The Earl was a gentleman of perhaps fifty or sixty years with thick, silver-streaked dark hair and fierce blue eyes. His angular features, though lined and weathered with age, were so similar to Mr Darcy’s that, had Elizabeth not known better, she would have taken them for father and son.

Two young men stood on either side of Lord Ancaster's chair - a plain-faced stranger, presumably his son, on the left, and Mr Darcy to his right. A third sprawled across a chaise-longue.

All of them turned to stare when the butler announced Lady Catherine and her nieces.

"Jane," said Darcy in some surprise, "what - what an unexpected pleasure."

The Earl struggled to his full, imposing height and limped towards them. "Jane? Is it - are you - Good God, Catherine, what have you done? Why are you not at Rosings?"

"Why should I be?" retorted Lady Catherine. "How could I possibly remain in the comfort of my home, when my own nieces were suffering under the oppression and tyranny of those wretched monsters?"

Elizabeth found herself glancing at Darcy, whose solemn, studied neutrality did not quite conceal a wry twitch of his lips. Mr Bennet had often looked at her just so, and she could not help but imagine how he would have enjoyed the scene.

"After eighteen years, I should think they would have grown accustomed to it," said the man on the chaise-longue, springing up. Dimples appeared in his thin cheeks; untidy curls fell over a smooth white brow. Even Elizabeth found herself smiling in return. "Oh, forgive me - us; we must beg my cousins' pardon for our gross incivility, must we not, sir?"

"What nonsense you speak, Milton," Lady Catherine proclaimed, then smiled with immense self-satisfaction. "Ancaster, I have returned our nieces to the bosom of the family. This - " she thumped Jane's shoulder - "is Anne's girl, and the other is our Elizabeth. Elizabeth, Jenny, the tall gentleman scarcely able to remain upright is your uncle, Lord Ancaster. The young men are his sons and nephew: Lord Milton, Colonel Fitzwilliam, and Mr Darcy. They may be distinguished by Milton's lowly stature, Fitzwilliam's unfortunate features, and Darcy's habit of making himself useful." She glanced approvingly at her youngest nephew.

Elizabeth observed, with a stirring of amusement, that Lady Catherine's ill-breeding startled all of her relations into an awkward silence.

Jane said brightly, "What a delight it is to see you all again. Edward, I hope you are not terribly angry with me."

Lord Milton coughed. "I beg your pardon?"

"I did not mean for the acorn to hit your eye," Jane told him earnestly. "I was aiming for Miss Adams' hair, you see - but it was still very wrong of me and I apologise."

Everybody stared at her. Colonel Fitzwilliam and Darcy turned hastily away, their shoulders shaking, and Lord Milton roared with laughter.

"My dear little cousin," he said, still grinning, "you may consider yourself more than forgiven. As you can see, my eye has quite recovered from that . . . unfortunate incident."

"Thank you," said Jane mildly.

Lady Catherine seated herself with an air even more imperious than usual, gesturing for her nephews and nieces to do the same. "Brother, sit down before you swoon," she ordered. "It would be most unbecoming."

Lord Ancaster staggered to his chair. While he scribbled a note and sent a servant to deliver it, Lady Catherine related, with much indignation and some exaggeration, the events of the last few hours.

"Lizzy - " he began.

"Perhaps, sir," Lord Milton said, "my cousins have outgrown the nicknames of eighteen years ago. I should not care to be 'Neddy' still."

Darcy's hand tightened on the Earl's chair. Colonel Fitzwilliam eyed his brother with considerable annoyance.

"Elizabeth - you are, of course, very welcome with us," said Lord Ancaster pleasantly, his acute, unembarrassed gaze settling on her face. Whatever he found there seemed to please him. "Unfortunately," he continued, "I have already arranged to depart in three days' time. I hope you are not too exhausted by your recent ordeal."

"You mean to travel to Yorkshire at this time of the year?" Lady Catherine exclaimed.

"My presence is required at Houghton."

She sniffed. "Eleanor can manage Houghton perfectly well."

"Her authority does not extend to settling several recent disputes," said Lord Ancaster patiently.

Elizabeth supposed that over fifty years as Lady Catherine de Bourgh's brother could turn anyone into a saint.

"My cousins, perhaps, do not wish for one to go to Pemberley, and the other to Houghton," Lord Milton observed; "perhaps, incredible as it may seem, they wish to remain together."

Jane turned pale. Neither of them had so much as imagined that they might be separated, and Elizabeth chastised herself for being so silly as to overlook the possibility. She should have realised that Jane would be sent to her own ancestral home, not her mother's, and that she, Elizabeth, would remain with the Fitzwilliams.

"Oh, we do," cried Jane, then, dropping her eyes, added, "if it is not too much trouble."

The door opened and a slim, black-haired young man hurried into the room.

"Forgive me, sir, but I just received your note and . . . Elizabeth?" He stared at her, his voice breaking into a breathless half-gasp. "My dear little Lizzy."

"James," said Colonel Fitzwilliam, his voice quietly urgent, "consider her situation. She was too young - she does not remember anything, does not know anybody except Jenny and Darcy."

Elizabeth looked about in some confusion, which nobody seemed prepared to alleviate.

"How frightfully awkward," Lord Milton remarked.

Lord Ancaster favoured him with a look of icy displeasure. "Jane, Elizabeth, this gentleman is my nephew, Mr James Fitzwilliam."

Elizabeth did not recognise this newest cousin, but she felt, somehow, as if she ought to. Everybody seemed to be staring at her, their eyes expectant, and even Jane’s face was filled with a gentle comprehension.

"It is a pleasure to meet you – again," she said uncertainly. "James was my father’s name, I understand; you must be his namesake."

Mr Fitzwilliam, with a wry, self-deprecating sort of smile, looked away from her. He appeared to be gazing at a point somewhere above and to the left of her right shoulder.

"Oh, for heavens’ sakes, James," said Lady Catherine in some exasperation. "Do you mean to dither about the truth for an half-hour? Elizabeth, this painfully indecisive young man is - "

Colonel Fitzwilliam and Darcy suffered, in tandem, violent coughing fits which would have done credit to a pair of consumptives.

Mr Fitzwilliam smiled and said, "I beg your pardon, ma’am; I wished only to spare my – to spare Elizabeth’s feelings. Yes, Elizabeth, I am his namesake. It is something of a family tradition, you understand, that all eldest sons should be given their fathers’ Christian names, and I was no exception."

His manner was so gentle and unassuming that she did not understand him for several seconds. Then, her chest inexplicably tightening, she said, "My father was also yours? – you are my brother, not my cousin?"

Mr Fitzwilliam nodded, his face still carefully averted.

"I am sorry – I wish I could remember," said Elizabeth, a realisation of his situation tugging at her own numbing grief. "I do feel that I should."

"There is nothing to forgive, Elizabeth, neither in you nor anybody else in this room." He paused, and with palpable effort turned to smile at Jane. "You must be Jenny. Darcy has told us so much about you, I feel as if I know you again already."

"I am sure my brother has been far too kind," said Jane.

Lord Milton yawned. "Perhaps we should dispense with these affecting reunions, charming as they are. My cousins must be far too tired to properly appreciate them, and there are some trifling matters of where they shall eat and drink and have a roof over their heads, which, if settled, would allow them to swoon in peace."

"Edward –" began Lord Ancaster, for the first time really angry, but his sister forestalled him yet again.

"What is there to settle? Jane shall accompany her brother to Darcy House and thence to Pemberley, while Elizabeth, of course, must come to Rosings."

"Rosings!" cried Lord Ancaster, clearly giving voice to the astonishment felt by the entire room. "Elizabeth – at Rosings? Whatever are you thinking of?"

"You know perfectly well that Elizabeth was given over to my care, brother. Everybody agreed that I should have the rearing of her."

"When she was an infant, and our sister alive! – seclusion at Rosings is no life for a young girl, Catherine."

"Nonsense!" scoffed Lady Catherine. "Rosings, at least, is not in the icy wastes of the North like Houghton. Why, it is quite an easy distance from London itself."

Darcy, who had been quietly consulting with Mr Fitzwilliam, cleared his throat. "I beg your pardon, sir, madam, but our sisters must be exhausted after such a day as this. They hardly need to finish it with a quarrel. Jane, Elizabeth, would you like to retire for a time?"

It was less a question than a command, but Jane nevertheless responded, "Yes, thank you. That is – " She looked at Elizabeth uncertainly.

"Afterwards, perhaps you might care for a walk in the gardens," added Mr Fitzwilliam, his voice and manner as gentle as ever. "Darcy and I can accompany you."

Elizabeth liked him already. "Yes, I would," she said, half-miserable, half-curious, and wholly weary. Lord Ancaster sent for a maid, whispering orders, and she led them to an opulent pair of bedchambers, fortunately just opposite one another.

Elizabeth had intended to open her heart to Jane, but her eyelids seemed to droop almost as soon as she caught sight of the bed. When Jane crept across the hall to speak tearfully of Mr Bennet, and even "Mama, and our sisters, and poor Mr Collins," Elizabeth could only fall back on a repeated insistence that nothing was Jane’s fault.

Jane, apparently much comforted, slipped away a short time later, and Elizabeth closed her eyes, falling deeply and peacefully asleep.

About an hour later, she awoke to a single thought: my father is dead.

All the comforting detachment of the morning seemed gone. Elizabeth curled up on the bed, her dry, burning eyes fixed blindly on the cherubs painted on the ceiling, and felt almost consumed by loss. Whatever he may have been or done, he had loved her, above and beyond the children of his own blood. She remembered countless conversations over books and chess and the dinner-table. There had been an understanding between them, an affinity of expression and thought completely unlike any other attachment. How often had they laughed together over a pretentious treatise or a joke only they could understand?

Unwillingly, she also remembered the flashes of callous indifference – never towards her, which made them so easy to overlook, but part of his character all the same. He would not, she thought, have wanted her to grieve him as a dearly departed saint, but as the odd mixture he had been.

Or, perhaps, he would not have wanted her to grieve very much at all; had he not always expected her to derive the most amusement possible out of any situation? He, with his weakening body and fading mind, and only terrible loss to live for, had met death with a smile.

I am trying, Papa, but there is precious little to enjoy here.

She considered the cherubs frolicking above her head. They were really quite dreadful.

"Oh, very well," she said, and laughed.

 

 

The girls were only too glad to walk out with Mr Fitzwilliam and Mr Darcy, even if it meant enduring the impertinent curiosity of fashionable London. Jane, in particular, seemed to attract a number of superior glances.

As soon as civility allowed, Elizabeth asked anxiously, "Has anything been decided?"

"Not pre – "

"No," said Darcy. "The situation is rather complex, at least as far as you are concerned, Elizabeth."

"I? Why should I – " She broke off.

Darcy hesitated. "Jane came of age several years ago now," he said, "and her guardianship was a simple matter even before that. Your birthday, however, is not until February – "

"May," said Elizabeth, "my birthday is in May, not February." She looked at their stiff faces and paused, holding a hand to her suddenly spinning head. "Oh. I was born in February, then? February of 1773?"

This, somehow, was almost as hard as discovering that she had been kidnapped by those she called "Mama" and "Papa."

James Fitzwilliam lifted his hand, then dropped it again, as if he did not quite know what to do with it. He cast Mr Darcy a troubled look.

"Yes," Darcy replied, "and you will not be of age until then. My uncles, your father and his twin brother, spent most of their lives abroad and habitually sent their children to be raised at Houghton. At the time of your birth, however, my grandfather’s health was failing, so all of you were effectively left to the care of the present Lord Ancaster. Unfortunately, he was then newly widowed and struggling with a number of . . . difficulties. The addition of four young children rather overwhelmed him."

"Milton was then about fifteen," said Mr Fitzwilliam mildly. Elizabeth imagined her eldest cousin at Lydia’s age and grinned.

"Ultimately, the boys were sent to school, the elder of the two girls remained with my grandmother, and Lady Catherine took on your care."

"Lady Catherine!" cried Elizabeth. "Why, is that what she meant, earlier?"

"Indeed."

She considered this for a few moments. "How remarkable. Do you know why she wanted me? was I foisted upon her in some way?"

Mr Fitzwilliam coughed. "Quite the contrary; she insisted upon taking you with her when she returned to Rosings. You, er, had a habit of stamping your hair-ribbons into the mud – a habit shared by Lady Catherine, in her own childhood. I understand it, er, endeared you to her."

"Oh," said Elizabeth, smiling; then she caught her breath and repeated, "Oh!"

Jane caught her hand. "What is it, Lizzy? Is something wrong?"

"I wanted a cat."

"I do not understand."

Elizabeth pushed her hair out of her eyes. "Do not you remember what Pa – what Mr Bennet said? When they first took us away, you kept crying for your mother, but I . . . I just asked for a cat, over and over and over again."

"You were scarcely two years old," said Darcy harshly. "You could hardly be expected to say Lady Catherine properly."

"You could not pronounce any of our names properly," Mr Fitzwilliam added. "We were all Cat and Jem and Puthy."

"Oh! You must have been very fond of her, Lizzy – and she of you." Jane squeezed her hand, tears freely falling down her cheeks. "Poor Lady Catherine!"

Mr Darcy and Mr Fitzwilliam exchanged slightly puzzled glances.

"Jane is very sensitive," said Elizabeth.