“No, I do not, my love,” His Lordship had replied as he examined the title on the book’s spine, “but I do hope that ‘Sense’ is vindicated and ‘Sensibility’ reproved, my dear.”

A lively debate had then ensued among the Fitzwilliams over the merits of sense against sensibility in making one’s way in the world. While they had been thus engaged, Georgiana had unwrapped the last of his gifts. He had been puzzled at its appearance, not being able to recall any other purchases. As the paper fell away, it came to him — it was the book he had used to excuse himself from “Poodle” Byng’s fascination with Fletcher’s knot. “Georgiana,” he had begun, “pardon me, but that was not meant for —”

“Fitzwilliam! Oh, how can I thank you!” she had exclaimed softly and come to kiss his cheek, the book held tightly to her breast. “It is precisely what I wished for.”

“It is?” he had answered. “That is rather wonderful, as I bought it by mistake without even knowing what it was.” She had looked at him then rather strangely and turned the title to his view. “A Practical View of the Prevailing Religious System,” he had begun to read and then looked up at her skeptically, “The title does not recommend itself to me, Georgiana. I am not sure it is entirely appropriate fare for one of your age.”

“Please, Fitzwilliam,” she had answered him back, “I shall abide by your wishes, but I beg you allow me this book. Its author is one of the most respected members of Parliament. It cannot, therefore, be entirely inappropriate, can it?” Darcy knew she had him, if not by her logic then by her gentle bending to his will in the matter. He had acquiesced, and since then, the book had been her constant companion.

Arranging the knotted threads once more upon his knee, he took up his book again. The excitement and entertainments of London were highly distracting, and they would begin clamoring for her attention almost immediately. Of that, he would make certain.



“Mr. Darcy, I beg your pardon, sir.” Witcher caught Darcy in the hall several days after their return to London.

“Yes, what is it, Witcher?” Laying aside his walking stick and hat, Darcy began stripping off his gloves before attacking the buttons of his greatcoat. Although it was now well into the afternoon, the winds of January had kept the day cold, so cold that Darcy was seriously considering canceling Georgiana’s scheduled sitting with Lawrence. Only a few preliminary sketches had been attempted thus far and, although circumspect for one of artistic temperament, Lawrence would not, Darcy knew, be pleased with a postponement.

“A note has arrived, sir, and the boy was told to wait for an answer no matter the time.” Witcher signaled the footman to take the master’s coat and gather his other belongings. “I have placed it under the blotter on your desk in the library.”

Alert to his butler’s meaning, Darcy nodded. “Thank you, Witcher. Please have some strong tea sent along and inform Miss Darcy that I am returned and will come to her in a half hour.”

“Very good, sir. Shall I send in a footman for your letter?”

“No.” Darcy paused. There was no telling who the source of this missive might be. The fewer hands in it, the better most like. “No,” he continued, “come for it yourself, please. I shall be finished with it before going up to Miss Darcy.”

“Yes, Mr. Darcy.” Witcher bowed as Darcy turned his steps toward the warmth and comfort of the library of Erewile House. They had been already a week in Town, and as he had expected, upon the knocker being placed once more in its honored place upon the doornail, they had been inundated with invitations. Although she was not yet “out,” there were sufficient numbers of permissible activities designed for young ladies in just such a condition to keep Georgiana busy from breakfast until dawn. Darcy encouraged her attendance at those that survived his judicious review and added to them the sittings with Lawrence, a trip back to Madame LaCoure’s for the folderols to complement the lengths he had purchased, and evenings at the theater.

Closing the door behind him, Darcy advanced to the great, carved desk and, pushing aside the blotter, retrieved the note that was so important to its sender that the messenger still sat by his kitchen fire, awaiting an answer. Darcy took it to the hearth, where he turned it over as the fire warmed him from the journey back from his club. The paper was plain, and the seal revealed nothing of its author. Shrugging, he sat in one of the upholstered leather chairs near the fire, broke the seal, and read:


Sir,

A most Distressing Development has occurred, which, I fear, will bring all our Plans to Naught! In this most Desperate of times, I apply to you, Sir, who so ably thwarted Danger in the past, to assist once more in your Friend’s behalf. In short, Miss Bennet is in Town! She has sent a Note to Aldford Street! What are we to do, Sir? B. does not yet know. My Sister and I await your direction. All shall be done as you say.

C.


A surge of anger flowed through Darcy’s chest. The importunity of it! With uncharacteristic impetuosity, he leapt to his feet, crumpled the note, and hurled it into the flames. Was there to be no end to this coil? Resentment of Miss Bingley’s repeated appeals for his assistance in this tangle followed close upon the heels of his anger and spread quickly to include Bingley’s inability to exercise a proper circumspection, which was what had brought them to this imbroglio. This, with the unwelcome leaping of his own heart upon seeing the name of Bennet in the note and wondering if the lady was accompanied by her sister, combined to set Darcy on a perilous edge.

Striding over to his desk, he pulled roughly at the top sheet of stationery, leaving it to settle of its own accord as he fumbled for a quill. Finding what he required, he leaned across and flung open the inkwell. But quill in hand, poised over the well, he stopped. What in blazes was he to advise her? Darcy looked stupidly at the quill and paper, then sank into the chair at his desk. The acquaintance between the Bingleys and Miss Bennet had to be cut, and in so decisive a manner as to leave no doubt on either side. It was the only means of settling the affair once and for all. Worrying his lower lip, he cast about for the best approach. In the midst of plucking up and then discarding ideas, he was interrupted by a knock at the door.

“Yes, enter,” he commanded tersely.

“What! Caught you at the books again? This simply will not do, Fitz, and I am just the fellow to put an end to it!”

“Dy!” Darcy’s head came up as his friend Lord Dyfed Brougham sauntered in, a quizzing glass dangling from his hand. “What have you done with Witcher, you scoundrel?” he grumbled at him good-naturedly.

“Done with Witcher? Not a thing, old man, unless you count slipping him a golden boy to let me announce myself and, hopefully, catch you at something. Did I catch you at something, by the by?” Dy flashed him a curious grin.

“No, nothing!” Darcy picked up the sheet to replace it in its box, but spying the dubious look upon his friend’s face, he paused and in sudden inspiration contradicted himself. “Actually, you rather did catch me. I have been asked for some advice on a matter that is just in your line.”

“Really! My line, you say? And what, pray, is that?” Brougham seated himself in an adjoining chair.

“A matter of some delicacy. You remember Bingley, of course?”

Brougham nodded. “You were trying to convince him to graze elsewhere in regard to a certain young woman, if memory serves. Any luck?”

“Luck or reason, I know not which, but he did come round before I’d left for Pemberley.” Darcy pulled the quill through his fingers, a frown upon his face. “But I would not be overstating the case to say that I believe him still susceptible to the lady. Should they meet again any time soon…” He left the thought hanging as he envisioned such a meeting.

“Little chance of that! The lady resides in Hertfordshire, does she not?”

“Unfortunately, she has lately arrived in Town and desires to wait upon Bingley’s sisters. They are now in an anxiety as to how they should proceed.” Darcy’s dark eyes settled with piercing intensity upon his friend. “What would you suggest, Dy?”



Darcy applied the final strokes of his quill upon the note to Miss Bingley and then searched his desk for wax to seal the single, folded sheet of instructions over which he and Brougham had labored. While he did so, the aforementioned lord rambled about the library, poking a finger here at a book, there at a journal, and occasionally bringing his quizzing glass to his eye in bored inquiry of what he found.

“Very dull stuff you have here, Fitz.”

Darcy looked up from his task in surprise. “You must not have discovered my copy of Siege of Badajoz then. You may borrow it, if you wish. It is there on the shelf to your right. Hatchard sent it to me immediately it was available.”

“Where? Ah, yes.” Brougham brought up the glass again as he examined the spine. “Read it already, have you?”

“Yes, when I was in Hertfordshire.”

“Humph,” his friend responded, continuing to search the shelves. “Would have thought you too busy warning young Bingley off the lovely Bennet sisters to have a chance to read. Here, what’s this?” Darcy rose from the desk in alarm at the sight of Brougham holding quite a different volume than the one under discussion and swinging a shiny hank of knotted threads.

“Nothing!” Darcy reached for the threads, which Brougham, brow cocked in delighted amusement, danced out of his reach.

“That cannot be; it is assuredly something, my dear fellow, or else —”

“A bookmark then. It is a bookmark!” Darcy insisted, grabbing his forearm. With a laugh, Brougham handed it to him, offering him also the book in which it had nestled. Refusing it, Darcy quickly wrapped the threads around a finger, tucked them inside his waistcoat pocket, and turned back to his desk. “Do you wish to borrow Badajoz, then?” he asked, hoping to divert his friend’s attention.

“No, read it already.” Brougham waggled the volume still in his hand before replacing it upon the shelf. “Fuentes de Oñoro as well, for what little it is worth” — he yawned — “although I did not have the enticement of such a bookmark to bring me back to its pages.”