“I am ordering you to hereafter be civil, to formally apologize to Mrs. Darcy, to restrain your acerbic tongue, and to do whatever is required to heal the breach in this family. I cannot promise that William will ever forgive you for what you have done. The blame is entirely on your shoulders, Catherine. Any future relationship you have with the Darcys will solely depend on your attitude and humility. I suggest you prepare to beg. On behalf of the entire Fitzwilliam house, we stand firmly behind William and Elizabeth. If you chose to ignore my demands and persevere in your harassment, then you will be choosing divorcement.”

Daily, a letter arrived from Darcy. Amongst the teeming endearments and lyrical phrases of love and yearning were lines recounting his daily activities. In vivid detail he described the environment of Suffolk, the Grafton horses, the business arrangements, the leisure pastimes partook of, the food he ate, and anything else that entered his mind as he wrote. Darcy and Lizzy had grown so accustomed to sharing the specific happenings of their hours apart that it was natural for him to pour the same into a letter. He discovered the action of writing to her each evening to be cathartic, easing his aching heart and permitting him to slip into a relaxing sleep.

In London, Lizzy determined the same. She wrote each morning upon rising when refreshed and alone in their chamber. It gave her strength to face the day's agenda. Aside from the horrible fiasco of Lady Catherine, the week passed swiftly and rather pleasantly. Darcy's well-laid plans to distract his wife from her loneliness partially succeeded. She shopped, attended several teas where her natural gregariousness garnered her new friends, attended the theater twice with Colonel Fitzwilliam as guardian and various friends surrounding her both for added amusement and to offset any inappropriate rumors, and dined at a different house each night. Lizzy could not deny that she was having a marvelous time, but knew that it all would have been exponentially improved with Darcy by her side. Additionally, no matter how delightful the entertainment, she eventually returned to her lonely bed and heartache and fitful slumber.

As the week wound to its anticipatory end, two incidents of import transpired in London. The first was the halting, stilted, surprising, yet seemingly genuine letter of apology from Lady Catherine. Lizzy knew of Lord Matlock's confrontation with his sister, although not the details of what was said. She had decided not to enlighten Darcy, knowing that he would immediately return if she did so, but also because she simply knew not how to convey it all in a letter. Lizzy discussed the apology with Lady Matlock, decided to accept it in the vein it was offered by replying with an equally brief missive, but refused to engage in further discourse until her husband returned and was apprised of the situation.

The second interesting episode involved Mary. One afternoon, Lizzy and her sisters, along with Amelia Lathrop, shared tea and cakes in the Darcy House parlor. Mary, under the gentle persuasion of Georgiana, had taken to wearing lightly patterned dresses which greatly enhanced her fair features. Today she was especially lovely in a stylish yet simple gown of canary yellow with green striping as she sat with Georgiana at the piano learning a new piece by Beethoven. Mr. Travers interrupted to announce a Mr. Joshua Daniels, the son and partner of Darcy's solicitor.

Mr. Daniels the younger was revealed to be young indeed; in his early twenties, sandy-haired with a ruddy complexion, quite handsome with hazel eyes, slender, and just under six feet in height. He bowed politely as Lizzy rose, eyes sweeping the room as he nodded to each occupant, alighting briefly then moving on until he came to Mary. Lizzy had never witnessed such a blatant spark of interest in all her days. Even Darcy's initial jarring contact with her eyes at the Meryton Assembly had been unobtrusive compared to this. Mr. Daniels's head snapped about, his eyes widened and mouth fell open while Mary flushed, yet boldly met his stare for at least fifteen seconds.

Lizzy's brows shot up and she turned to Amelia, who was pressing her lips tightly to avoid laughing. The moment stretched and may have continued indefinitely if Lizzy had not purposely cleared her throat. Mr. Daniels started, reddened, and tore his gaze from Mary's face. All befuddled, he hedged for several seconds as he collected his thoughts, aided primarily by careful study of the envelope in his hands.

“Mrs. Darcy,” he finally managed, “I, of course, am aware that Mr. Darcy is out of Town. However, my father instructed me to deliver these documents when they were completed so that Mr. Darcy would have immediate access to them upon his return. I trust you will know the safest place to store them in the interval.”

“Thank you, Mr. Daniels. I will ensure he receives them.” Throughout the entire short speech, Mr. Daniels's peripheral glances touched on Mary, and Lizzy was amazed he ably articulated. “Mr. Daniels, allow me to introduce you to my family. This is my dear friend Mrs. Lathrop. My sister-in-law, Miss Darcy. Miss Kitty Bennet, my sister, and this is Miss Mary Bennet, also my sister.”

Mr. Daniels bowed to all, properly greeting with impeccable manners, lingering in his greeting to Mary. “Miss Bennet,” he asked, “do you and Miss Darcy play the pianoforte?”

Of course, the inquiry was ludicrous considering they were both sitting at the pianoforte, but no one chose to mention the fact. To Lizzy's delight and astonishment, Mary smiled shyly and replied, “Yes indeed, Mr. Daniels, although Miss Darcy is far superior to me. I am improving under her kind instruction. Do you play?”

“Poorly, I am afraid. Too many hours passed with a book in my hands to practice, much to my mother's dismay.”

“Obviously your study has proven the wiser, as you are now a solicitor. Your mother surely is not overly dismayed.”

He smiled brightly. “You are correct, Miss Bennet. She has relinquished her distress in the happy knowledge that I will be residing close to home. Do you live here in Town?”

“I am from Hertfordshire, sir. Merely visiting my sister and Mr. Darcy for a month or so.”

“I see,” he spoke softly, pausing, and then abruptly remembered the other occupants of the room. Turning to Lizzy, he said, “Pardon me, Mrs. Darcy for disturbing your afternoon.” He bowed to all yet again and then, with a last glance to Mary, departed. Mary smiled benignly, and after a tarrying gaze at the empty doorway, attended to the music as if nothing has transpired.

Lizzy was thrilled at what the enchanted moment signified. She wrote a long, descriptive narrative of the flirtation to her husband in what would be her last letter, as he was due home in two days. When Darcy received the communiqué from his wife on the morning of his final day at Pemberley, his heart leapt with joy. The week had been endless and his endurance was depleted. He sat on the terrace reading her humorous, passion-inundated letter with a mixture of intense happiness and profound irritation. The perpetual suffering in his heart had grown to a torment and spread to every cell in his body. The yearning to see her face and brilliant smile, hear her voice and musical laugh, kiss her lips, and touch her soft skin had mutated into a torture of covetous need. He no longer slept for more than a few fitful hours, ate little, found no pleasure in his horses, and for the only time in his life, hated being at Pemberley.

He sighed deeply, reclined his head against the cool stone of the wall, closed his eyes, and readily conjured her face. They had finished their inspection and breeding program technicalities early yesterday and Darcy had urged for departure today, at first light preferably. Duke Grafton, however, was having a delightful vacation, adored Pemberley, and expressed the wish to remain longer. Darcy had grit his teeth, employed the frayed edges of his generally massive self-mastery, and compromised. Relaying a deep concern for his pregnant wife, an emotion the Duke seemed unable to comprehend, Darcy relented to one additional day only. The concession nearly killed him. He was so weary from lack of sleep and misery, the long ride to London was an agonizing contemplation, with only the vision of Elizabeth and the tiny bulge she wrote was now apparent lending him strength. Tomorrow evening, he incessantly chanted, you shall hold her and kiss her, eloquently tell her of your love and make love to her. He shifted on the bench uncomfortably, the wretchedness of his necessity manifesting physically. With a groan of despondency he lurched to his feet, kissed the scented letter before tucking it into a pocket, and headed toward the stables. As during their engagement, a hard and fast race on Parsifal was required.

He returned to the stable yard an hour later, heartache as acute, but at least his lust had cooled for the interim. Chaos reigned with Duke Grafton, who Darcy had ascertained was not the most proficient rider, despite his vast knowledge of horses, and who was currently desperately clinging to the back of a particularly spirited filly that Darcy had been training yesterday. With a harsh curse, Darcy flew off Parsifal's back and leapt over the fence to assist the frantic groomsmen. He grabbed a dangling rein with his left hand, uttering soothing vocalizations, and pulled with all his strength. The distraught animal began to calm, but Duke Grafton lost his balance and instinctively seized hold of the filly's mane, sending her into renewed fits of rage. She reared up, the precariously perched Duke flying off to land with an explosive grunt flat on his back in the soft sand. Darcy's left arm was jerked wrenchingly upwards, but he held on through the pain, mightily yanking downward. She responded with a wicked lash of her front hooves, sending the two grooms flying for cover. Darcy spun to the side but was not quick enough. One hoof forcefully impacted squarely on his upper left chest just below the clavicle. Instantaneous paralysis to his already injured shoulder ensued, with deadened fingers releasing the rein as he fell to the ground with a cry of agony.

Sharp-witted grooms, now storming the corral in great numbers, dragged Darcy and the Duke to safety while Mr. Thurber managed to finally control the poor beast. The Duke was unharmed except for a few bruises and aching muscles. Darcy was in extreme pain, his arm completely numb and breathing difficult.

The following hours were torture. The physician was called for, determining that miraculously no bones were broken and the obtunded flesh was temporary. He ordered Darcy to rest for several days, but Darcy flatly refused, declaring in a voice that brooked no argument that he intended to depart for Town on the morrow. His only concession was to stage the trip over two days, but even that was for the benefit of the Duke, whose backside was sore, rather than for himself. An express message was dictated and sent by courier to Mrs. Darcy informing her of the delay, after which Darcy demanded solitude. Once alone, he released his anguish of combined physical and spiritual woe with a shuddering sob.

His grief was compounded that afternoon when a letter arrived from his uncle. With a frown and intense stab of fear, Darcy broke the seal and began to read. Lord Matlock's initial sentence of assurance that Elizabeth was well allayed the worst of his anxiety, but it was short lived. A string of foul curses rent the silence as he absorbed his uncle's recounting of Lady Catherine's abuse to his wife and the Earl's confrontation with her. Darcy, as Lady Matlock had predicted, was overwhelmed with crushing guilt. He was proud of Elizabeth's reported handling of his obnoxious aunt, but nearly prostrate with self-condemnation for what he perceived as a failure to safeguard his family.