?”

Darcy continued staring into the fog. When his gaze passed over her, she thought, What if?—and he paused, eyes narrowing. Her breath caught, and she huddled further into her cloak. No, she thought quickly, no, you cannot see me.

He sighed and turned back to Wickham.

“It’s your cousin, isn’t it?” Wickham seemed poised to run.

“If it was Richard,” said Darcy, his voice low and hoarse, “there would already be a bullet lodged in your chest.”

Now it was Wickham who looked out into the fog, his eyes scanning. He passed over her without pause. “You had better be damned certain there is no one else here. I told you—”

“Yes, yes,” said Darcy, rising at last. “You told me to come alone—and I listened. Do you suppose, George, I would bring a witness to my own humiliation?”

Wickham considered this for a moment, then laughed.

(If only that laugh had been a cackle or a guffaw, a garish and grating sound! Alas, it was the same melodious laugh that had thoroughly enchanted her once—a laugh that, even now, lulled her into doubting her intuition.)

“Poor Darcy!” Wickham’s laughter settled into a smile. “Now you must listen to me.”

For a long moment, Darcy said nothing, and Elizabeth wondered if he would again take refuge in silence. Then, all at once, his shoulders sagged. He half turned from Wickham, his taut profile now visible to her. “Yes,” he said quietly, “I suppose I must.”

How was it that Darcy, forlorn and defeated, appeared to be the stronger of the two? Wickham, grinning and triumphant, seemed but a shell of himself, his hairline cracks and hollow innards clearly visible when inspected under the glare of his own exultation.

“What do you want this time, George?”

“Stop calling me George, as if I’m a boy!”

“Is that all you would ask of me? Well then, Wickham—”

“Watch yourself, Darcy. You’re in no position to be clever now. You certainly weren’t clever when you sent dearest Georgi away to Ramsgate with only Mrs. Younge for a companion.”

Elizabeth saw how Darcy balled his hands into fists, how he leaned forward, how he was a mere moment from pouncing.

Wickham, too, must have seen this, for he said, “Come a step nearer—and I will tell everyone you know how sweet, innocent Georgiana spent an entire day—and much of the night, too—alone with me.”

Elizabeth pressed a hand to her mouth—but too late. A muted cry escaped her lips.

Darcy turned and looked, but Wickham only laughed. “I believe you’re more frightened of being overheard than I am. Think of the sounds your friends will make when they hear the news; it will be a great deal more shocking than the cries of an owl or a hawk.”

“Anyone who chooses to believe your lies over my sister’s word—” began Darcy.

“Ah, but there’s the rub,” said Wickham, pulling a bundle of folded papers from his coat pocket. “Surely you don’t think the letter I sent you was the only letter she sent me during our far-too-brief courtship? I have enough proof of her indiscretions to make your friends believe the very worst.”

“I will ask you again, George: what do you want from me?”

“I told you to call me Wickham! I ought to make you pay for your insolence.”

“You will make me pay no matter what,” Darcy retorted. “I have come back to Hertfordshire to hear your threats, and now I have listened to your lies. So tell me what you want, or leave me in peace.”

“Brave words from a man whose sister is about to become a pariah. How will it feel, I wonder, to be cut by the people you considered your friends? Ah, never mind,” said Wickham, his laugh no longer lyrical but bitter and hard. “I know exactly how that feels.”

“Do not compare your choices to my sister’s. She acted in good faith, whereas you lied and manipulated to gain her dowry.”

“You and she may have the luxury of your morals, Darcy, but I was not born with a fortune!”

“No, but you had a thousand pounds from my father, and then another three thousand in lieu of the preferment he promised if you were to take orders.”

Wickham snorted. “I wish I had taken orders. If I feel remorse for any of my past choices, Darcy, it’s that one, for now I am reduced to the penury of life as a militia officer. Kympton would have provided a nice, steady income.”

“For God’s sake, George, Kympton is not an income; it is a parish. There are good people who live there, people who—”

“Damn you, Darcy! You stand there, so righteous, pretending to be the protector of your people, the preserver of your sister’s honor. Who do you think brought me to this moment, hmm? Who was the one to belittle me, day after day, when I was but a lad?”

Now it was Darcy who stumbled back a step. “I never—”

“No? Oh, come now, Darcy! Try to recall at least some of those instances when you made sure to put me in my place. ‘No, George,’” Wickham said, mimicking a young boy’s falsetto, ‘“that is not how you bow. This is how you bow. No, George, that is not how you speak respectfully to your father. This is how you speak. That is not how you play chess, how you ride a horse, how you conjugate a Latin verb.’”

“I was but a child, I….” Darcy shook his head. “I thought I was helping you. I—”

“Helping me? You were humiliating me! You were the master’s perfect son; I was only the steward’s boy—Pemberley’s own court jester.”

Darcy turned away from Wickham, his face now fully visible to Elizabeth. Was it the magic of her invisibility, or just her imagination, that allowed her to read hurt, disbelief, and sorrow in his features? She could at least be certain of his movements: fingers pressed to his temples, another shake of his head, and a long, shuddering exhalation.

Then, drawing himself to his full height, he turned back to Wickham. “You are right: I have been arrogant, conceited, and selfish.”

Once again, Elizabeth found herself gaping.

“You know as well as I that my father was the best of men,” Darcy continued quietly. “He gave me good principles, but I chose to follow them in pride and conceit.^⁠1 I am truly sorry, George.” He winced. “Excuse me—Wickham.”

Elizabeth glanced between both men, hardly knowing what to feel: pity or anger—and for whom? Her gaze settled on Wickham. He had gone completely still so that he looked, in that moment, like a statue shrouded in fog.

Then, slowly, his lips curved into a beautiful, terrible grin.

“Mister Wickham,” he said.

Darcy stiffened.

“What, back to silence?” Wickham’s grin grew wider. “Go on, then; say it: ‘I am truly sorry, Mister Wickham.’”

Darcy said nothing, and Wickham tapped the packet of letters against his hand.

“I am”—Darcy stopped, breathed, shuddered—“truly sorry, Mr. Wickham.”

Just hearing those low and rasping words caused Elizabeth pain; she could only imagine how much pain he must have felt when saying them.

“God, that alone is almost enough—almost, but not quite.” Wickham smiled. “I find myself troubled by a few of these Meryton merchants. Be a good lad, Fitz, and take care of the bills, won’t you?”

A pause, and then, “Very well. Give me a list of creditors—along with the letters.”

Wickham laughed. “Come now! Do you think I am stupid? No, do not answer. I see what you are about to say, but that is not the correct way to speak to your betters. I may just have to share these letters with the world if you do not mind your place now.”

“But then what will you do about your creditors? That is the difficulty with extortion, George: it requires someone to extort.”

“You pompous ass—”

“Yes, I believe we have already established that fact. Let us not pretend any further: I do not have the power to silence you, and you do not have the power to walk away. So precisely what do you want for the letters?”

“After you pay my creditors, I will exchange the letters for—hmm, let’s say 10,000 pounds, shall we?”

She could hear Darcy’s sharp inhalation.

“What? Does that seem an enormous sum, Fitz? Surely, the richest landowner in Derbyshire can afford it! Besides, it is only a third of what I would have had, if your sister had not been so weak-willed and run to you the moment you arrived in Ramsgate.”

“Now you are blaming her for your troubles? For God’s sake, George, you broke her heart!”

Wickham snorted. “Yes, it must have been so difficult for her to go without something she wanted; she usually gets whatever little amusement she requests.”

Darcy shook his head. “Why are you doing this?”

“I told you already: you have humiliated me enough, and I will no longer—”

“No, why are you doing this to her? She truly loved you.” Darcy sighed. “She loves you still.”

This admission belied Darcy’s claim that he had no power to silence Wickham. For several long beats, he seemed unable to utter a word.

Then, abruptly, he laughed. “She will recover. Young ladies like her always do. They go to their fine London fetes and dance their troubles away—well, if they are invited. Letters like these might get in the way of that, hmm?”

“Do you care nothing at all for Georgiana? Can you not see that, by making those letters public, you will harm her a great deal more than you would harm me?”

“I hardly think—”

“We are men, George; the busybodies of the ton may wag their fingers at us, but then they let us go about our way. They never let women forget; they will not let Georgiana forget.”

“Then that is what you must decide, Fitz: is your pride worth more than your sister’s happiness? If it is, then by all means, walk away, and I will get my own reward simply by watching you suffer. Oh, your reputation and your fortune may not be materially damaged by this scandal, but you will never forgive yourself for failing to protect your sister. And she will never forgive you, either. I will make sure she knows you had the chance to stop this—and that you chose yourself instead.”

Even as Wickham’s cruel words washed over her, Elizabeth stood frozen on the periphery, unable to muster any response except hot, silent tears. Somewhere in the back of her fog-addled brain, a voice was whispering, Do something, do something! But what? Throw off her cloak and reveal herself? Run home and tell her father? What good would any of this do for Darcy and his sister, who would still face extortion and humiliation?

She could think of no way to right this wrong, and so she continued to stand at the edge of the meadow, weeping.

Rather pathetic, yes? Well, perhaps—but have pity on Elizabeth: her sense of self had just been shattered. It would have been startling enough to realize that Mr. Wickham, a man she had greatly esteemed, possessed only the appearance of goodness. His supposed virtues had originated not from his actions but from her admiration of his countenance, voice, and manner.^⁠2

Add to this damning discovery the strange fact of her invisibility, and surely then we might appreciate her predicament. That she owed her new perspective to an old cloak she had never seen before this morning, when she had pulled it haphazardly from the deep recesses of her wardrobe, was almost too much to comprehend.

Yet these revelations were nothing to her realization that Mr. Darcy, a man she had been determined to hate, was in fact worthy of great respect. He was a rare creature: a man who apologized for his mistakes, a landowner who felt true concern for the people of his parish, and above all, a brother who dearly loved his sister. Had he been, at times, arrogant and disagreeable? Indeed. Was he guilty of persuading Mr. Bingley to leave Netherfield (and Jane)? Almost certainly. For these flaws, he deserved her vexation and perhaps even her ire—but never her loathing.

And so came the most terrifying revelation of all: she had chosen to despise another human being simply to placate her own vanity. To know that she was so quick to judge—so quick to hate—humbled and pained her. She could see in herself nothing of the person she had believed herself to be. She was, in that moment, truly invisible.

“Well?”

Wickham’s voice called her back to herself—or at least to her body. Her head ached from crying; her toes throbbed with cold; her shoulders felt stiff and sore. She looked at Darcy, his head bowed, and knew that he must feel a great deal worse.

Still, in spite of his unhappy circumstances, Darcy remained Darcy. (True, she did not know him nearly as well as she had once supposed, but Elizabeth knew enough to suspect that pride, in both the best and the worst sense, was one of his defining characteristics.) He refused to answer Wickham—at least on Wickham’s schedule.

“Well? Do you agree to my terms?” Wickham demanded.

Darcy opened his mouth—and then closed it. He paced a bit, then stopped. Eventually, he returned to the rock and settled himself onto the edge, gazing up at the sky. Had Elizabeth been less distraught, she might have laughed, yet it only hurt more to know that this man, whom she had spent months despising, in fact possessed a sense of humor, even in the darkest of hours.

Wickham hurried over, though he made sure to stop just out of arm’s reach. “Give me your answer!”

“In time.”

“What? You cannot be serious!”

“You are right about me: I will suffer if I do not do everything I can to protect my sister. But you are wrong about Georgiana. She would not blame me if I failed to secure those letters. She would blame herself—and then I would have failed her all the more.”

Wickham shook his head. “You are not going to pay me?”

“Perhaps—or perhaps not. I am still attempting to determine what is in her best interest.”

“If you truly care for her, Darcy, you will pay me—and quickly!”

“Quickly? That is the heart of the matter: will it be quick? I cannot help wondering: when will it stop, George? How do I know you will not come to me in a year or two with another so-called letter from Georgiana? Or worse yet, go to her when she has married someone else you can extort?”

For a moment, Wickham could only gape. Then, suddenly, he began to laugh.

“Oh, Fitz, I take back what I said earlier: you really are clever—far too clever for your own good. Do you know: this idea had not even crossed my mind before you raised it? Thank you, truly.” He slipped half the letters from the bundle and held them aloft in his other hand. “How about 10,000 for this half—and the others…well, we can decide at a later date?”

Darcy went utterly still.

“Miscalculated, didn’t you?” said Wickham. “No, Fitz, that is not how you checkmate your opponent. This is how you—”

Now he lashed out; now he lunged. He would have got him, too—if Wickham had not thrown one of the packets aside and pulled a small pistol from his pocket.

“What, didn’t bring your own?” Wickham asked, pointing the weapon directly at Darcy’s chest. He then laughed so loudly that he frightened a flock of ravens perched in the tree nearest Elizabeth. The birds took flight, cawing as they cut through the fog.

Perhaps it was the dreariness of the setting that inspired her: the birds, the fog, the cold, damp grass. Or maybe it was the sight and sound of Wickham, everything in his being reminding her of his unholy ability to combine cruelty and beauty.

Most likely, it was her contrary nature, for now that there was actual danger involved in this business, she felt extraordinarily clear-headed. Of course she could help: she was invisible.

Racing into the clearing, she swooped low and grabbed the letters Wickham had scattered when reaching for his pistol. She did not pause at the sound of Wickham’s panicked exclamation (“What the hell is that? The letters…floating…what…how…”), nor did she stop at the sound of Wickham’s grunt as Darcy knocked the pistol from his grasp. She focused only on chasing Wickham, who now turned to run from the clearing as fast as he could.

Darcy was faster; he caught Wickham by the shoulder, and though Wickham pulled free, he had been slowed enough for Elizabeth to lunge at him and pull the remaining letters from his grasp.

Both men cried out then, and Wickham fell to the ground, cursing. Some small part of her realized, of course, that she was the cause of their shock, but since most of her was focused on escaping the clearing without dropping the letters, she did not give herself time to think about how she must have appeared—or disappeared—to them.

She was only two steps into her escape, however, when she heard Darcy’s quiet exclamation: “Her ring!”

Now Elizabeth paused, glancing at her hand, the only part of her not covered by the cloak. Her silver ring glinted in the gloom.

Gulping, she looked up at him then, wondering: was it just her hand he could see? That seemed to be the case, for he gazed, wide-eyed, at what must have appeared to be a disembodied set of fingers.

It was an odd moment to think anything except, “Run, run, run!” for Wickham was now scrabbling to his feet. He would find the pistol, he would chase after her, he would…

Well, she did not want to think what he would do. She only wanted Darcy to realize that, as strange and incomprehensible as it might seem, she was there—and on his side.

Their eyes met, and he exhaled sharply.

“Who’s there? Who did you bring?” Wickham was running toward them now. “Goddamn you, Darcy, I will kill you!”

“Go,” Darcy said before turning and running toward the part of the clearing where Wickham had dropped the pistol.

Elizabeth would not go, at least not until she saw Darcy retrieve the pistol from the ground and point it at Wickham. Then she spun on her heel and sprinted toward Longbourn.

 

Part III

Though she had a stitch in her side and water in her boots, Elizabeth did not stop running until she reached the grounds of Longbourn. Even then she did not pause long; after taking two gasping breaths, she raced past the house and toward the copse on the far side of the grounds, hoping to avoid detection.

Never mind her supposed invisibility. Her cloak shimmered so brightly now that she wondered how anyone could avoid seeing her. Was it this light that had allowed Mr. Darcy to recognize her? Had her cloak stopped working (as if cloaks were regularly supposed to keep out prying eyes, as well as the cold)?

Yet Mr. Wickham had not seen her; he had seen only her hand, which must have become visible the moment she had thrust it past the folds of the cloak in order to seize the letters. She nearly laughed at the fright she had given him—her disembodied hand reaching for him like some ghoulish creature from a gothic novel.

Then she thought of all she had heard, all she had seen. No, Elizabeth could not laugh, not in her present state. She could only slump against a sturdy elm and stare at the bundle of letters she continued to carry. What was she to do with them?

Burn them, she supposed. Yet was that not for Mr. Darcy—or better still, Miss Darcy—to decide? So how was she to return the letters? She could just imagine marching up the steps of Netherfield, this time the hem of her gown more than six-inches deep in mud.

But Mr. Darcy would not be returning to Netherfield. He had made sure no one in the Bingley party would return to Netherfield.

Elizabeth shook her head. How was she to make sense of this situation? Wickham was a scoundrel; on that score, she no longer held any doubt. Oh, how oblivious she had been to his faults—and how utterly blind she had been to Mr. Darcy’s virtues.

But these virtues by no means absolved him of his likely involvement in separating Mr. Bingley from Jane. While he had been willing to suffer great humiliation on behalf of his sister, he seemed to have very little concern for the happiness of hers.

“Miss Bennet?”

She whirled around, startled to see the object of her thoughts hurrying across Longbourn’s grounds. Oh, what was she to say to him? She felt suddenly unprepared to face him after all she had learned of him—and herself.

“Miss Bennet?” he called again, this time with a note of—was that panic in his voice?

She realized then that he was not calling to her; he was searching for her. He looked in the direction of the copse and then, shaking his head, made his way toward the front steps of the house.

“No, wait! Mr. Darcy!” She cast an anxious glance at Longbourn, hoping her exclamation had not earned the notice of anyone in the house.

Darcy turned back toward the copse, eyes narrowing—and then, suddenly, widening with recognition. She threw back her hood and wondered, as he came toward her, exactly what he saw.

“Do I appear to be nothing but a floating head?”

These were not, she supposed, the right words to begin this conversation—but then, after all that had occurred, were any words sufficient?

His lips quirked. “No, you appear to be Miss Elizabeth Bennet, wearing a very wet cloak, though a moment ago, I saw but a shadow.” He paused, his countenance becoming grave. “Are you well? Were you injured?”

“I ought to be asking you those questions. Did Mr. Wickham—”

“The moment he realized I had his pistol,” Darcy said, “he ran.”

She looked away. When Wickham returned to his regiment, would he keep silent—or spread even more lies, not just about Darcy this time, but about his sister?

Then, of course, she recalled the letters.

“Here,” she whispered, holding them up for him to take.

He glanced at the letters, then swallowed. “Miss Bennet, I—”

“I know you think very little of me,” she said, “but I did not read them. I promise to say nothing of this matter to anyone.”

“Think very little of you?” He winced. “Do you truly believe I have so little respect for your integrity?”

She tried to laugh, but the sound came out strangled, hurt. “I seem to recall something about being tolerable, but not… ”

She stopped, the remaining words suddenly meaningless. That insult, which had loomed so large in her mind, now seemed such a small thing—rude and unkind, certainly, but not an aspersion of her character. Did her appearance matter so much to her? She had always believed herself above such petty concerns. Well, now she knew better.

“So you heard what I said at the Assembly,” he said, face reddening.

“I did.”

“Those words, Miss Bennet, reflect my defects, not yours. Forgive me for the pain I must have caused you. I”—he laughed softly, sadly—“I seem to have many reasons to apologize today.”

“Not to me. Oh, you were wrong to speak in such a way, of course, but you did not cause true pain. You merely injured my vanity, which I have been told is a weakness that must not be confused with that nobler quality of pride.”

“Those were the words of an arrogant fool,” Darcy muttered, and Elizabeth laughed.

“I would not go so far as to call my sister Mary arrogant.”

“Your sister Mary? But I—”

“Oh, did you think I was speaking of you, sir?” She arched a brow. “You are not the only one to give me a lecture on pride and vanity. That not one but two individuals of my acquaintance spoke to me on this subject, I prefer to see as a mere coincidence.”

He laughed—and her breath caught. Had she ever heard such a sound from him before? Surely not, for why else would she catch herself staring at his mouth? Hardly knowing what else to do, she glanced down at her hands—and saw that she still held the letters.

“Please, you must take these.”

“Thank you.”

As he slipped the letters from her hands, she looked up at him, then wished she had not. He was gazing at her with such concern, such distress, that she knew what he must be thinking.

“I promise,” she said again, “I will say nothing at all to—”

“No more of that, I beg you. What will it take for me to convince you that I do not doubt you? That in fact I have long admired and…” He exhaled sharply. “It is enough to say that I do not doubt you. I am sorry that I ever caused you to doubt me.”

“I believe you have apologized quite enough for one day, Mr. Darcy.”

“I am beginning to think I cannot apologize often enough.” He glanced down at the letters before slipping them into his coat pocket. “Though I am only too aware that my apologies will never atone for the damage I have caused my sister.”

“Do not allow Wickham make you believe you are to blame!” she said with a vehemence that surprised even her. “Yes, you patronized him as a child; you spoke without considering his feelings, just as you spoke without considering mine. You cannot, however, be blamed for his greed—or my vanity.”

“If I am not allowed to apologize,” he said, “then you must not speak again of your vanity. Today you have proven yourself to be brave, clever and everything that is good. No one admitted to the privilege of knowing you, Elizabeth, could find anything wanting.”

She thought, but could not be sure, that he blushed when he realized he had used her first name; she felt, and was entirely sure, that she blushed.

“Excuse me, Miss Bennet, I should not have—”

She laughed. “Are you about to apologize yet again…Fitzwilliam?”

She ought to have been shocked at her own impertinence; he ought have been shocked. Instead, they grinned at each other, as if they were not standing in the wet grass, as if she had not recently been invisible to him, as if he had not just faced the prospect of his sister’s ruin.

They grinned at each as if they were, well, friends.

Except, what did it mean to be friends with such a man—a man whose words provoked her, whose laugh thrilled her…whose actions had made her sister miserable?

She felt her entire frame droop.

“Miss Bennet, are you well? What can I—”

“Tell me the truth, Mr. Darcy: did you convince Mr. Bingley to depart Netherfield?”

Part IV

“Tell me the truth, Mr. Darcy: did you convince Mr. Bingley to depart Netherfield?”

His eyes closed briefly. “Yes.”

When he said nothing more, she exclaimed, “And this is all the reply I am to expect from you?”[1]

“What else am I to tell you?”

“Perhaps you might honor me with a reason you were so determined to separate Mr. Bingley from my sister? For that, I am now certain, was your purpose in leaving.”

“It was one of them,” he said, looking away.

She turned and paced along the edge of the copse, hoping the crunch of leaves beneath her boots might relieve some of her anger. Instead, she felt only how cold and wet her feet had become.

“Miss Bennet, stop,” he said, coming up behind her. He reached out but did not touch her. “Please.”

She turned and glared. “Well?”

“Yes, I encouraged Bingley to leave. I understand his temperament only too well. His heart is easily engaged—and easily broken. In the three years since leaving Cambridge, he has, on several occasions, nearly fallen prey to the schemes of marriage-minded mothers.”

She opened her mouth to object, but settled on a sigh. “I cannot defend my mother’s behavior, but—”

“I do not blame you for it.”

“Oh, how very kind! Well, I have never sought your good opinion, Mr. Darcy!”

“No.” He frowned, kicking at a stone beneath his boot. “No, I suppose you have not.”

“I freely acknowledge,” she said, resuming her pacing, “that my mother can be silly and wrong-headed, but she cares for us, in her way.”

“Be that as it may, I must think of my friend.”

She whirled on him. “Is he not a man of independence and information? You behave as if he were a child, dependent on your good sense and guidance!”

“He is not a child, but he is young—and far too easily swayed by the whims of others.”

“You have certainly proven that to be true!”

Darcy’s face reddened. “You may consider me officious, but I will do whatever I must to protect those I hold dear.”

“Yes,” she said, thinking of all he had been willing to say and do on behalf of his sister. “I know that to be true, as well.” Her voice softened. “Your sister is fortunate to have such a brother—but I cannot help thinking you have harmed, rather than helped, Mr. Bingley.” She stared up at him, willing him to understand. “My sister is the very best of women!”

“Your sister, Miss Bennet, appears to be all that is good-natured and dutiful—qualities I fear, as much as I laud, when it comes to young ladies with scheming mothers.”

“Then you had best run away,” she could not help but retort, “for you find yourself alone with the daughter of such a woman now!”

“I am not afraid of you,” he said, smiling.[2]

“No, I suppose I am not good-natured, dutiful, or handsome enough to tempt you.”

The moment she spoke the words, she regretted them. Would she never overcome her own vanity?

“Miss Bennet, I only meant that you would not let yourself be led by your mother.”

“And neither would Jane! She is not a mere instrument of my mother’s machinations. You have called her dutiful and good-natured—and you are correct. But she is, above all else, honest. If she has given Mr. Bingley reason to hope, then it is for the two of them to decide how to proceed.”

He threw up his hands. “But she has not given him reason to hope!”

“Of course she has!”

“I have seen no sign of it. She smiles but never laughs; she is at times reserved, even cold; and I have never seen her seek him out.”

Elizabeth could not help but gape. “What would you have her do, Mr. Darcy? Should she flirt and flatter? Should she follow him about, hanging on his every word? I suppose you think she ought to behave toward Mr. Bingley as Caroline Bingley behaves toward you!”

Now it was his turn to gape.

“I cannot deny,” continued Elizabeth, “that Jane is reserved. She does not like to bring attention to herself. With a mother such as ours, her reserve is a virtue, Mr. Darcy—not a vice.”

“I…I had not seen it in such a light.”

Her lips twisted into something like a smile. “There is no little irony in the fact that you, of all people, should condemn Jane for being cold and reserved.”

A shadow of hurt passed over his features before he schooled his expression.

“Forgive me,” she said, immediately ashamed. “I did not mean to be cruel, I only meant—”

“No, you said nothing untrue. I am reserved and—well, you are not the first person to call me cold.”

He half turned from her, running a hand through his hair, and she realized then that, somewhere along the way to this inconceivable moment, he had lost his hat. He looked younger somehow, vulnerable even—certainly not cold or reserved.

“Irony abounds, I suppose,” he said, attempting a smile. “I thought with you I was being open—too open, perhaps.”

She drew in a long breath, hoping it might ease the sudden ache in her chest.

“I truly believed,” he said, “that your sister allowed Bingley’s attentions only to please your mother. If you believe Miss Jane Bennet cares for my friend, then I believe you. I will speak to Bingley the moment I arrive in London this evening.”

She ought to have been happy—and for her sister, she tried to be. For herself, however, she felt only the sting of disappointment. For months she had seen him in one light, and now—well, now he would return to London, and she would return to Longbourn.

She reached for the hood of her cloak and pulled it atop her head. “I should depart. My family will be—”

“Wait, please!” he said, as she began to walk past him. “Do not disappear.”

She stopped and saw that her cloak was, once again, glistening. “Are you speaking figuratively—or literally?”[3]

His lips quirked. “Literally, though now I can see you well enough.”

And indeed, the cloak had resumed its dreary, muted appearance.

“Do you understand how it works?” he asked her.

In spite of everything, she smiled. “You surprise me continually, Mr. Darcy. I would never have expected to converse with you about…well…” She bit her lip, hesitant to use the word that came to mind.

“Magic?” he suggested, one eyebrow raised.

She laughed. “Yes, magic! Do you not find it incomprehensible—unbelievable, even?”

“No, not at all. I have seen—or not seen—the effects with my own eyes. I cannot doubt my own senses.”

“But if another person were to come to you and say, ‘Mr. Darcy, I have a cloak that makes me invisible,’ you would scoff.”

“Once, I would have. Now…” He shrugged. “What is magic, except the inexplicable rearrangement of our expectations?”

Her eyes widened. “I would never have thought to define it as such, but I wholly embrace your definition. This means that we all have the capacity for magic.”

“I like that idea,” he said.

“Do you?”

“Why should I not?”

“I would have expected…” She laughed. “I suppose am still adjusting to the inexplicable rearrangement of my expectations regarding you. By your definition, today has been the most magical of my life.”

“Is that so?” he asked, his gaze searching.

“Yes.” And then, fearing she had said too much with that one quiet word, she tugged at the hood of her cloak. “With this at my disposal, how could today be anything but magical?”

“Of course.” He looked away, exhaling. “The cloak. You did not answer my question. How does it work?”

“I am not certain. It has lived in the back of my wardrobe for years, long before I was of a size to wear it, in fact—and I find myself donning it only on the gloomiest of days, when I require the additional warmth. I did not realize until today that I could become invisible, as long I stay completely within the cloak’s folds. I believe that is why you saw my hand when I reached out for the letters.”

“Yes, that seems reasonable—as reasonable as magic can be, I suppose. When I recognized your ring, I—”

He stopped abruptly, and she asked, “How did you recognize my ring?”

It was a simple, silver band, so common she could not recall who had given it to her. Even she would not have recognized it on the hand of another.

“Ah, well…” He swallowed. “I believe I first noticed it when you played pianoforte at the Lucas residence.”

Her brows inched upward. “Then you must have quite a memory for plain jewelry! That was some time ago.”

“It was not that long ago, though I did also see it on a more recent occasion—when you stayed at Netherfield and chose to read instead of play cards. More recently still, there was the ball.”

“I wore gloves at the ball!” She ought to have worn them this morning, too—only she had left them behind in her rush to escape the house.

“At the ball, you removed them momentarily, after your cousin spilled punch on them.”

He had seen that? All at once—and far too late for someone who supposed herself so clever—she understood: those moments when she thought he had been looking at her with disdain, he had actually been…admiring her?

She dared a glance at him, and his blush seemed to confirm her suspicions. Good God, could she have been more obtuse?

Clearing his throat, he said, “I do not yet understand precisely how the cloak functions. Why can I sometimes see you—as I can now—and sometimes not?”

“I believe,” she said slowly, “that I can control it.” She arched a brow. “Shall I try now?”

“Indeed.”

She nodded and, not knowing what else to do, squeezed her eyes shut, as if not seeing him would cast a spell of invisibility on her.

Not only did this approach fail—“I can see you still,” he said, laughing—it did nothing to keep her from seeing him, at least in her mind’s eye: hatless (his hair curled slightly in the mist), disheveled (he must have left London so early that he had not had time to shave), and utterly appealing.

Heart racing, she opened her eyes, hoping a good dose of reality might cure her of these silly thoughts. Alas, the sight of him only confirmed her feelings: she admired him—very much. It was not simply his appearance: here was a man who could be proud and humble, warm and reserved, disapproving and devoted. His was a character intricate enough to intrigue her for the rest of her days.

How had this happened? Two hours had passed, and her entire world had changed.

She spun on her heel. “We should not look at each other. That must be why the cloak is not working.”

“Should I turn around too?” he asked, his voice rich with amusement.

“Do what you will,” she muttered, thinking how unfair it was that even his voice should now be so endearing to her.

Disappear! she told herself, huddling in her cloak as she had earlier that morning. Yet she could not stop herself from thinking of him—of all the ways she had, and had not, seen him these past months.

When he cleared his throat, she glanced over her shoulder.

He smiled and shook his head.

“Oh, it is no use,” she said, crossing her arms as she turned back to face him.

“You cannot control the cloak, then?”

“I cannot control myself.”

“I do not understand.”

“Before, I did not want you to see me. Now…” She forced herself to hold his gaze. “Well, now I do.”

He took a step toward her. “Elizabeth…Miss Bennet…”

She wanted nothing more than to tilt her head and say, laughingly, “Which is to be with you: Elizabeth or Miss Bennet?”

But though she knew very well how to be impertinent, she was not well-practiced in the art of intentional flirtation. So instead she blushed and said, “You return to London soon.”

“Ah.” He retreated, not one step but several. “Yes, I…I should go.”

She winced. That was not what she had meant.

As they walked slowly in the direction of Longbourn—was it her decision or his to weave their way through the copse, instead of walking directly toward the house?—she asked, “How will you explain to Mr. Bingley your changed perspective on my sister?”

“What if I told him the truth?”

“What a conversation that would be!‘Bingley!’” she cried, lowering the pitch of her voice to imitate his. “‘I happened upon Miss Jane Bennet’s occasionally-invisible, always-impertinent younger sister while visiting Hertfordshire today, and she told me I was mistaken!’”

He laughed. “Bingley would be so startled by my admission of error that your invisibility might seem, by comparison, unremarkable.”

“Do you truly plan to tell him all that has happened this morning?” She looked down at her cloak, suddenly protective of it—or perhaps just protective of the secret the two of them now shared.

“No, I think I will try a different approach,” he said, smiling. “My sister is town, and she has lamented the fact that we are spending Christmas in London, rather than the country. While Netherfield is no Pemberley, she would enjoy Hertfordshire a great deal more than town.” He paused. “She would also enjoy meeting you. If I could convince Bingley to return…”

Her heart leapt at the idea—for Jane’s sake, of course.

“You certainly did not have much trouble convincing Mr. Bingley to leave,” she could not help but tease. Then, all at once, she groaned. “No, your plan will not work!”

“Why not? It will not take long to reopen the house, and—”

“Wickham,” she said quietly, wishing she could swallow the bitterness of that word. “Mr. Wickham will still be in Meryton with the regiment. You could not bring your sister to the same neighborhood.”

He grimaced. “No, of course not. You helped me forget about him, at least for a moment.”

“Do you worry that he will continue to trouble you and your sister?”

Darcy’s smile was bitter. “Oh, I do not worry, for I know he will. So long as there is money to be had, George Wickham will always reappear.”

“Then he may still spread lies about your sister. Indeed, he may, as you feared, have other letters in reserve!”

“He may, though he seemed truly astonished by that idea.” Darcy laughed softly, humorlessly. “George does not always think ideas through to their conclusion. I would surprised if he had even meant to keep my sister’s letters. You should have seen his lodgings at Cambridge; he threw his books and papers into whatever container was nearest for him.”

“So you believe he simply came across the letters and realized they were a fortuitous means of escaping his current debt?”

“Indeed. I do not think he possesses the foresight to plan beyond his present needs. It is not that George is a fool; to the contrary, he is quick-witted and charming. But he lives moment to moment. I do not know whether to despise, pity, or envy him for this approach to life.”

She raised a brow. “Envy?”

“It is not an admirable impulse, I grant you. But when Wickham wants something, he does not ask himself if he should. He does not wonder about the repercussions. He simply acts.”

They stopped walking, and he looked at her so intently that her heart began to race. What would he do if not constrained by duty and decorum?

“Perhaps,” he said quietly, “I should speak with your father.”

“My father?” Now that pesky organ in her chest slammed hard against her ribcage.

“I ought to have spoken to him—or some other gentleman in the area—the moment I knew of Wickham’s presence here.”

Ah, of course. She nearly laughed for believing, even for a moment, that he had meant anything else.

“You are right to warn others of his perfidy,” she said, resuming her walk, and rather briskly, too, “though what my father will be able to accomplish without knowing the details of Wickham’s deceit, I cannot predict.”

“I will tell him as much as I can without naming my sister. If I am able to do nothing except put others on their guard, Wickham will not have quite so much power here.”

“Perhaps, but I must warn you that your reputation in Meryton is not such that our neighbors will easily accept your word in this matter.”

He snorted. “I am aware of Wickham’s lies, but I am not concerned with how others see me. So long as they begin to question Wickham’s character, I will be satisfied.”

She could not help but smile. “Your indifference to the opinion of others is, in many respects, a virtue—but in this matter, it is precisely what threatens your credibility.” She hesitated before adding, “Your haughtiness and disinterest have been just as effective as Wickham’s lies in sinking your character here.”

Jaw tightening, he said, “Is that so?”

Now it was his turn to quicken the pace, and she found herself running to keep up. Without thinking, she put her hand on his forearm, stilling him immediately.

He glanced down at her fingers, gripping the sleeve of his coat.

“Pardon me,” she said. But as soon as she began to withdraw her hand, he forestalled her, placing his hand over hers.

Unable to look away from their interlocked fingers—he radiated such warmth, even through the leather of his glove—she whispered, “I did not tell you this to hurt you, only to prepare you.”

“I know, Elizabeth.”

At the sound of her name—a second time made no difference; the thrill that shot through her was just as strong—she looked up at him.

“Only a true friend,” he said, voice low, “would tell me a difficult but necessary truth.” Then he squeezed her hand lightly before releasing it.

“Would you advise me?” he asked, as they resumed their walk. “Tell me how I might convince your father to trust me.”

For all the romance of clasped hands, could such a gesture compare to the eagerness of his expression just then, as if he wanted nothing more than to hear her opinion? Well, yes—both set her pulse racing. She suspected she was losing head and heart to this man—and fast, too.

Fortunately, falling in love did not much get in the way of her sharing a decided opinion.

“It will not do,” she said, “to make others see Mr. Wickham clearly. You must make them see you. Not your pride or your wealth, certainly not your impatience with our provincial shortcomings—but the man I have come to know today.”

“Ah, but in essentials,” he said, lips twisting, “I am as I always have been.”[4]

“Yes, in essentials, you remain unchanged: a concerned brother, a devoted friend, and a man who, even in his darkest moments, showed great wit and integrity,” she replied fiercely—a little too fiercely, given the widening of his eyes. He must know how she had begun to feel about him. What a fool he must think her—one moment despising him, the next ready to kiss him.

“But it does not follow,” she continued, her voice only a little unsteady, “that others, who have not been witness to your true character, are able to see beyond the mask of incivility you sometimes wear.”

His smile was wry. “Ah, there you are, Elizabeth Bennet. I was beginning to fear, after hearing so many compliments from you, that the cloak had performed a different kind of magic.”

“Oh, no. In essentials, I too remain unchanged,” she retorted, wondering if this was, in fact, true. “Now, come: Longbourn looms, and we still have important matters to discuss. I must advise you on how to win over my father, and you must devise a plan for making certain Mr. Bingley sees Jane again.”

“Does your family never come to London?” he asked.

“No, my father despises town.”

“Then that is a point of agreement between us.”

She smiled. “When you enter his study, you may discover you have a great deal in common. Oh, his library is nothing to Pemberley’s, if Miss Bingley is to be believed, but he is proud of it.”

“Well, you have helped plan my speech to your father: I will tell him how much I admire his books, his views on London, and”—here he paused, but only for a moment—“the wit and vivacity of his second daughter; he will then agree to warn the other gentleman of the neighborhood of Wickham’s debts and deceit.”

She halted, just at the edge of the tree line, grasping hold of a branch, as if she might keep herself in these woods, in this moment, for just a little longer.

“It is that simple, is it?” she asked, gazing at Longbourn. The house was beautiful this morning—bright and cozy, bathed in the sudden sunlight of a once-foggy morning. Oh, what a perverse creature she was, wishing now to return to the gloom they had just left behind.

“No, not simple,” he replied. “Our greatest hopes rarely are—not if they are any good for us.”

She laughed unsteadily. “I cannot tell if you are flattering or insulting me—or speaking of me at all.”

“Of course I am speaking of you, Elizabeth,” he said, coming to stand before her, blocking her view of the house and all that lay beyond. “I wish I had spoken earlier.”

“I would not have listened,” she said, swallowing hard. “Before this morning, I did not see you—not as I see you now.”

“None of that matters. Elizabeth—”

She shook her head. “These thoughts and feelings are new and untested. This must be true for you, as well.”

“No, not at all,” he replied fiercely. “Since you stayed at Netherfield, I have felt—”

“Not enough to speak,” she cut in. “Not enough to remain in Hertfordshire.”

He opened his mouth, then closed it.

“Perhaps you saw how much I disliked you,” she continued quietly, “and decided to leave without speaking, for fear of refusal.”

“In truth…” He glanced at her, then away. “I never considered that you might refuse me. I hesitated to speak because, well, your family—your mother in particular—”

“Ah.” The laugh that followed was soft and sad. “It seems we have both been blind, Mr. Darcy.”

“Yes, but now, Elizabeth—Miss Bennet—now you must know that my feelings will not be repressed, that I ardently—”[5]

“No,” she said quickly. “No, not yet!”

“Not yet?” His brows contracted, then jumped—an endearing shift between alarm and optimism that threatened to undo her resolution. “Then when?”

She looked past him, toward the sun-drenched grounds of Longbourn. “Perhaps when you have decided whether to call me Elizabeth or Miss Bennet—and when I have decided I may call you Fitzwilliam without blushing; when you have spoken to Mr. Bingley of your errors—and when I am certain Jane is happy, whatever that means for her; when you have left this enchanted wood and returned to the world—and when I have had enough time alone to consider all I have seen and heard today.” She smiled ruefully. “The fog may have lifted, Mr. Darcy, but now we are squinting at the sun. Do you not think we ought to give our eyes time to adjust?”

“Such a speech, Elizabeth, only makes me more certain I am seeing quite clearly now.”

She laughed. “As your most officious friend, Fitzwilliam, allow me to advise you against making such pronouncements on a morning when you have both confronted your nemesis and witnessed magic. Such events do not inspire sound decisions.”

“Do you not believe that such events can, in fact, provide the clarity of mind needed to make the very best decisions?”

“No, I believe ample rest and long walks are much better sources of wisdom.”

“Pemberley has many very fine walks.”

“Now you are not playing fair.”

He grinned—and oh, what a sight that was! But his mischievous joy was short-lived. “In a matter of hours, Elizabeth, I must return to London, to my sister.”

“Yes, I know.”

They were silent for a moment, before she said, “If you could convince Mr. Bingley—” at the same time that he said, “If you could convince your father—”

They stopped, and then he said, “With Georgiana, I cannot return to Hertfordshire—” just as she said, “My father will never agree to travel to London.”

Yet the moment she said, “London,” she remembered what should have been obvious from the start: “My dearest aunt and uncle live in London! Indeed, they are visiting Longbourn for Christmas, and I might convince them to invite Jane to town on their return. Then she may call on Miss Bingley, and you may make certain Mr. Bingley knows of her presence in town.”

“I will be glad to do so. Where do your aunt and uncle reside? We might meet them in Hyde or Green if they walk there regularly—”

Ah. Here was the first test. “They are not very close to Hyde or Green Park.”

“Then they must be nearer to Portman Square.”

“In fact, no. They live on Gracechurch Street, in Cheapside.” She met his gaze squarely. “My uncle—my mother’s brother—prefers to live near his business; he is a wholesaler dealing in cut glass.”

To his credit, Darcy’s eyes widened only a little.

“What is more,” she said, crossing her arms, “I love him and his family very much. Mr. Gardiner is a man of information—and the kindest man I know. His wife is witty, charming, and the dearest aunt in the world.”

“Then I look forward to meeting them,” he replied, crossing his arms in imitation of her. She could not help but laugh.

“Truly?”

“Yes, Elizabeth, truly. In fact, your uncle’s profession is one that interests me.”

“It is?”

“Indeed. Pemberley requires a new supply of glassware.”

“Is that so?” she asked, eyebrows raised. “I suppose your steward sent you to London specifically to make such a purchase.”

He smiled. “My steward knows only too well that I consider no detail of the estate beneath my notice.”

“Then your steward must be a very patient man!”

“He does not mind my officious ways. I think he knows how much I love Pemberley—and I do not love by halves, Elizabeth.”

Such a claim, in such a voice, sent a shiver of anticipation down her spine—not that she was allowing herself to anticipate any particular outcome, of course. No, she was determined to be rational about this business: yesterday, Fitzwilliam Darcy was the last man in the world she would have chosen to marry; it simply did not follow that today—no matter how revolutionary the day had been—she would throw herself into his arms and shout, “Yes!”[6]

“How soon after the new year do you suppose you and your sister will be in town?” he asked as they reluctantly left the copse and crossed the front lawn.

She did not know whether to be amused or vexed at the assumption he made. “I said that I might be able to convince my aunt and uncle to invite my sister—not that I would come to London myself.”

He stopped and stared at her.

“It would be an imposition,” she said, tugging gently on his arm. They moved forward, but only in fits and starts.

“Surely they would be only too glad to invite you!”

“Surely they would,” she agreed, smiling a little at his vehemence, “but I cannot possibly ask on my own behalf. For Jane, yes, I may impose. Her spirits are low, and she requires a change of scenery. For myself—I am a selfish creature, Mr. Darcy, but not so selfish that I would expect them to take on the expense and trouble of hosting me, just so that I may be courted under their noses.”

He was silent for a long moment. “Perhaps you are correct about squinting into the sun; I can see nothing in this moment except what I want. I resemble George Wickham more than I would care to admit.”

“Except that you did admit it, which presents something of a paradox, for I doubt very much that George Wickham would ever acknowledge his shortcomings.”

“He has not such an inducement,” Darcy replied, smiling.

“Come now, Mr. Darcy! You are not a man to flatter. I do not suppose for one moment that I have the power to alter his character—or yours.”

“You have not altered my character, perhaps—but you have altered the course of my life, and I find myself wishing for nothing more than to follow the path we have so strangely forged this morning.”

She did not trust herself to respond.

“Yet you cannot come to London,” he continued, “and I cannot, for the time being, return to Hertfordshire. So what shall we do?”

Again, she had no response. They stood now before the front steps of the house, and she glanced up at the first-floor windows, hoping against hope that she would not see her mother’s frilly cap. Mrs. Bennet did not appear to be in the parlor or the morning room; she would not, of course, be in her father’s study…

“Your friend, Miss Lucas—she has lately become engaged to your cousin?” Darcy asked.

Elizabeth turned to stare at him. Here they were, in their last moments together for who knew how long, and he wanted to discuss Charlotte Lucas?

“Yes, she is to marry Mr. Collins in less than a month.”

Again, she glanced at the windows. Oh no, there was her mother, a shadow on the second floor! She was in her own bedroom, looking out at the scenery. How long before she noticed them?

“So she will soon reside in Kent, at the Hunsford rectory?” Darcy asked.

“Hmm? Yes, but…”

The cap had disappeared. Her mother must have seen them. How long now before she raced down the stairs and opened the door?

“Do you intend to visit her at Hunsford? I believe she is one of your closest friends.”

“Well, yes, she has invited me, but I do not know if I—” She stopped, blinked, and laughed. “Hunsford! Parish of the great patroness, Lady Catherine de Bourgh!” [7]

“Yes,” he said, grinning that grin, “and it so happens that I visit my aunt each Easter.”

“How convenient! It so happens that I have a sudden interest in hearing Mr. Collins give an Easter sermon!”

They looked at each other and laughed. Could this be their future, then: misunderstandings and arguments, yes, but also this harmony of laughter?

“Then you will come to Hunsford?” he asked.

“Yes, if Charlotte truly wants me to visit, I will come. Of course I wanted to visit for her sake, but I have delayed accepting, dreading the idea of spending so much time in the house of my cousin.”

“Well, you need not spend very much time within doors when he is there. There are fine walks at Rosings—”

She bumped his shoulder. “Surely not as fine as those at Pemberley!”

He met her nudge with one of his own. “Surely not. But they will do—for a start.”

“And what if it should rain?” She glanced up at him, one eyebrow raised. “March is a mercurial month.”

“Rain will not deter me, Elizabeth Bennet.”

She laughed. “Easily said, on a sunny day.”

“If you are worried about the weather, wear this serviceable cloak of yours.” He extended a hand and brushed his fingers along the hem of her hood. He did not touch her face, but she felt the heat of him nonetheless. “Its magic has served us well this far.”

His proximity, his voice, his use of that word, magic—they all conspired to undo her. She gazed up at him, leaning forward ever-so-slightly, then ever-so-slightly more, until…

“Mr. Darcy!”

Her mother’s sharp exclamation nearly caused Elizabeth to tumble backward.

Mrs. Bennet stood in the open front door of Longbourn, mouth agape, face red, eyes wide.

Glancing at Darcy, Elizabeth saw that he had closed his eyes; she was tempted to whisper, “I have tried that method of disappearance already; it does not work.”

“Whatever are you doing here, sir?” Mrs. Bennet asked, hurrying down the front steps.

Perhaps it was her mother’s wary but polite tone; more likely it was the sudden gleaming of her cloak. But Elizabeth knew then that Mrs. Bennet saw only Darcy standing on the front lawn of Longbourn. How strange he must have looked to her: a hatless gentleman, talking to himself and then reaching out to touch nothing but air! Then again, Mrs. Bennet might have noticed none of these oddities; to her, it must have been astonishing enough that this haughty, disagreeable man was here at all.

Biting her lip, Elizabeth glanced sideways at Darcy, who shot her a look of such desperation that she almost laughed—almost. But that would have meant alerting her mother to her presence. No, here was another test: if he truly cared for her, then he had better learn to converse with her mother on his own.

Darcy took a deep breath and turned to Mrs. Bennet with a bow. “Good day to you, Madam. I hope you and your family are well.”

Mrs. Bennet squinted up at him, then looked to his right, just where Elizabeth stood. Did she suspect something? Elizabeth fixed one thought in her mind: Do not see me! Her mother’s eyes narrowed further, and Elizabeth held her breath. For all her foolish ways, Mrs. Bennet could be extraordinarily shrewd, when it suited her.

At last, her mother turned her sharp-eyed gaze to Darcy. “My family are all well enough, though my dear Jane…” She stopped, mouth forming a large O. “Mr. Bingley! Has he returned to Netherfield, then? Is that why you are here? Do tell him, sir, that he owes us a visit! I believe he was to dine with us—before he left so unexpectedly.”

“Ah.” He again shot Elizabeth a glance; she smiled sweetly at him from beneath her cloak. “Mr. Bingley has not been able to return, Madam, though I am certain he regrets his absence.”

“Oh, well, I…” Mrs. Bennet sighed heavily. “Then why are you here, if Mr. Bingley has not come back?”

Elizabeth glared at her mother, wishing she could be a little more welcoming. One might suppose that Mr. Darcy’s situation in life would earn him at least a little deference from a woman so obsessed with fortune.

“I traveled to Hertfordshire for a matter of…business,” said Darcy at last. “I return to London today, but as I was in the neighborhood, I did not wish to leave without paying my respects.”

“Is that so? You have never called on us alone before!”

This combination of incivility and disbelief mortified Elizabeth, but Darcy merely smiled.

“I have heard from a very trustworthy source, Mrs. Bennet, that your husband has one of the finest libraries in Hertfordshire. As I am something of a collector myself…”

“Oh, books!” cried Mrs. Bennet. “Well, I suppose some gentleman find them interesting, though why you should like books above hunting—you know we have very fine hunting grounds, Mr. Darcy?”

“I am sure you do, Mrs. Bennet.”

“Oh, very well. Come in, come in! I will have Sally take your gloves and—where is your hat, sir?”

Mr. Darcy raised a hand to his head and then blushed so endearingly that even Mrs. Bennet seemed to soften toward him.

“Dear me, the wind must have gotten to you today, Mr. Darcy. Well, do come in out of the cold, sir. I will tell Mr. Bennet you are here to see him. Will you take some refreshments?”

“No, Mrs. Bennet, I will not inopportune you.”

“Oh, it is no inconvenience to me, Mr. Darcy!” she replied, beckoning him to follow her through the open front door. “We have means enough to entertain our guests, I assure you. Never let it be said that I am not hospitable to any guest who should wander into Longbourn!”

As soon as she dared, Elizabeth threw off her hood and hurried after them into the house.

“Elizabeth Bennet!” her mother cried, the moment she entered the vestibule. Thankfully, Darcy had not yet gone to her father’s study; he stood by the hall table, pulling off his gloves so slowly that their maid, Sally, must have wondered what precisely was wrong with this hatless gentleman.

“Where have you been?” her mother demanded. Then, with a glance for Mr. Darcy, she lowered her voice to a hiss, as if this might make it impossible to be overheard by someone standing a mere two feet away from them: “And what are you wearing? I thought I told Sally to throw out that old cloak!”

“Mr. Darcy,” Elizabeth said, ignoring her mother completely and offering Darcy a flippant curtsy and a saucy smile. “What a surprise to see you here!”

“Indeed, it is very good to see you again,” he said, smiling so fully that Mrs. Bennet’s eyes narrowed.

She must have suspected he was laughing at them, for she said, “My daughter, sir, likes a good walk, and I suppose she does not wish to dirty her much more elegant pelisse, though I have would not have her wear such an old cloak for anything. We can certainly afford a new pelisse, if the need arises.”

“Oh, no doubt,” said Darcy. “Do you know, ma’am, that I recently saw a cloak just like this one? I thought it would make a fine gift for someone very dear to me. If you have no wish to keep it, I would be only too glad to purchase—”

“Oh, no!” cried Mrs. Bennet. “We certainly have no need to sell our belongings! I was thinking of giving it to the poor; I am a charitable woman, Mr. Darcy.”

Elizabeth blanched, not certain whether to feel more horrified at her mother’s suggestion—or at her own selfish wish to retain the cloak.

“The recipient will certainly be well-pleased,” replied Darcy, “for cloaks such as those are considered quite fashionable now.”

Mrs. Bennet’s mouth fell open. “Are they? I have heard nothing of this.”

“I believe it is a very recent trend,” said Darcy, whose twitching lips nearly caused Elizabeth to laugh.

“And you said you saw a cloak like this recently? In London?” Mrs. Bennet asked.

“I did indeed see it recently,” he said, and now Elizabeth could not help but laugh at his attempt to avoid an outright lie.

“How odd,” said Elizabeth, “that this cloak should so suddenly become the height of fashion when my mother, who is quite knowledgable about these matters, thinks it very outdated indeed.”

“Well, I did not say that,” retorted her mother. “I suppose I can see some merit in the cloak; it certainly appears…warm. And, as it is an heirloom…”

“Is it?” Elizabeth asked in great surprise.

“Of course it is!” Mrs. Bennet turned to Mr. Darcy. “It belonged to my dear aunt Matilda—quite an odd old lady. I do not think she much liked you, Lizzy,” she added, shaking her head. “She left each of the other girls a gift of one hundred pounds, but your legacy was only that old cloak—oh, and that plain silver ring you always wear.”

Elizabeth looked down at herself—at the cloak, at the ring, at the worn wooden floor of the front hall. Was this not the very spot where she had stood all those years ago, when her great aunt had crooked her finger at her and said, “Remember, my dear: the gloom will be your friend and your legacy”?

Elizabeth looked up and saw Darcy watching her. Sudden, inexplicable tears welled in her eyes.

“No, you must not part with the cloak,” said Darcy softly. “One day, perhaps, you may wish to give it to your daughter.”

“If she is anything like me,” Elizabeth replied, “she will certainly need it.”

“If she is anything like you,” said Darcy, “she will be an admirable young lady indeed.”

Mrs. Bennet watched this exchange with apparent bewilderment. No doubt her marriage-minded instincts were at war with her patent dislike of Mr. Darcy. What was she to do with a man who was both rich enough to earn her awe and foolish enough to have insulted her daughter?

“Well!” she said at last. “These are nice sentiments, but Mr. Darcy did not come to discuss old cloaks. Allow me to show to you Mr. Bennet’s study, sir.”

From the stairs, Elizabeth watched them disappear down the hall, Darcy turning back just at the last moment to gaze up at her. Soon, perhaps, she hoped…

Later, as she tenderly returned the cloak to her wardrobe, Elizabeth rubbed the fabric between her fingers, marveling at the lessons these unassuming threads had taught her. She had seen so much this morning—and yet still knew so little.

She could not be certain that others would recognize Mr. Wickham for the reprobate he was; she knew not if Jane would find happiness with Mr. Bingley. As for her own future with Mr. Darcy, well, she thought they could see each other clearly now, but who could tell for certain? She and Darcy both shared a penchant for making unwarranted assumptions.

For now, though, it was enough to know there was magic in the world—and that she, in her own small way, knew how to tap it.

A/N: Thank you so much for reading! Below are some footnotes, indicating lines I’ve pilfered or changed from Austen!

[1] Elizabeth is speaking a version of Darcy’s words from Chapter 34 (Project Gutenberg version).
[2] This is almost word for word the quote from Rosings, when Mr. Darcy and Colonel Fitzwilliam are talking to Elizabeth as she plays piano. (The change: Austen uses “smilingly.”) Chapter 31 (Project Gutenberg version)
[3] I admit this phrasing — figuratively or literally—sounds quite modern to me, but when I looked up the words in the Oxford English Dictionary, I found both in use from as early as the 1600s. I don’t know think this sentence is particularly Austenesque, but alas, I am reminded day after day that I am definitely no Jane Austen.
[4] It is Wickham, in the original, who wonders if Darcy could possibly have changed “in essentials,” with Elizabeth acknowledging that “’In essentials,” Darcy “is very much what he ever was.” Chapter 41 (Project Gutenberg version)
[5] Yes, you know I had to include part of that blasted first proposal! Here are Darcy’s original lines, in case you have not memorized them out of fear that you, too, may someday make the second-worst proposal ever (Mr. Collins’s taking first place, of course): “In vain I have struggled. It will not do. My feelings will not be repressed. You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you.” Chapter 34 (Project Gutenberg version)
[6] These words — “…the last man in the world I could ever be prevailed on to marry” — are part of Elizabeth’s response to Darcy’s first proposal. Chapter 34 (Project Gutenberg version)
[7] This is a slight variation on the timeline. Charlotte does not urge Elizabeth to come to Kent until just before she marries Mr. Collins in early January. Chapter 26 (Project Gutenberg version)

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