The Improvement of Her Mind by Ayden Chapter One Portman Square, London 1820 The iron gates of Montague House had been flung wide open, rising poised and glistening black through the dense fog of rain. Drops of water shone on whimsical metal swags, garlands and aureoles; each intricate design rendered with fine craftsmanship and sprinkled liberally with artistic caprice. Like an exotic birdcage ensconced amidst the precise lines of surrounding Georgian facades, the exuberant stile floreale of the Montague portals dared to defy tradition; eliciting a puzzled smile, an occasional bewildered glance from unsuspecting strollers happening on Portman Square. On closer inspection, however, the chance observer might find himself singularly astonished at the solidity belying the puddled iron workings; for despite their lightness and fancy Lady Montague's gates, once closed...were virtually impenetrable. Across the square, moodily ensconced behind a screen of formal grillwork, stood Darcy House; a dark and silent sentinel appearing to frown with aristocratic disdain at neighboring town homes. An air of severe austerity emanat- ed from its meticulously balanced stone masonry, its rigid rows of topiary trees; the whole seeming to bow before the conventions of taste and form. It was, however, the mer- est of bows; an imperceptible acknowledgment tossed with imperious hauteur. As sheets of rain beat an insistent tattoo against the windows of the Darcy library their reflection cast flickering shadows on a bronze statue of "The Fencers" perched atop the mantelpiece. Charles Bingley sat elegantly disposed in an armchair, glass of burgundy in hand. Leisurely stretch- ing his legs before the fire, he noted with great satisfaction the gleam of his Hessians mirrored within the marble sur- round. Yes, his valet's insistence on champagne for polishing was well worth the effort, and expense. Flicking an imagi- nary speck from his indigo superfine he briefly debated the merit of changing from Stiller to Weston. The esteemed William Darcy, after all, favored Weston's fluid style and cut. Stiller, on the other hand, was known to be a veritable genius with padding. Damn, pondering the choice of one's tailor did little to allay a man's anxiety. What the deuce was keeping Darcy? As if on cue the library doors were thrown open and William Darcy strode in, fencing foil in hand. His move- ments, swift and purposeful, seemed to expand the room with leashed energy. A year had passed since Darcy's sudden departure for the continent. As the months trickled by a yawning void had been created by the abrupt leave taking of Charles' friend and mentor. The emptiness was one which the younger man had taken great pains to mask and fill with inconsequential acquaintances and tedious happenings, until it evolved into a veritable nursery parody of his life. Charles Bingley de- pended on Darcy's friendship as a man relied on drink and sustenance. Without it, navigating the changing currents of his moods became an arduous task, leaving him with a deep sense of insufficiency. He scanned his friend for alterations wrought during months of peregrinations abroad. Save for sun-darkened skin, and the unfashionable length of his midnight black curls, none were blatantly apparent. As for deeper changes, past experience reminded Charles that patience and time would uncover any fresh nuances to the other man's char- acter. An aesthete at heart, he was struck by his friend's long, lean and elegant form. Glancing over Darcy's attire, he sighed with a twinge of envy; despite sweat stained shirt- sleeves contrasting sharply against impeccably cut breeches, Darcy exuded an air of severe refinement without detract- ing from his chiseled athleticism. No...Charles mused...he would remain with Stiller for the time being. "Welcome back to London, Darcy! The rumors are true then, Master Jouet does indeed grace your establishment with his esteemed presence. My felicitations, it appears you have joined the exalted ranks of Carnathren's Corinthian circle. This only serves to further the other rumor rippling through the ton..." Darcy, having carelessly tossed his blade on a velvet set- tee, leaned against the marble mantle, and fixed on Charles with an intensity hinting at wry amusement. "Is this how one welcomes an old friend? Pray enlighten me, what ru- mor?" Charles continued unperturbed, "The one concerning your doubling the family fortune this year past." The gaze intensified, "You're mistaking fabrication for fact, my friend. That particular rumor happens to be false." He moved toward a carved tantalus, poured himself a finger of brandy, and raising the cut crystal in Charles' di- rection toasted his friend from afar. "The truth of the mat- ter is... I tripled it." He paused, took a healthy swallow of the amber liquid, and continued, "Pardon my attire, but I was told your visit holds some urgency." Charles smiled sheepishly. "Dash it, man, you've been away for nearly a year, and I have need of your counsel. Therefore, here I am."?"You have my undivided attention." Charles raked a nervous hand through his hair dishev- eling a nest of gold and russet curls. A handsome man, he was possessed of an exuberant nature livened further by an engaging manner brimming over with charm. Some found _it irredeemably irritating, the majority however, considered the young man exceedingly appealing. Concealed beneath his light air of insouciance lay a unique if youthful brand of strength and intelligence, its fragile limits having been sorely tested during Darcy's ab- sence. He tugged nervously at his neck cloth, disturbing the meticulous design of knots and ties insisted upon by his valet. Darcy regarded his friend through a curtain of thick lashes, while all his senses honed in on Charles' discomfort. It had not always been thus he realized, observing the other man intently. Previously, he'd not always seen what was arrayed before him-hidden details and minutiae had es- caped him; or rather, he had chosen to be stubbornly blind to their presence. Since his return it was as if new life-blood was coursing through him, in turn clarifying his vision. He attributed the change to a year of continental travel and intricate financial dealings, but perhaps other unseen forces were at play. If so, their nature eluded him. As he continued along his close perusal a novel thought entered his mind, how many signals had he flagrantly missed over the years? Charles cleared his throat. "Damn, this is no easy mat- ter. Doctor Hingston is convinced my interminable insom- nia, restlessness and faulty concentration are the result of a most specific affliction." Absent-mindedly flicking at the leather tassel of his boot, he continued in a flat tone. "I've suffered in silence for months, finally Louisa prevailed upon me to consult the good doctor and..." "And?" Darcy prodded in a soft baritone. "And he concluded, without a doubt, that it was my heart." Darcy's brow furrowed in grave concern at the unex- pected intelligence. "I am deeply saddened by your news, but are you not a trifle young to have a failing heart?" Charles Bingley hung his head, his look one of haggard petulance. "'Tis not what you surmise, not an actual infir- mity, rather more of a languishment...unrequited love." Charles watched as his host's lips quirked into a slow smile. The smile grew, unfolding with lazy sensuality, unex- pectedly lighting up his entire countenance. William Darcy was not a man easily disposed to gaiety; the effect of a sim- ple smile, when it did occur, was one of surprising brilliancy. Upon spying his friend's reaction Charles Bingley broke out in a wide grin and the tension in the room receded by sev- eral degrees. With a vestige of mirth lingering on his lips, Darcy re- sponded, "So it's settled then, you must marry the girl or forever become an invalid. Who is she, by the way?" "Miss Jane Bennet."?As rapidly as the smile had been excavated, it was bur- ied once again. "Do you seek my approval for the match, Charles?" The words were spoken quietly, his tone laced with coolness and reserve. "No...perhaps... I don't know... Devil take it! You're the closest I have to true male kin, and I value your men- _torship. May I remind you that you had expressed strong misgivings about a potential match a year ago? Suffice it to say that others have joined in the fray; Louisa and Caroline have been horribly disobliging about the entire situation, atrocious in fact. It seems they have no particular objection to Jane, but rather her family, or tribe as Caroline is fond of repeating, and there is the small matter of the shooting." "Oh?" Darcy answered, leaning with careless elegance against a desk edge of mahogany. "I shot Thomas Bennet," Charles announced matter of factly. Darcy threw him a speculating look. "That's mighty poor sport of you. May I ask what possessed you to shoot the man?" "Good God! You don't think I intended to shoot him! It was a hunting accident. I grazed his shoulder, barely pinked him, a superficial flesh wound really. The resulting furore! That wife of his! A most disagreeable woman! My deepest apologies apparently failed to meet her exacting require- ments and..." His voice trailed off forlornly. "Allow me to venture a guess. Given all the factors you've delineated, you've been uneasy about facing the injured man and asking for his daughter's hand. As for the young lady in question, she is conflicted over the situation." "Spare me a homily, Darcy."?Darcy rose in a fluid motion, crossed the expanse of inlaid parquetry and stood by the window pensively observ- ing the square. "I have no intention of lecturing you. In fact you have my deepest sympathy; certainly any man in your situation deserves to feel a trifle apprehensive." Relieved at his friend's surprisingly facile grasp of the situation, Charles slumped in his chair and exhaled a drawn out sigh. "Really?" "Perhaps even wonder if rejection were more than a dis- tant possibility." "Right."?Darcy's tone softened, losing its earlier sang-froid. "Particularly from the lady in question." "Yes!" Darcy turned toward his friend and threw him a pen- etrating glance. "Tell me, Charles, what woman has ever refused you?" Charles Bingley's cheeks heightened in colour. The al- lusion was not lost on him. Darcy had been privy to a large number of his youthful dalliances, adventures and esca- pades. Their very mention forged a narrow bridge across the palpable divide a year's absence had created. "What of the incident involving widow Blakey?" Charles muttered under his breath, not wholly convinced of his un- blemished record. "An exception to the rule; she was possessed of decidedly uncustomary inclinations if you recall." "Pour me another drink will you? By Jove, I have missed your exceptional cellar," Charles replied with a bravado he had not experienced in months. Satisfied with the turn of conversation, his host graciously obliged. Both men ensconced themselves comfortably in front of the fire. Warmed by the mellowness of fine liquor each settled with inner relief into the familiar comfort of their old camaraderie. Charles began speaking at length of Miss Jane Bennet, his growing feelings, and equally mushroom- ing trepidation at offering marriage under the present cir- cumstances. Darcy listened with impervious attention, nodding oc- casionally, asking a pointed question here and there, but mostly letting Charles' words wash over him like fine drops of mist, slowly absorbing their intended meaning and hid- den nuances. Bittersweet thoughts collided in his mind at once accus- ing and censuring. How he had pressured the younger man, in earlier days, to reconsider the match! Distinct memories of insinuations and vigilant manipulations rose before him. He had played at being a master puppeteer of two fragile beings without notion for the consequences of his presump- tive behaviour. Time for repairs. "She is all radiant goodness, you know," Charles mused, after some time spent in agreeable silence. " Somehow, I see myself as the lucky custodian of her purity, her spirit. She is not one of those superficially felicitous creatures created by a company of mothers, aunts, and patronesses, fashioned in the image of what is advantageous, correct and expected. Rather, I see her as an unblemished page in the story of my life. One I will have the privilege of imprinting, so that to- gether we may create something unique, and beautiful. Am I blubbering heedlessly?" Darcy stared fixedly at the fire burning behind the grate, unable to meet the younger man's eyes. Finding him- self momentarily overcome with bewilderment at Charles' words, he contemplated their meaning in brooding silence. Minutes trickled by, punctuated by the hushed cadence of a mantle clock. Finally, tearing his gaze away from the dance of red and ochre flames, he replied. "One aspect of travel, my man, is that it forces one to receive new ideas; through comparison and judgment it increases one's understanding and imagina- tion. Travel compels a man to think. Over the last months I have come to the conclusion that I have gravely erred in my judgement of your Miss Bennet. What I once mistook for cool and insipid disinterest, I now recognize as quiet poise and grace. You speak of purity, but I sense strength. She is a fine woman, Charles, and will undoubtedly make a finer wife. For some time now, I have believed that the two of you would suit, exceedingly well, I might add. Carpe Diem! How often is happiness destroyed by over-worry and preparation?" "I...thank you," Charles replied, overcome by a tangle of emotions. In a decade of friendship he had heard Darcy apologize on one previous occasion; the situation itself he no longer remembered, but recalled the unexpected surprise at his older friend's response. That same sense of astonish- ment struck him anew. He was overwhelmed with gratitude and tinged by a curious sensation of lightening. Reverting to old form, as young men are wont to do in such situations, he rose with renewed energy and clapped his friend on the shoulder. "Will it be White's, Boodles', or Brooks', tonight?" "I'm afraid I shall have to decline."?Not easily sidelined, now that his life held the promise of being in fine order again, Charles persisted. "In that case, I invite you to share a box at the Opera, in a fortnight!" "The Opera, it is," Darcy acquiesced with a faint nod of his head. "Oh, and Charles...as concerns the mother..." Charles paused, his hand on the door handle. "Yes?" "Every family is saddled with a problematic relation, an aunt for example, or a..." "Sister?" Charles replied with a dawning grin of under- standing. "Precisely." Darcy paused, and quirked a sardonic brow in his direction. "A final word of advice-Beckingham runs a fine establishment-take some lessons, my man, or there will be no invitation for grouse hunting at Pemberley this year. I'm afraid I do place a modicum of value on my life." "Capital suggestion, you old wretch! I shall leave you to your musings and bid you good day!" He turned at the last minute and threw a parting salvo. "And a most excellent sermon, Darcy! Perhaps you missed your calling?" Having executed a smart bow, he turned on his heel and ducked be- yond the carved doors, the sound of his chuckling echoing through the hallway. 2The library became enveloped in blessed silence, a lucid stillness through which filtered the muted tones of daily London life. Hypocrite. The single, ugly word repeated itself over and over in his mind, like the insistent clanging of a cathedral bell. How could he discourse upon fear of refusal, never having overcome his own? He walked toward the fireplace, and fixing intently upon its burning wood searched deep within himself for a truer understanding of his motives a year past. Until Elizabeth Bennet's insinuation into his life the examination of his in- ner workings had been an infrequent occurrence, one he had solemnly endured. Now, rarely a day went by without his thoughts straying into previously recessed and shadowy corners, attempting to shed light, reaching for novel ideas, and often leaving him yearning for something more. He had left England shortly after Wickham's wed- ding-the rescue wedding-as he oft referred to it in his own mind. What self-sacrificing impulse had lured him to leave? He was not an impulsive man by nature. Previous _decisions had been based on rational comparative analysis guided by unwavering logic and sense. During his myriad travels he had waged an ever-present internal battle of grand proportions, one whose intricate machinations had led him to conclude-nothing. Or was he merely playing his inimitable self-while ostensibly pre- tending to conceal himself. William pretending not to be William. Following the shock of Elizabeth's refusal of his mar- riage proposal at Hunsford and the short lived sweetness of meeting her at Pemberley, he had convinced himself that he needed time...Time to regroup his forces and to prevent being eaten away by his own bitter disappointment. Observing her amidst the glory of Pemberley had wiped away layers of anger, incredulity, and rekindled a simmer- ing passion, mixed with curious devotion. And then what path had he chosen? Rather than reprising his court he had flown the country in a sorry attempt to banish her from his existence, thinking that life without her would be more tolerable than the possibility of yet another refusal at her hands. Sinking heavily into a wingchair he contemplated the as yet fresh memories of his meanderings abroad. Throughout his travels he had invariably attracted the women, prestige and friends that followed a man of his standing and fortune. Each and every one had failed to ease the pain, the plangent melancholic ache that had become his malady. The colourful gaiety of Paris, the lushness of Tuscany and splendours of Rome; all had failed to diffuse the dense and dreamy brilliance of her. She had grown on him slow- ly-memories of her words, her eyes, her walk-adding a little here and there like a silky cocoon, layer by gossamer layer, until one day walking amidst the perfumed gardens of the Alhambra he had been overcome by the pretence of it all. He could no longer suppress nor deny his feelings. From that day forward he had built within himself a sanctuary where Elizabeth reigned-amidst private thoughts and longings. One he would escape to during his wanderings, bring ideas of import, revisit conversations, sit- uations, sights he'd seen, books he'd read. She became real, enshrined in his mind with vivid clarity. She became his muse, nearly divine. But beneath it all an insistent question hovered...were his feelings for her a blessing or sheer folly? The answer, like all facets of Elizabeth, remained madden- ingly just beyond his grasp. His painful reverie was interrupted by Winston's clipped tone, "Shall I remove your foil from the settee, sir?" He nodded his head in silence. With a disapproving frown, Winston lifted the offensive blade from its resting place among tasselled velvet cushions, inwardly wondering at his master's unaccustomed carelessness. The poor man had become Frenchified abroad by the appearance of it all. Unexpectedly, a cacophony of voices, mixed with carriage wheels and the pounding of equine hooves, poured in from across the square. _"What's with the hellish fracas outside, Winston?" Winston halted, metal blade balanced gingerly in his white gloved hands. "'Tis Lady Montague returned from yet another Grand Tour." Sensing his master's mild interest in the matter he continued, "Three carriages, twelve hors- es, a dozen servants, a mountain of luggage and one lady's companion have arrived to great fanfare." "You seem intimately acquainted with the details of her household." "Thank you sir, we strive to remain informed. Will that be all?" "Yes, that will be all," Darcy replied, nodding absently at the butler's receding figure. He sat alone in the empty library, turning and turning over in his thoughts every detail of his acquaintance with Elizabeth. Listening to the occasional crackle and hiss of fire logs he burrowed deeper into his wingchair and let his fingers absently roam over a world globe by his side. A distant grandfather clock chimed somewhere afar and the house settled gently for the night. Suddenly, his fingers stilled the spinning lacquer sphere and something within his befogged mind unfurled, in turn filling him with a simple and lucid clarity. Charles' painfully honest declaration had flung open the gates to his own sorry plight-that of a rejected suitor. The starkness of his reality, one he had sublimated during his travels, struck him anew with blinding intensity: sear- ing, fiery and raw. He could no longer plead ignorance to the true role Elizabeth's scathing refusal had played in his departure. Her jarring words had forced him to journey into foreign territories, both abroad and within himself. Fields rarely trodden upon. Unwonted. The startling aspersions she had cast upon his character had cut him to the quick, thinning his well-worn veneer of pride, cracking his habitual composure, his reserve, and filling him with unease. He had grown malcontent, restless, and had been obliged to face an unpleasant truth; that of being spurned by a woman, stripped of his most essential weapons and exposed in a singularly vulnerable fashion. Until her appearance in his life such a notion would have bordered on the ludicrous. Now, however, he found himself powerless in banish- ing her from his thoughts, and in all truthfulness, from his very heart. For she had taken possession of a deep-rooted el- ement within him, and with the taking he had surrendered something of himself. If so, how could he live without her? He could not. The very possibility of such an eventuality was not to be borne. Elizabeth had enmeshed herself within him, so much so, that he no longer knew where his thoughts of her ended and his dreams of her began. Dared he hope that with the passage of time she would reconsider his suit? Or had she surrendered to the charms of another? The mere consideration of losing her to another man, any man, made him shudder. Embittered by the lingering taste of failures past, un- customarily frightened by what the future might hold, he reached for his heavy crystal goblet, let out a deep sigh, and taking a long drink of the aged brandy welcomed its prom- ise of liquid oblivion. Chapter Two. London, 1820. The notion struck her that she was traveling back- wards in more ways than one. Ensconced in the vel- vety depths of the well-sprung, well-oiled Montague carriage, Elizabeth looked on as London facades sped by her window. La grande reculade.*?Was it merely ten days ago that she had left the flutter of Paris, its majestic spires rising out of a clear and sunny sky? Time seemed to flow along a differing path during travel; it slowed, halted and altered its tempo, invisibly guided by the hand of unexplored territories. As soon as she had set foot in Dover time had accelerated until she had felt herself hurtling toward the familiar. The sensation was like being pulled toward an uncomfortable truth. If her year of travels represented a rich tapestry, then its colours and textures seemed to be unravelling as she sat facing a slumbering Lady Margaret Montague.** Scattered images flitted before her; the smile of a flower girl at the Luxembourg Gardens, a carpet of wildflowers covering some hidden valley in the Alps, the weathered face of a ci- cerone in Napoli; common sights of common occurrences, the warp and weave of her experiences abroad. Where Lady Montague, a seasoned traveller, had dis- tinctly preferred the enjoyment of endless daytime scenery, Elizabeth was often left to herself to pore over architecture, art and paintings. So much so that in Florence she had de- veloped a most Stendhalian*** "art fatigue." Overcome by the sheer volume of beautiful sights she had taken to her bed, afflicted with the headache. Thereafter, having learned a lesson in moderation, she slowed her tempo spending hours sketching the minutiae of life playing out before her, or penning her musings, both abstract and absurd, in the pages of her treasured journals. Ah Italy... a country of exquisite landscapes, filled with boundless generosity and brilliantly witty people; people whose very speech and gestures spoke of art; a country where labourers hummed Rossini and quoted Dante with- out effort. She stared sightlessly out of the carriage window. How could one not become romanticized by it all? She glanced toward the slumbering figure of Lady Montague with a mixture of fond attachment, sadness and gratitude. The older woman had lifted her out of a vacuum of tedious loneliness, and effectively gifted her with wings. To this day, she would remember the words that had se- duced her toward reaching for the unknown. "The world holds much that is good and true Elizabeth, but you must pursue it, it will not do to neglect it. One _must have a quest in life, my dear, or one withers away into nothingness." Pursue it she did, with great pleasure and advantage; away from family and friends, away from the tall, dark man who had left a distinct imprint upon her soul. Good God, how she had flown! Images of the Venetian Carnivale as- saulted her mind...slipping out of her domino, into bed, out of bed, back into her domino...masques, balls, operas. Upon setting foot in England she had been forced, mid- flight, to land once again; her wings had been clipped. And as the carriage rocked and tilted toward London her collec- tive of grand and colourful memories seemed to take on the patina of an aged and crumbling illusion. Upon leaving on her journey she had clung to the certi- tude that her mind would change, and in change she would surely find reprieve. Travelling had given her a taste of knowledge, permitting her to touch a world previously for- eign and unknown. Walking among ruin after ruin, recall- ing Latin poets, admiring great masters, had connected her to a larger pool of humanity, which in times past had been relegated to the world of books and descriptions alone. True knowledge, she had decided, meant absorbing, contemplating, discovering-the voyage transcended mere ink strokes on parchment. In her journeys she had sharp- ened her perspective, allowing clearer shape and form to the future potential of perhaps one day becoming useful; use- ful beyond the bounds dictated by convention. Vague ideas had begun coalescing in her mind, involving her travel, her sketches, and the possibility of sharing the entirety with others at large. Perhaps. As the carriage creaked and clopped over uneven bridge planks the spring rain intensified. A singularly London-like greeting, she smiled wryly to herself. Nestling into the woollen folds of her travelling cape she swayed with the to and fro cadence of the conveyance, its rhythm gentle and soothing like that of a childhood lullaby. Yet, rather than being lulled into peaceful calm she felt a growing unease settle upon her. Finally, unable to contain herself, she submitted to the habitual turn of her mind that, despite great effort on her part, had dimmed the brilliance of her voyage. Fool! She chided herself silently. What youthful naivet had led her to believe that a Grand Tour could erase him, with finite entirety, from her memory? Like an uninvited, dark and si- lent shadow, he had tailed her on her journey, invading her notions, her designs, her very dreamscapes. She'd glimpsed wisps of him in statues, paintings, in the receding figure of an innocent stranger. A brooding brow, the curve of a lip... hands, torsos, sinewy legs...rapt, pensive, quietly searching eyes. The eyes had been the worst, following her everywhere. Da Vinci, Rubens, Rembrandt-cruel masters in their abil- ity to reflect his eyes-reminding her of the sudden failure of her past, the pain of its unwilling change and a relent- lessly plaguing sense of disgrace. Happy thoughts indeed. _After the ill-fated marriage proposal she had almost succeeded in banishing him from her mind, in spite of his letter, and against her resentful feelings at the time. Almost, but not quite. Fate was not unkind, she mused clenching her jaw; no, fate was flint-hearted and ruthless. The chance meeting at Pemberley had opened new vistas, brightly hued possibilities, only to have them extinguished anew by the debacle of Lydia's wedding. Weeks of waiting for his return had flowed into one another. While her family slowly regained its equilibrium she steadily began losing hers. Were some men capable of declaring themselves only once? Hopeful burgeoning passion had dissipated into sad- ness, and with time grown into a sense of bitter loss. She had felt herself swallowed up by her small, shallow, and closeted life. While taunting her steadily, like the gossa- mer wisps of a spider web, were memories of his brilliant transformation at Pemberley, the deep kindness displayed toward her family in his handling of the Wickham affair... the possibility of a good man. She had felt so near to another proposal, and then, to have it all come to naught. The whole seemed nonsensi- cal, illogical, yet very real. To her chagrin her customarily resilient nature, one that rarely dwelled upon unpleasant matters, had become irrefutably altered by the advent and leave-taking of a single man. A grey flume of smouldering resentment toward William Darcy, toward his ostensibly wounded pride, his reluctant disinclination, seemed to escape from her very core. She had run to the continent to escape her loss, to lose herself in art, travel, landscapes, thinking her mind would be trans- formed, and she would unlearn feeling. The art of letting go had proven impossibly beyond her grasp. Each day, each hour, he would find her, and with the first dream that ar- rived with the onset of sleep she would run and gather him to her heart. Madness. Anger at her plight, her hopelessness, her inconsequential situation, surged and spilled out. Like Vesuvius spewing molten lava. Le rouge et le noir.**** 2Beneathasweepofcreamyostrichfeathers,LadyMargaret Montague observed the changing landscapes of Elizabeth's countenance with a partiality which, to this moment, she found astonishing. Having rarely enjoyed the company of women, in Elizabeth, to her utter satisfaction and delight, she had discovered a bright, charming and spirited compan- ion. She reminded herself to call on Madeline Gardiner and thank her for intervening on her behalf. Thomas Bennet, an old friend of Lady Montague's, had been easy to sway, but Fanny had required tactfuland persistent pleading before she would allow Elizabeth to venture abroad. Lifting her eyes she addressed her young companion. "Did we not have a pleasant journey, Elizabeth? 'Tis possible to travel quite amiably without that annoyingly imperious creature-man."?Elizabeth's lips quirked upwards in the faintest sugges- tion of a smile. "How very true, my lady. Perhaps God, in creating man, overstretched his ability." Lady Montague shot the young woman a penetrating glance. Despite hundreds of leagues travelled, the sharing of cramped and close quarters, she was no further in eluci- dating the cloud of Elizabeth's inner discontent. A delicious enigma; one she instinctively decided would be solved in London by the end of Season. Over the years she had determined that beneath every woman who journeyed afar lived a story, rich and complex, whispering of secret joys and hidden sorrows. Her own life and myriad travels certainly gave credence to the theory. Richly widowed at a young age she had proceeded with single-minded aplomb to establish herself as a pre-eminent salonniere among the ton. An intriguing blend of opposites she was blessed with the peculiar beauty of the jolie-laide; sharp-eyed, sharp tongued, exuding an aura of old-fash- ioned elegance without becoming outr. Her wit, and its incurable ability to make observations sharper than finish- ing nails, had fashioned her into a brilliant and feared pup- peteer of society's minions. Nonetheless, London society had proven itself somewhat limiting. In turn, her disap- pointment in its rigid strictures had prompted her to voy- age across the Channel, honing her skills along the way to near-perfect pitch. She sighed to herself, inwardly acknowledging the curi- ous mixture of satisfaction and discontent that had prompt- ed this latest journey. So unsettling to find oneself balanced between youth and old age! A woman who prided herself on quoting Sophocles while dancing till dawn, she was determined to retain her femininity while expanding her intellect through adven- tures, antiquities and academia. Only lately, had she admit- ted to herself the task was rather more arduous than pre- dicted. Undaunted, she steadfastly continued on her quest. Very little in life frightened her. No, her one and only fear was that of aging complacency paving the way toward a me- diocre life performance. Lady Montague was not a woman well suited to insignificant interludes; she craved colourful drama, and in its absence, was rather adept at fashioning it. Slipping on her kidskin gloves, she addressed Elizabeth with a glint of amusement in her eyes. "We did very well I must admit. Truth be told, I shall be exceedingly glad to sleep in my own bed this evening, child. Do you know what I pined for the most while away?" "I cannot imagine." "The library. Harry, bless his dear imperfect soul, had left me a most formidable array of books. When he wasn't collecting women he occupied himself by acquiring moun- tains of tomes, ancient and rare manuscripts. Oh, how I cannot wait to be settled amidst those old pages again. Ah! Here we are. They have been expecting us. A good house is a great comfort as one ages, my dear." 2A fortnight later. Montague House, London. The walls of Lady Montague's drawing room were aglow, their sunny warmth reminiscent of lemon trees and olive groves. Potted palms, artfully arranged in footed porcelain vases, lent the salon a faintly exotic air, one gently reflected in the true greens and eggshell blues of surrounding dam- asks and silks. A ray of light slipped in through the parted curtains momentarily causing Elizabeth to look up from her book and take in her surroundings. "You've captured a piece of Tuscany, my lady. Funnily, a year ago, I would have never appreciated the complex shad- ings found in light." "Mediterranean citron. I drove the painters to sheer and complete madness. 'Tis somewhat reminiscent of the lumi- nosity of Siena, isn't it?" She sipped on her tea with a satis- fied grin. "Are we fully recovered my child? A fortnight has passed since our return." Elizabeth put down her book and nodded, "As well as one would expect. Though I must admit that I am battling a peculiar feeling; every object appears different, yet the same." "Yes, I now recall, following my first Tour, that I experi- enced a similar sensation. It soon dissipates, my dear. One more week and you will regain your customary rhythm. Now that we have recovered in the fundamentals shall we make some noise?" Elizabeth suppressed a smile. Her ladyship was capable of turning the softest social ripple into a veritable tintamarre, given her mood, whim or fancy. Riffling through a pile of invitations, Lady Montague continued along her musings, "Aurelia Oglethorpe invites us to dinner, but her chef does not so much cook as torture the food. We shall have to beg off. Sir Bertram wishes to pay a call, but it is much too early in the Season to be sub- jected to his six-foot scowls. Lady Whistledown is throw- ing a Venetian breakfast; now the only flair about her is to be found in her nostrils. We shall decline. As for Mr. Robertson-a balding non-entity with side whiskers." She paused her riffling, "Mercy, how dull and tedious the first desperate slew of contacts becomes. We need the likes of Lord Byron to liven the dreary monotony of the Season!" _"I have heard Lady Lamb, in Napoli, describe him as mad, bad and dangerous to know," Elizabeth offered, half in jest. "All the more reason to invite him my dear. Pity he re- mains abroad." Lady Montague waved a gilt bordered card. "Here is a prime example of which I speak. Miss Caroline Bingley extends an invitation for tea. She is an arriviste my dear, with a veritable gift for stepping into the limelight, however, boiled down to essentials-a rather plain mortal with big teeth. No, I shall not oblige, and save myself the trouble of disliking her a great deal." The mention of the Bingley name sorely tested Elizabeth's calm and poise but drawing on a pool of inner resolve she prevailed and assumed a cloak of serenity. All too accustomed to Lady Montague's targeted skew- ering she steered, nonetheless, in a safer direction, "I have received word from Jane, my lady. She and father will be arriving in ten days' time. They are to reside in Cheapside." "Nonsense, my dear child! Send word immediately that we insist upon their presence here at Portman Square. Why, they have been robbed of your company for an entire year, the least I can do is open my home to your family in gratitude. Since I do require your services till the end of the Season, I find myself most relieved to hear that the very best of Hertfordshire will come to London. Now, as for this evening, shall we launch our rentre with a visit to the Opera? It is to be La Cenerentola by Mr. Rossini. The latest on-dit is that Mr.Weber sends two of his men to sit in a well-exposed box and fall asleep after the second curtain rises. One is even said to snore! How clever and amusing. We shall have to anticipate what Rossini plans for revenge against Weber." "Like abroad the audience's performance rivals that on the stage. I expect you will be inspected the entire night for vestiges of continental caprice, my lady." "How astute of you, Elizabeth. And I shall be a most eclectic creature this evening. The dress will hail from Florence, petticoats from Marseilles, and my satin slippers from Padua! Tongues will whisper and wag, wondering if I have been improved or metamorphosed...And I shall keep them guessing! Do wear your aubergine silk, the one we purchased in Venice. It would not do for either of us to disappoint!" Notes: *La Grande Reculade: 'The great going backwards' **Lady Margaret Montague: Patterned on Elizabeth Montagu (1720-1800), who married Edward Montagu of Allerthorp, the fifth son of the Earl of Sandwich. Upon his death, she inherited a vast estate, built Montagu House on Portman Square in London and became the 'Queen of the Bluestockings.' She was a noted philanthropist, holding an annual May dinner for the chimney sweeps of London. ***Stendhalian Syndrome: A medical syndrome first desribed by Stendhal, a french novelist, upon his first visit to Florence. Overcome by the sheer beauty and volume of artwork and ar- chitecture, he developed a state of confusion and transient loss of reality. To this day, every year, several tourists are treated for Stendhalian syndrome in Florence. ****Le Rouge et Le Noir: A novel written by Stendhal (pseud- onym of Marie-Henri Beyle) in 1830. _Chapter Three Portman Square, London. later that day. Burford, Lady Montague's ever-suffering but- ler, impaled Elizabeth with a mournful look. "You must take great care, Miss Bennet. Lady Hamilton is the leader and will send you on a merry chase; as for Horatio, he will follow along blindly." Elizabeth shortened the leather leash on the straining greyhounds, glad to be out in the bracing spring air. "I am but going around the square, Burford."?"Most irregular," muttered the butler resignedly under his breath. Years of employ at Montague House had tested his tenacious hold on the strictures of proper deportment; yet, he held on, convinced one day he would be richly re- paid for his steadfastness. Motioning for a footman to fol- low along at a respectable distance he retreated into the town house, his shoulders sloping beneath the weight of his considerable burden. The fresh air was immensely pleasing to Elizabeth; red- olent of last night's rain it seemed to temper the inevitable busy smell of London. How droll, she thought to herself, that at her first sight of Rome she had mistaken its fog- shrouded spires for those of London, until their equipage had neared, the fog lifted, and the similarity disappeared in a splash of color. She scanned along the soldierly alignment of town homes about the square, their gates largely closed, black iron sword-tips pointing straight into the April air. An im- posing faade caught her eye as she neared its row of se- verely pruned topiaries. These very trees, if left alone, could have grown twenty feet or more. But no, instead they were carefully pruned, their branches whittled down to nothing. Oh, how lucky they were to have a pot to grow in, she mused sarcastically. A fierce tug propelled her swiftly out of her reverie as Lady Hamilton attempted to bolt after a moving blur of tan and brown. Elizabeth pulled back quickly, but the combined force of both hounds proved beyond her. She felt the leather leash strain and burn through the thin skin of her gloves and was soon wrenched forward with startling speed. At the same moment, a black-cloaked shape swung out behind the very row of potted topiaries, and strolled out through the wrought-iron gate. "Dash it Hamilton, you're no lady! And you, Horatio, are a veritable disgr..." she raised her voice angrily as the hounds bounded ahead, pulling her along like a clumsy marionette. Her words and very breath were jarringly knocked out as she collided with a steely mass of dark wool and rigid muscle. Limbs, leather leads, barking dogs, man and wom- an, all became entangled in an unruly, chaotic jumble. A deep voice rose out of the untidy melee. "Pardon me, Miss..." Momentarily disoriented by the force of the collision, a curious thought flashed through her mind...if voices had color this man's would be velvety brown. Tilting her head at a sharp angle, she was blinded by a flash of sun. Unable to discern the face behind the voice, she decided however, that he smelled delicious: leather, soap and something piquant. The entirety reminded her for a moment of summer time in Provence. A silent minute stretched out endlessly. Within that space she felt the man's muscles ripple, tense and withdraw sharply, as if flinching and recoiling from danger. Perhaps she imagined it, she thought, squinting into the sun. A pair of hands grasped her shoulders and she sensed a layer of cool air distancing her from the sudden warmth of wool and man. The deep voice resumed, laced with aston- ishment and an emotion she could not quite place. "Miss Bennet?"?A cloud, huge, calm and dignified covered the sun, and she found herself staring into the familiar chestnut depths that had pursued her throughout Europe. His lashes were longer, much longer than she had remembered. "Mr. D-Darcy?"?"Your humble servant. Please, allow me..."?"No, I..."?"Yes, truly..." His hands brushed hers and seized the leather leads. The hounds, sensing a new owner whose strength was inescapable, stilled their skittish circling and came to a complete halt. He gazed at her tongue-tied, utterly shocked by the im- pact of her unexpected presence, yet deeply grateful that chance was toying with them once again. She met his eyes with hers and felt herself drawn in by a surpassing, grave tenderness, which to her utter consterna- tion sent her falling-over waterfalls. Her face grows rosy as the dawn, he realized lost in her nearness. Botticelli's Primavera...no... Da Vinci's Madonnas...which one? All of them. Standing under the forgotten scrap of sky, hounds sitting obediently at his feet, he floated in delight at having found her so soon, so near. His joy was violent and intense. The sensation itself being heady, almost erotic, and hard to distinguish from pain. It enveloped him entirely while remaining completely hidden beneath a taut mask of gentlemanly civility. Not knowing where to look, lost in the intensity of his presence, her eyes fixed on his hands: gloveless, tapered long fingers, sinews and tendons straining. She watched, her breathing rapid and shallow, the way his fingers curled about the length of leather; closing, tightening their hold, filled blue veins outlined against sun-darkened skin. _Exceptionally strong hands. The Sistine Chapel. Good Lord, how had she gotten herself into this predicament? He was the last person she had expected to see, so soon, upon her return to England. His voice drifted toward her, polite, restrained, yet was that a tremble she detected? "What brings you to London, Miss Bennet?" "I have but recently returned from the continent with Lady Montague," she replied, attempting valiantly to affect a distant and serene composure. "Ah...one lady's companion," he murmured. "How in- teresting, I find myself returned from the continent as well; our paths, however, failed to cross. Where, may I enquire, did your travels happen to take you?" She swallowed hard, forcing herself to attend to his words while inwardly wishing she could bury herself within the satiny folds of her reticule. "France, the Alps, Italy and back," she answered. Oh! What a magnificent summation of your journey Elizabeth, she fretted inwardly. Suddenly the importance of leaving a favorable impression upon William Darcy took on gargantuan proportions; unhappily, the revelation itself had a decidedly unsettling effect upon her person. "An extensive itinerary, by any standard; Lady Montague is a most seasoned traveler. I trust you were well looked af- ter?" "Yes, indeed."?A pause ensued, heavy with the weight of unspoken words and feelings, as both parties balanced precariously on a crater's edge of indecision. Doubt and hesitation wove themselves like fine threads into William's heightened emo- tions. Was she experiencing the same flight of happiness he felt? Or was the blush coloring her cheeks simply one of embarrassment; or worse, vexation at their unconventional reunion? "Permit me to walk these two wretched creatures back to the house," he offered. Taking the first step, craving to prolong their encounter, he knew that it must soon arrive at its natural conclusion. "No, I thank you. I shall manage just fine. They are quite settled. The spring air and all..." His gaze swept over the curve of her cheek, gliding across the soft line of her chin, and alighted, without con- scious intent, on her lips. "Yes, the spring air... Perhaps I shall have the very great pleasure of calling upon Lady Montague in the near future." Needing to authenticate the propriety of his visit he added, "She was a dear friend of my mother's," his voice trailed off. "Well...My humble apologies for the collision. It was quite accidental I assure you." His lips hinted at a private smile. "Good day, Miss Bennet." "Good day, Mr. Darcy."?His fingers brushed hers again as the leather leads passedfrom hand to hand. He tipped his hat and strode away with long, purposeful steps, the edge of his black cloak grazing _0 the ground in a mesmerizing to and fro motion. She was left standing frozen in chilly stupor before the open gates of Darcy House, two greyhounds sitting obediently at her feet. 2He strode away, aware of her gaze on his receding fig- ure, his spine stiff, inwardly feeling like a proud school-boy again. She was in London! Across the square! He felt glori- ously intoxicated with the knowledge of her proximity. He was not sorry for this latest denouement-meeting her so suddenly-he only wished that somehow he had been prepared rather than taken by brisk surprise. His earlier un- certainty resurfaced and grew, giving rise to a question he had skillfully avoided for some time. Would she allow him to reprise his court? He turned a corner and suddenly halted mid-stride nearly colliding with a street sweep on the curb. In truth, there never had been a proper courtship between them, a guilty voice whispered. Well, perhaps the time was ripe to begin his suit anew. He'd backed away from the challenge she presented once before. Never again. After all, he thrived on challenges in every other aspect of his life. Yes... he mut- tered to himself...he would court the lady. Having arrived at his decision he resumed his stride with renewed vigor. As his steps led him toward Bond Street, the air seemed clean and unsullied, colors took on dazzling hues, and a bold energy appeared to emanate from the teeming life of the city. With a jubilant flick of his wrist he tossed some coins to a pack of trailing street urchins. Macbeth was sure- ly mistaken; life was not a walking shadow. He thought of the sun illuminating her face... Titian, Tintoretto, the Venetian masters and their brilliant use of light. And he de- cided then and there, that Elizabeth belonged to that singu- lar group of people who shone with a unique incandescence. One whose brilliancy he yearned to both savor and nurture for the remainder of his years. He turned into Penhaligon's, a shop he rarely frequent- ed. As he glanced about the perfumed and embowered store, he scanned rows of lavender water, English flower perfumes, and posies of fresh blooms. His eyes settled on a cluster of yellow roses, luminous, sun-golden. He observed the shop- girl arranging the stems in an artful display, and motioned to a long satin covered box. His hands reached for a white card, lifting a nearby quill pen, he wrote Elizabeth's name, then his. At the last minute, he pointed to an extravagant bouquet of irises, orchids and chrysanthemums. Lady Montague was fond of lavish arrangements. "They will be delivered at once?" he enquired impatient- ly, pointing to the roses. The shopgirl threw him a curious glance, answering that yes, indeed, they would. 2Royal Opera House, London?"Una volta c'era un r..." ("Once there lived a king")* Amidst a sea of pale faces, shining jewels, and the susur- rant hum of the beau monde, Caroline Bingley's aigrette quivered like the lightest blanc mange. Swathed in a satin confection the color of bruised peaches, she turned her op- era glasses critically on the horse-shoe curve of glitter dis- played before her. "Upon my word, if that is not Eliza Bennet preening in the Montague box!" Louisa leaned toward her sister and murmured, "Lady Smythe let it be known at her musicale that our Eliza ac- companied Lady Montague on her most recent Grand Tour. The country lass must be on the shelf by now, my dear. After all, is there any other raison d'tre for touring the continent?" "How true, Louisa. A young woman who travels tar- nishes her feminine respectability. The dangers of visiting foreign climes are well established: one can lose any proper sense one possesses and become filled by lax principles. She does appear quite convenient if you follow my meaning. One only has to glance at the Italian cut of her gown." Louisa twittered in a high falsetto, "I have it on good authority that Italian is now considered over French, my dear." Having dipped rather deep at Brook's the same evening, Louisa's husband woke from his befogged reverie. "What? What? French, did you say? I thought this damned opera was Italian?" Louisa patted his hand with a reassurance borne of long years of practice. "Now, now, dearest, I assure you, the li- bretto is entirely Italian, only the soprano is German, but the tenor, thankfully, quite British." "Un soave non so che" ("Oh sweet something") Charles Bingley, afflicted with near sightedness since childhood, leaned toward his sister and whispered indig- nantly in her ear, "Caroline, I insist on reclaiming my opera glasses, you have placed me at a distinct disadvantage this evening." With a serpentine twist of her neck, Caroline let spill the full extent of her pique, "Lud, but you are notoriously pricksome, Charles. She's not even present here! Now that your malady seems to have abated, can you not come about and bring an end to this calf-love of yours? It is entirely un- becoming, besides, Louisa and I find ourselves vastly bored with the entire affair." "I may be known for the gentleness of my disposition, but I warn you, Caroline, this time you go too far. Louisa, Hurst, I bid you good night. Darcy, I shall meet you at the Montague box come intermission. After all, we must pay our respects to the charming Miss Bennet. I hear she has returned from her journeys abroad lovelier than ever, a be- witching muse, and sophisticated beyond belief." William Darcy, partially hidden in shadow, raised his eyebrow at the sibling exchange, stretched his legs before him and returned to his silent contemplation of Elizabeth. "Zitto, zitto, piano, piano..." ("Quietly, quietly, softly, softly") He had observed her since the end of the first Act, when a ripple wove through the audience upon the arrival of the Montague party. As Don Magnifico bellowed a soulful aria on stage he watched from afar; watched her gaze shift, her mouth open as the music soared, and settle in the slightest of private smiles as if lost in her own secret world. The music seemed to stem directly from poetry this evening, its tones waking a higher life within him, echoing deeply, and filling him with an inexpressible longing. The flowers, he wondered, had they pleased her? His gaze refocused upon her, the curve of her neck like pale, lightly warmed alabaster. She had cut all her glorious hair. He sighed. What further transformations awaited his discovery? As the aria neared its finale he decided, after a long and thorough perusal of her person, that the short riot of curls somehow suited her, defining her features, enlarg- ing her eyes. The effect was pleasing, very pretty, and en- tirely captivating. He contemplated her from far away, noting not only what others saw, but also what she added to the world around her. Something deep within him thinned and shat- tered. The sensation captured him by complete surprise. Yet something, like petals falling entered him, bringing with it a yearning to capture her essence, the essence of her spirit, to cradle it, caress it till it shone, and bury himself deep within it. Leaning back in his armchair he steepled his fingers, propped his chin upon them and stared across the theatre. He looked out, mired in deep thoughts, momentarily un- seeing, and plotted his way forward. "Sprezzo quei don che versa..." ( "All is not gold that glitters") "We seem to be garnering an inordinate amount of attention this evening, Elizabeth," Lady Montague com- mented behind her fan, while nodding here and there to old acquaintances across the gilded and festooned semi circle. "Who is the creature in creaking satin?"?"Lady Catherine de Bourgh, my lady, and if I'm not mis- taken that must be Colonel Fitzwilliam by her side," "Good God, the gorgon lives! She and my mother were at constant odds. As for the gentleman, you will notice he is __ no longer sporting regimentals, my dear. He sold his com- mission this past year. In fact, I do believe he is now the Honourable Mr. Fitzwilliam. I am told his older brother died rather suddenly at Jackson's, one blow too many, leav- ing the younger Fitzwilliam in direct line for the Matlock baronetcy. I presume the two of you are acquainted?" "Yes, our paths crossed at Rosings," "How fortuitous! Quite the dashing young fellow. Before his ascent in the world a young man one would invite for tea and conversation, but not marriage material. Now, how- ever..." As if aware of Lady Montague's scrutiny the Honourable Mr. Fitzwilliam tilted his head at a jaunty angle and flashed Elizabeth a most winning smile-warm, inviting, and un- mistakably rakish. She lowered her lashes and curled her lips in a sumptuous upturn. "Questo e un nodo avvilupato" ("Here's an intricate knot") As the heavy green velvet curtain sank in a cloud of dust and debris, a discreet knock sounded on the box wall. Lady Montague motioned with her fan, "Ah, William, do come in and bring all the rest with you. I presume you and Miss Bennet are acquainted since the incident with the dogs. Rotten creatures are they not? " Suddenly, the Montague box filled with a veritable crush of silks, satins, diamonds, and men. Caroline Bingley jostled for position, "You may not re- member me, my lady, but we were introduced two years ago." "Quite a delightful interval, wouldn't you agree Miss Bingley?" Remarked her ladyship pleasantly, and passed on to the darkly elegant man standing by her side. She lowered her voice conspiratorially, "A lesson in the language of flow- ers would serve you well." Darcy's brow creased in sudden surprise. "My lady?"?"I shall expect a call on the morrow. Now, now, William, I won't stand for any hauteur, have we not been acquainted since your leading string days?" "Indeed." He could make out Elizabeth out of the cor- ner of his eye, her face partially hidden behind an open fan, smiling rapturously at his cousin. Something within him coiled and tightened. So much for blind arrogance, he lashed himself inwardly. In his fit of passionate resolve he had entirely forgotten a cardinal rule in courting a desirable woman...he was but one of many. Darcy cleared his throat, and attempted a wry smile. "I shan't miss the opportunity of attending your salon, my lady, and partaking in the...ah...lesson." He bowed, and drawn by the lighthearted tones of her laughter, moved his black clad form toward Elizabeth's fauteuil.?"And when a lady opens and closes her fan thusly," Elizabeth demonstrated the skill with a graceful flick of her wrist, "that, my dear sir, signifies 'You are being most cruel'." __ The Honourable Mr. Fitzwilliam's laugh cut through the clamour of the box as he motioned to the fan. "May I?" Having retrieved the fan from Elizabeth's hand he pressed it half-open to his lip. "Now, I wonder, what could this possibly suggest?" Elizabeth's colour rose slightly, she held out her palm, and raised a disapproving eyebrow at his antics, "Allow me to demonstrate the proper manner in which to imply 'Do not be so impudent!' Why, good evening Mr. Darcy, I trust you are enjoying the performance thus far?" He trapped her gaze in his and held it. "Yes, the per- formance is quite magnificent," he answered, his tone cool, clipped and presaging an impending storm. "What a lovely fan, Miss Bennet, may I be permitted a closer look?" A fine tremor shook her hand as she opened the hand- painted fan, its ivory handle flecked in black and gold. She could feel the heat of him as he leaned nearer, his breath intermingling with hers, the single diamond of his cravat momentarily distracting. There hovered about him an aura of suppressed emotion; palpable, fervent and disquieting. He narrowed his eyes as if inspecting the fan intense- ly. "Ah, Vesuvius and its environs, remarkable craftsman- ship. I preferred the Falls at Tivoli myself, near the ruins of Hadrian's villa. Did you, perchance, visit the Sabine Hills while you were away?" "Yes," she replied, drawn in against her will by his near- ness, the profound richness of his voice, and a thrumming undercurrent of leashed intensity. "I shall never forget the roar of the waters, so violent, yet mesmerizing at the same time." "Neither shall I," he answered, throwing her a far away look and growing silent. Distant contemplation of his muse was one matter, he thought to himself, but this woman was no illusion. She was real, very much alive and testing his mettle in a manner that left him feeling discomposed. The chattering noise within the box grew, cloaking their interlude with an insistent hum. Should she mention the flowers? She pondered, strick- en with unaccustomed panic. No, she dared not. He would think her forward and lacking sensibility. Yet, how dared he send her yellow roses? She clenched her jaw, debating the virtue and the price of being unafraid to challenge him. Some hidden instinct cautioned her to remain silent, yet to her chagrin as he spoke his next words she realized with a sinking feeling the full extent of her misjudgement. "Yes, you are magnificent, Miss Bennet," he whispered softly so as only she would hear, then added softer still, "in Venice, did you have your own cicisbeo? Some dashing young pup worshipping the very ground you trod on? For you know, the entire institution began there..."?"No, I did not, Mr. Darcy. In fact, sir, I find myself rather disinclined to be dissected, examined and analysed by your formidable intellect." She tilted her chin with pert defiance. The action, the very deliberate tilt of her dimpled chin, should have taken him by surprise. However, it did not. Parry and riposte. It had been some time since he'd faced a worthy opponent. For a fleeting instant he paused, wondering why they were sparring, when he would have been perfectly content to sweep her in his arms and be done with trivial duelling. No other woman had ever succeeded in arousing him to such potent emotions. He resolved to temper his responses, to mellow their impassioned edge. After all, was he not at- tempting to woo the lady? "You give my intellect more credence than it deserves," he answered with considerable restraint. "Surely, Mr. Darcy, you are not suggesting that travel has dulled my powers of observation?" He raised a quizzical brow, "Not at all, I was merely en- deavouring to..." and became distracted by the shiny curve of her lower lip, the pearly edge of its vermilion border. "To...?" She replied in a husky undertone. Darcy lost his words, lost his bearings completely and utterly, as a faint colour rose to his cheeks. Buoyed by her advantage she continued on. "Has travel softened your mind, Mr. Darcy? Or is it possible that you have misplaced your manners? Somewhere between France and Italy, or the Alps perchance?" His eyes bored into hers and lit up with bright expec- tancy. "Ah, much as it pains me to do so, I must confess that you are absolutely correct. Travel has decidedly softened my mind in a most advantageous way. I find myself no longer above being pleased by many things, including the finely honed wit of a beautiful woman." Elizabeth's own colour rose at his words, and she found herself momentarily robbed of a response. The crowded box seemed to fall away, leaving her strangely exposed and caught in his web. "A woman," he continued in a hushed tone while pierc- ing her with an unyielding gaze, "who has returned from her journeys-altered in the most delightful of ways-yet essentially intact. The whole is entirely intriguing." She opened her fan, slowly, deliberately. With each studied wave of the painted silk, she attempted to create a distance between herself, his words, and the tumult of feel- ing they unleashed. Fixing him with a disapproving look, while inwardly battling a raging heat, she replied, "Since you insist on dis- section, Mr. Darcy, you will no doubt have observed that I have been neither Frenchified, Italianized, or Germanized by my journeys. A rather grave disappointment, to be sure." Oh, she was most accomplished at repartee, William mused with growing respect, exceedingly so. A year ago he'd never imagined he'd face such a battle. She was proving to be highly stubborn and resolute. He, on the other hand was renowned for his tenacity and prepared to be relentless. Forgetting his earlier promise he threw her a parting salvo. "I cannot imagine how any aspect of your person would ever truly disappoint, Miss Bennet. On the contrary, it is most refreshing and unusual to find oneself completely unchanged by one's travels. A claim very few, including my- self, can aspire to. My compliments on your lovely coiffure; a new English style, I presume?" Her hand flitted to her curls. How dare he disarm her! Before she could fashion a retort he bowed, the sensual curve of a smile playing upon his lips. "Please forgive my imperti- nence. It was absolutely uncalled for. Indeed, you are quite right where my manners are concerned, I shall have to send an expedition-to the Alps-and retrieve them. I wish you a most pleasant evening. Good night, Miss Bennet." And extricating himself from the milling crush he disappeared beyond the velvet-curtained doorway. Notes: La Cerenterola-The Cinderella Opera by Rossini. Quotes taken from original libretto-1820. __ Chapter Four Montague House, Portman Square. later that evening. Elizabeth sat upon a tufted blue chair rhythmically brushing her hair, the luxuriant hues of lapis lazuli within her bedchamber softened by muted candle- light. She sat with her back determinedly turned away from the window, languorous with lassitude and feeling strangely dispirited. Her short curls settled here and there. Occasionally the ivory brush would stray lower, caressing thin air, guided by old habits. Her window faced across the square where earlier that evening her eyes had been drawn to a dim light flickering within Darcy House. Was it his drawing room? Or perchance the library? Was it a matter of deep conse- quence? Imaginably. A subdued knock sounded on her door followed by a softly muted voice. "Elizabeth, may I have a few words with you?"?Setting down her brush with a puzzled frown she rose and opened the door. Lady Montague floated in, a cloud of cream lace and cashmere, her hair combed out for the night. Without the distracting presence of jewels, face paint or adornments, she appeared surprisingly young. Elizabeth wondered, yet again, at her true age.?"Sit down, child," she waved toward her, "Let us dis- pense with formalities..." and began pacing across the length of sky blue Persian, looking upon Elizabeth with a long scrutinizing gaze. Finally, perching herself upon the bed, she began. "In truth I could not sleep without having a few words with you. I find myself deeply concerned with the state of your well-being, my dear. We have become good friends you and I, and seeing you suffering thus, particularly after the intermission, at the Opera... Well, it pains me to no end. Forgive my bluntness, but has William Darcy caused you any measure of grief?" Elizabeth slowly raised her lashes and returned her gaze with a melange of sorrow and chagrin. "Oh, lassie, I wish I had divined it sooner! Perhaps I could have helped soothe away your distress." "The situation is of my own doing, my lady. I fail to see how any intervention on your part might have altered the course of events." The older woman's voice lowered, gentled, and took on a dreamy cadence. "Anne Darcy was my dearest friend, child. I have known William since he was a babe. I watched him grow and become the man he is today. He lived the __ tragedy of having parents who loved one another too much. 'Twas the grandest of love matches leaving little room for the product of the union-the children. Oh, he and his sister had the very best of nannies and governesses, but were abandoned for months at a time. A servant's love is meagre replacement for a parent's devotion. You may ask yourself, what does an old childless widow know of such things? Well, Elizabeth, I have loved once; I have tasted its purity and its pain. I do know of which I speak." The evening light dimmed; suffusing the room in soft yellow, lighting up Lady Montague's face with a tense, ab- stract steadfastness. "William has never known such a love, not as a child, nor in his youth. As for now, I cannot speak for him, yet I do believe that he has cloaked himself in a dark and distant reserve against its very possibility. His parents were great travellers and died abroad, they remain buried in Granada. He makes the pilgrimage every few years, despite the dan- gers lurking on Spanish soil, seeking I know not what." Elizabeth observed the older woman wearily, carefully, for she could not decide what she was truly after. Suddenly the other woman's eyes bored intensely into hers. "His father and I were acquainted...rather well. To my eyes, William is very much like him in the essentials, but not entirely so. I have yet to elucidate all the differences." Lady Montague's lips quirked into a rueful smile. "As a younger man, he lacked his father's social finesse, often ap- pearing taciturn and withdrawn. He tenaciously held on to a fierce opacity that seemed to cloud his vision enabling him to only discern one aspect, one dimension, at a time. Ah well, that was years ago, he is a full-fledged man now, and our paths do not cross as often as I would wish. Yet I urge you to look about, Elizabeth. You have travelled, seen what the world has to offer. There is a man among the rakes, fops, wits, tulips, and scholars who stands out, and it is he; noble, strong, principled and steadfast. Not to mention a devastating figure to behold, and in possession of a great fortune." Elizabeth felt her cheeks flush at Lady Montague's shockingly frank assessment, she dared not meet her eyes, staring instead at the swirling pattern of vines and roses at her feet. Lady Montague sighed, a sigh whispering of the mal du sicle afflicting her generation. She rose and moved toward Elizabeth's form, placing her hand lightly on the younger woman's shoulder. "There lies within me, something you ought to know, my dear. Most are of the opinion that I hold an exalted position in the world of culture, the intellect, and the ton, that I move in the highest of circles. Those same individu- als think I am invulnerable, but I am not. I hold a secret, Elizabeth; I live with a terrible emptiness, a veritable insuf- ficiency of being. It is present on awakening and keeps me up late into the night." With a tender motion, she moved a stray curl from Elizabeth's cheek. "I have searched and searched for some- thing or someone, to close up my inadequacy. Four times I travelled the continent only to return empty handed, and though I amassed knowledge, artefacts, books and culture, the gap has remained-a yawning chasm." Elizabeth's throat tightened then constricted into a tense knot. A part of her felt grateful upon hearing the shared wisdom, yet another side bristled at the uninvited in- trusion into her private world, one she had guarded fiercely during her travels. The constriction strengthened, a heavi- ness descended upon her breast, each breath becoming a struggle. As if sensing Elizabeth's plight Lady Montague let her own hand fall away, "I don't presume to know the inner workings of your mind, nor the past events which bind you to him. You may or may not have such a void. In my experience many suf- fer from the affliction yet are wilfully blind to its presence. Regardless, a man such as William Darcy strikes me as one who could fill the empty realm of one's life." Silence descended upon the room as Elizabeth's heart beat in an insistent staccato. Pride, momentary lack of courage, and a touch of indignation coalesced, keeping her mute, still and silent. Sensing the younger woman's reluctance to delve into private matters, Lady Montague graciously desisted. Her young companion was wading into deep waters, ones whose murky fathoms would test both her courage and convic- tions. A year ago Lady Montague would have harboured grave concerns at Elizabeth's predicament. Now, however, she was no longer certain which party stood at a disadvan- tage. "The trouble with offering advice, child, is that it rarely accomplishes anything at all. Instead, I am extending my friendship, in all its guises, should you require it in the fu- ture. 'Tis growing late, and suddenly I find myself exces- sively weary. Good night, Elizabeth," Lady Montague of- fered in a conciliatory tone. "Good night, my lady, and thank you for your kindness," Elizabeth answered quietly. It was not until the door latch had softly clicked into place that Elizabeth's breathing lightened and her heart quieted its rhythm. Drawing her shawl about her she rose and moved toward the heavily curtained window. Her hand reached for the thick cerulean velvet and parted it, revealing a second layer of silk that she pulled aside. For a moment she paused, her fingers playing with the fine sheer mus- lin beneath, her eyes discerning the outlines of the square backlit by a moonlight sky. Flinging the transparent film of gauzy white, she stared out at his light, pulling her in like a beacon drawing a ship to safe harbour. But herein lay the conundrum...if she was looking for refuge was he offering sanctuary or something entirely be- yond her? Or was everything illusion, a product of her over rich imagination, her secret dreams? None of us are perfectly formed, she reminded herself, we each have our faults, cracks and crevasses-and perhaps only then can the light truly shine through. If his was the tragedy of parents who loved too much, what was hers? The drama of the child whose parents had loved not at all? Was this one of the many kindred bonds linking him with such compelling force to her? She shook her head in wonderment at her predicament. He had returned in her life, with a determination, an un- relenting intensity she found astonishing. She could almost palpate his resolve. Yet deep within, his very single-minded- ness collided with her old anger, her resentment, and deeply wounded pride. All became a blur of swirling emotions and ideas, seek- ing reason, striving for order where little seemed to exist. She was suddenly reminded of Rome, Turner's renderings as he sat sketching by the Fontana Trevi. Formless, hazy, obscure. Laying her palm against the cool window glass, she whispered, "I must not think of thee..." Instead, her betraying mind meandered back to the stark elegance of his presence at the opera, his unmistakable displeasure at another man's attention, the charged sparring arcing between them, the warm feel of his breath against her skin. And why?-Ah, why? A hitherto quiescent voice replied, "For you have glimpsed the promise of a new world in his eyes." 2The Montague Salon, Portman Square Lady Montague's salon hummed with the energy and delight of a close coterie of friends who, having relinquished affectation at the door, celebrated a shared passion for the arts, travel and learning with singular sincerity and joy. Sir Humphrey described his latest visit to Pompeii in one corner of the drawing room while Lady Frances debated the merits of sitting for a Battoni portrait. Mr. Hawthorne read aloud a pamphlet with incomparable eloquence to the notes of a Mozart sonata played with substantial spirit by Lady Cecilia More. Flitting from party to party, her manner intimate, con- spiratorial, and delicately tuned to the currents within the room, was Lady Montague. Ensconced amidst her closest friends the brininess of her wit turned to honeyed charm; her ladyship was at once airy, warm and clever. She cast a passing glance at William Darcy as he ap- proached a sitting Elizabeth, cup of tea balanced in his hand, and momentarily stopped in her tracks. She was suddenly hurtled back to a time over a year ago when he had been standing in that precise spot, on his own, teacup in hand, __ not looking about him but rather fixedly staring out of the window, as though not expecting anyone to approach, nor inviting anyone to do so. Calm, distant, untouchable. The chiselled profile, sooty lashes, dark curls, all were the same, and yet, the whole seemed altered. A clear realization struck her and made her smile inwardly. Jean-Jacques Rousseau...transforming strength into right. Drawing on a hidden well of generosity of spirit she chose not to venture in their direction. "Are you perchance reminded of a Parisian salon, Miss Bennet?" William offered, settling his tall form in a nearby fauteuil. She had steeled herself for his attendance at the gather- ing, convinced the situation called for a neutral veil of civil- ity, but as had been her unhappy faith since her return, she had underestimated the effect of his presence on her person. What was it about the man? What ephemeral, mysterious quality of his, drew the eye of every woman, and compelled each man to sit straighter and take notice?"Indeed, one is much reminded of Paris, Mr. Darcy. Lady Montague has created a veritably mixed Bas Bleus* society in the middle of London. Everything that is witty and learned seems to pass in this company. What I admire most however, is that no woman is afraid to vocalize the knowledge she may have acquired." He rested his chin thoughtfully against his hand and pierced her with a searching look, "And you place great im- portance on such freedom?" "Yes, I do," she answered quietly, meeting his gaze head on. "Here, as in France, feminine and masculine subjects mingle together rather than remaining separate." Her lips flirted with a hint of a smile, "Politics, history, and science blend merrily with ribbons, lace, and the latest on-dits." He tilted his head, his eyes fastened on hers, not letting go, "And which do you prefer, Miss Bennet? Discussing eternal sense or eternal nonsense?" She raised a challenging brow in response to his query. "Why both, I imagine. For often times, one cannot discern the difference between either."?"Touch." He bowed his head in a humble acquiescence of defeat.?"I presume you've been to Paris, Mr. Darcy?"?"Yes, on several occasions," he replied absently, grap- pling with his primitive response to her nearness, the hid- den meanings beneath what had and had not been said. What was she about? Tired of crossing swords with her, wishing to steal her away somewhere private, he felt the reins of his control slip- ping, "Do you care to share your impressions, sir?" Elizabeth enquired, all charm and easy grace. Was this a feint on her part? Unbalanced by the uncer- tainty of their situation, he answered her query with a hint of old brusqueness. "My impressions? The Luxembourg __ gardens, strolling over the Seine to the Louvre, visiting the stalls along the galleries of the Palais Royal; all left a most pleasant imprint. And yourself, Miss Bennet? Which sights happened to...seduce your senses?" Her eyes opened wide, effectually drawing him in, so much so, that he found himself leaning toward her nearly dislodging the delicate china cup by his side. Having sensed his impatience, glorying in the feel of the interplay between them she changed tacts. "La Salle des Saisons at the Louvre left an indelible impression as did the cathedrals, and churches, but I must admit, the most pleasing sight was the daily life where we were lodged on the Rue du Bac. Observing colourfully dressed townspeo- ple selling wares, eggs, apples, nosegays...the puppet shows, dancing dogs...the brightness of it all, its cheerfulness and whimsy!" She was all warmth, spiced with an effervescence he found intoxicating. Her very words whether barbed, sweet or neutral, sounded fresh, riveting. There hovered about her a natural and rippling responsiveness, an attentiveness that made him feel very much...alive. "You delight in observing the uncommon lives of com- mon people, Miss Bennet," he responded quietly. "I delight in observing many things, Mr. Darcy. The light for example, have you noticed how it changes as one travels south from France to Italy? Why, it begins rather jaundiced, then turns a honey colour, takes on a saffron hue, and ends up a bright primrose yellow." His colour rose at her words; the lady would not desist. Elizabeth pretended not to notice his discomfort. "How terribly gauche on my part, I had quite forgotten to thank you for the roses the other night at the Opera! They were lovely and somewhat unexpected, I might add." He cleared his throat. For all her warmth, her aim was merciless. "A small token..." he began. She smiled indulgently. "Of...?" "That is, an expression of my..." "Yes...?" she replied and paused. She was patently aware of his discomfiture, noting the tightening of his jaw, the tense furrowing of his brows. A dark side of her revelled in its presence. Lowering her voice, she continued in a husky tone. "Perhaps an expression of love lost...or even...jealousy?" His entire person recoiled at her words. Registering his response she persevered, but a hint of a smile flitted upon her lips softening the sharpness of her reply. "The field of botany is fraught with perils, even the language of colours itself is open for debate. Therefore, I absolve you of any mis- step in sending me yellow flowers, Mr. Darcy. However, I cannot ignore the fact that you chose a rose referred to as Cuisse de Nymphe..." Darcy's eyes darkened questioningly, and suddenly cleared as dawning realization settled upon him. A slight smile hovered about his lips as he replied. "I find myself at your mercy once again, Miss Bennet. Please accept my pardons. I could not refrain from choosing that very shade of yellow...for it reminded me of you. As for the name of the rose, why, I believe that it has recently been altered from "The Thigh of The Nymph" to "Maiden's Blush". A decided improvement, would you not agree?" "That, my dear sir, is dependant on one's point of view." Elizabeth's eyes sparkled with a hint of mirth. A layer of anger seemed to peal away somewhere deep within. Oh, he was very good, she thought with grudging admiration and as if to mirror her inner musings she settled upon him a devastating smile. Feeling the loss of some inner compass, William Darcy faltered, unsure of his next step. To his profound relief, Lady Vesey swooped down upon them. "Mr. Darcy, you must oblige us in reading Mr.de Lamartine's latest poem... Le Lac. I hear it garnered heaps of praise in Paris this winter, causing a most delicious stir!" Darcy perused the slim volume thrust unceremoniously into his hands. Casting an apologetic glance in Elizabeth's direction, while inwardly thanking the gods for his short reprieve, he cleared his throat and began, "Ainsi, toujours pousss vers de nouveaux rivages, Dans la nuit ternelle emports sans retour..." At the sound of the opening stanza conversations hushed as listeners pulled their chairs a few inches nearer, drawn in by the rich timber and full resonance of his voice. His French was entirely fluent, that of a native Parisian. She had heard it rumoured that his family was connected to one Chevalier D'Arcy. Perhaps there was truth in the rumour? She turned her head sharply away, desperately pre- tending to gaze out the window, overwhelmed, unable to bear the instinctive lure of him, his words, and the lustrous smokiness of his voice. The audience stilled; eyes and ears captivated by William's richly modulated tones. Burford happened to en- ter the room and halted, silver tray in hand, transfixed by the attentive tableau vivant before him. "Que le vent qui gmit, le roseau qui soupire?Que les parfums lgers de ton aire embaume,?Que tout ce qu'on entend, l'on voit ou l'on respire, Tout dise: " Ils ont aim..." His last words flowed into a suspended silence and were followed by the scattered sounds of hands clapping. Lady Vesey leaned conspiratorially toward Elizabeth, "We were raised to believe that reading French damages the memory and destroys one's powers of logic and understand- ing. Imagine!" A lively debate ensued, analysing the merits of Mr. de Lamartine against the likes of Wordsworth and Lord Byron, and spilling over into a heated discussion on the intellec- tual esprit of the French versus the English philosophers. Montesquieu and Diderot were pitted mercilessly against Bacon and Locke, while William's eyes remained fastened on the volume of Les Meditations Poetiques resting open be- fore him. Passing his fingers lightly over its fine parchment he raised his eyes toward Elizabeth catching her unawares. Their gazes met, held, and locked. The rare brilliant smile of his appeared, lighting his countenance, drawing her into a gilded, sensual force field, and like a bolt from the blue she felt as if a little bit of heaven had fallen upon the earth. The feeling was exquisite and entirely complete. He leaned closer, and fleetingly touched her hand; the barest of touches, light, caressing and astonishingly com- forting. "At times such as this, Miss Bennet, my greatest wish is to depart to a country where words cease to exist." Her breath hitched, "Is there such a place, Mr. Darcy?" She found herself unexpectedly dazed by the similarity in the turn of their minds. His voice low, partly obscured by the spirited debate raging about them, he answered, "I believe so, but I have yet to journey there." They sat in blessed silence, sharing the close commu- nion of two individuals who suddenly, improbably, find themselves on the same page. Burford's form appeared from nowhere, casting a long shadow between them, "Miss Bennet, as instructed, I am advising you of Mrs. Gardiner's arrival." Elizabeth looked at him uncomprehendingly. Her cheeks bore a faint flush but her eyes were filled with clouds. Stratus. Cirrus. Nimbus. The servant cleared his throat. "Mrs. Madeline Gardiner, your aunt-has arrived, Miss." "Why yes, of course, thank you Burford. Mr. Darcy, please excuse me, and...I thank you." As the butler's form disappeared beyond the drawing room doorway, Darcy rose and wishing to prolong their interlude, escorted her toward the vestibule. They walked side by side without touching, nodding to passing acquain- tances here and there, their steps echoing in dual staccato against the black and white patterned marble. In an instant he would be forced to relinquish the close- ness of her presence once again. Without further thought, flinging rational and logical preparation out the window, he blurted out. "I have found myself entangled in a private, silent con- versation with you since Pemberley," he confessed, his voice low, hushed, and achingly intimate. And I too, with you, she yearned to respond, to cry out in that breathing space between a call and its answer. But instead she found herself reacting with an age-old instinct, and turning away she gave him the briefest nod; a silent ac- knowledgment, nothing more. She ran into the outstretched arms of Madeline Gardiner who stood beaming in welcom- ing warmth at the base of the grand stairs. By the time she __ had extricated herself from the refuge of Madeline's com- forting presence, he had disappeared. One by one guests trickled out of Montague House, some in pursuit of sportier diversions, others to rest and prepare for a night of soires and balls. The spring air was crisp and fresh, laced with early warmth and sunshine as Lady Montague escorted Madeline Gardiner to the gates fronting her extensive garden. Sighing deeply, fatigued yet contented, she turned toward her friend. "There, Madeline, I've done my part in liberating intelli- gent conversation from the watering holes and gaming hells around us." "Yes, you most definitely have, my dear, and with your customary panache I might add. A delightful afternoon was had by all, well, almost all." Lady Montague halted her steps and absently plucked a wilted rose from a carved planter. "You did not fail to notice then?" "How could one not?" she replied pensively. Suddenly, she tapped lightly on her friend's arm, "Margaret, look there, on the green..." A few feet before them stood a tall gentleman, sur- rounded by a gaggle of children and a harried appearing governess. "Why if it isn't William, rescuing a ball for the Bracken children...the Brackens insist on dragging the children along for the Season. Rather cruel in my opinion, the gardens and central green provide little freedom following the openness of the countryside..." Her words trailed off into silence as both women observed William's form bending toward a young boy, offering him the retrieved ball and gently ruffling his hair. "Margaret, did you glimpse the expression on his face? The look in his eyes as he bent toward the little lad?" The other woman furrowed her brow momentarily puz- zled, then nodded her head, smiling enigmatically to herself, "Yes, the look in his eyes... and therein lies the difference!" Notes?Bas Bleus: Bluestocking Chapter Five White's Club, No.37-38 St. James Street, London. Later that evening. Igust of bracing spring air. Flinging his cape, hat, and silver-tipped cane at a taciturn footman, he turned right, as was his custom, toward the carved double doors of the bil- liard room. Charles Bingley leaned lightly against his cue stick, nib- bling absently on his lower lip, lost in the perusal of multi coloured balls arranged upon the green baize. Distracted by the lengthy shadow spreading across the billiard table he flicked a quick glance at the new arrival. "Darcy." "Bingley, what are you about, marooned in this hell hole? Why are you not at Netherfield?" Charles Bingley grimaced at his friend's rebuke. He had been pondering the same all evening, but hearing his thoughts crystallized in a reproachful manner only served to further rankle his humour. Perhaps Darcy's alterations abroad had impacted little on his capacity for politesse. "Miss Jane Bennet is expected in London in a few days, I thought it best to bide my time. Furthermore, Tattersall's is holding a sale tomorrow and I have my eye on a prime piece of horseflesh." Darcy leaned his frame against a darkly panelled wall and scrutinized his friend from across the room. "Horseflesh? Is it Graydon's black you're after? I'll procure it on your be- half, you can offer me thanks later." "No, not the black, I've had my eye on a pair of chestnut French Trotters from Normandy..." "Consider it done. As to the other matter, you hardly strike me as one who values a good horse over the pursuit of a good woman? Whatsoever happened to Carpe Diem? Seizing the moment, the day?" Bending down to balance his cue stick against his outstretched hand, Charles threw him a look of irritated annoyance, "Pursuit? We are not referring to a fencing op- ponent, but rather a gently bred woman. The woman I love. Must you always approach these matters like a battle of the blades? En guarde! Here cometh William Darcy!" Tilting his head to assess the impac