Breakable Heaven 01

I.

Darcy & Penelope (July 1814)

“It’s cool, that’s what I tell ‘em / No rules in breakable heaven / But ooh woah / It’s a cruel summer / With you” – T. Swift, “Cruel Summer”

Darcy was nearly at his wit’s end.  It had been eight days since he had last seen Elizabeth Bennet—his Elizabeth—when she had told him of the elopement of her youngest sister, Lydia, with that rake Wickham.  He could still remember the tears in her pretty blue eyes as she told him the news, the hopelessness in her silent sobs, and the fact that he was nothing to her—he could not touch her, he could not offer her comfort, he could not now offer her his name with her own reputation now in ruins. 

Still, he dreamt of her at night, running through a field of paper flowers, always just out of his reach.  Her bonnet clasped between her fingers, Elizabeth’s hair would shine almost silver in the moonlight as she would rush farther and farther away from him.

Her laugher would echo off of the woods that surrounded the paper flowers and Darcy could see George Wickham in the shadows.  As she rushed innocently toward the scoundrel, Darcy noticed that the beautiful flowers she ran through had become trampled by her small feet and that saddened him.  The blue and purple paper bruised into dark brown. 

Darcy found himself moving from the trees in his dreams, following in Elizabeth’s wake and yet not following her.  He made his way silently through the paper flowers and leaned down to look at the broken blooms.  They were a puddle of shadows and he picked up one as it held limp in his fingers.

He heard a gasp and looked up to see that Wickham had reached forward to take Elizabeth’s hand, but the small flower seemed more important to him.  With the small blossom still in his hand, Darcy woke up to find himself half dressed with forget-me-nots on his bedside table, wilting in the summer heat.

Looking out the window, Darcy saw that it was past dawn.  It was well past time to begin his search for Lydia and Wickham.  He groaned and got up, pulling his bell to call for his man. 

“Tell Miss Darcy and Miss Swan that I am out again for lunch and dinner,” he instructed Blackbourne after he had been washed and shaved.  “I hope my business will not take much longer.”

“The ladies will be sad to lose your company,” Blackbourne returned.

Darcy sighed.  His sister, Georgiana, was much in need of a sister, but his only attempt at gaining himself a wife had gone horribly wrong.  Miss Swan was a conundrum he could not readily solve.  “I shall do my best to conclude my business,” he promised, trying not to be ill tempered. 

As soon as he was finished, Darcy quickly had a cup of coffee, black, before leaving on his charger for the baser parts of London.  It made the most sense that Wickham was hiding here, most likely in Bloomsbury.  It was the easiest place to hide with a young girl, if he indeed had no intention of marrying her.

Darcy was under no misunderstanding that Wickham meant to eventually abandon the girl.  Lydia Bennet barely had a penny to her name and Wickham meant to marry a fortune.  Georgiana, Darcy’s own sister, with her fortune of thirty thousand pounds, had been the ideal target last year at Ramsgate.  Miss King, last November in Hertfordshire, had been a similar easy prey if not quite as ripe a fruit with ten thousand to her name.  But Miss Lydia?  What could Wickham mean by it?

Why would he wish to ruin a girl of no fortune but of gentle demeanor?

He would ruin a girl and a family simply for sport?

Such cruelty was even beyond the George Wickham Darcy thought he knew.

Still, such had come to pass, whatever Wickham’s reasons or motives.  Darcy must live with the consequences—or, rather, he had made it his business to deal with the consequences, and all for the sake of one Miss Elizabeth Bennet.

He banged on the door of an inn, the Red Lion, despite the early hour and waited for the innkeeper to open it.

The dream from the night before drifted across his senses.  He saw Elizabeth walking away from him, her heels crushing the papered flowers of Pemberley as if she had not a care in the world, as she moved in the direction of George Wickham.

It was true, Elizabeth Bennet had always preferred the company of George Wickham to his own.  He had been blinded by his admiration of her fine eyes to note such a preference.  Even at Rosings Park that Easter, she had shown more of a liking for his own cousin, Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam, than for him.  Their meetings in the park had all been by his design and never by hers, Darcy thought bitterly to himself.

Darcy breathed out as the door opened to the Red Lion and he entered, his cane pushing forward the door that was opened, before he made his inquiries.

Darcy was heading to the fourth location he was visiting that day, The Royal Oak, when he noticed a young woman in a pale blue cape looking at him out of the corner of his eye.  She was of lower birth, her face and figure plump, but her hair the most astonishing color of ginger. 

When Darcy inquired of the innkeeper if there were any newly married couples lately arrived from the country, he saw the blue color again in the corner of his eye, and he saw the young servant girl come and sit at the bar.  She made a sign to the innkeeper and he nodded to her, ignoring Darcy for a moment to pour the servant girl—for what other class could she be dressed like that?—a glass of canary. 

Aggravated, Darcy ground together his back teeth.

“You be lookin’ fer a young couple la’e arrived from the country, guv’na?” the young servant asked, taking a sip of her canary and not looking at Darcy.

Startled, Darcy turned his attention to the servant girl who suddenly became much more interesting.  “I am willing to pay for such information,” he told her, taking her in more fully.

The servant laughed a little and then pierced him with her bright blue gaze.  “I do nauh’ require paymen’ from gents such as yerself,” she told him plainly.  She paused, thinking. 

He watched her carefully.

“My name is—”

“Mr. Darcy of Pemberlay, yes, I know,” she agreed.

When he looked at her, slightly startled, she said, “I keep me ear to the groun’, Mr. Darcy.  My mistress collects secrets.”

“Your mistress—?”

“Neither here nor thahre,” she told him.  “Wha’s the name?”

He looked at her in confusion.

“Of the youn’ couple?”

“George Wickham and Miss Lydia.”

She nodded and took another sip of her canary. 

“Yeh’re looking in the wrong par’ of Bloomsbury,” she told him firmly.  “Is ‘er name Benneh’?”

His face must have shown his shock because she nodded once before reaching into her purse, but the innkeeper said, “On the house for you, Miss Pen.”

“Migh’y obliged to ye’,” she told him before slipping off the stool.  She walked the short distance to Darcy and told him in quiet words, “Mrs. Benneh’ likes to gossip with me abou’ hehr husban’, George.  Buh’ I have the feeling thah’ something is amiss.”

“Does she now?” Darcy wondered as he followed Pen out into the sun. 

“Do yeh have the time?” She looked at him expectantly.

Darcy took out his pocket watch.  “Half past ten.”

Pen nodded.  “Mrs. Benneh’ expects me in half an hour.”

The two made an unlikely pair as they made their way across Bloomsbury to the shadier streets, and they soon entered a pub that was named “The Golden Sceptre” but certainly did not live up to its name.  It was a grubby, mean sort of establishment, but Darcy was unsurprised that Wickham would choose it as his hiding place.  It was rundown and probably very cheap.

Pen did not walk like a servant.  She held herself with the grace of a lady, which Darcy would recognize anywhere.  The woman was certainly an enigma.  She was almost pretty when she turned to look over her shoulder at Darcy.  Her ginger hair framed her round face beautifully and her unusually blue eyes were not the innocent eyes of a young serving girl, but instead the intelligent eyes of a woman. 

“I would go an’ sit a’ a table in the back,” Pen suggested to Darcy as they approached the pub.  “Why are you lookin’ for them, anyway?”

“Mr. Wickham eloped with Miss Lydia and failed to marry her,” Darcy told her flatly.

She looked a little startled.  “They’ve been livin’—together?”  Suddenly, she paled.  “Oh, dear.”

“Oh, dear,” Darcy agreed. 

The pub was dark and drab and Pen went and took a seat in the back, ordering two glasses of wine from the innkeeper, while Darcy took a seat to the side where he hopefully would not be noticed. 

It took only a few minutes for Miss Lydia to hurry down the stairs and grasp Pen’s hand, sheer delight on her face.  The two ladies took their seats and began speaking quietly together.  Darcy looked at the young, happy form of Pen and smiled slightly to himself.  She was older than Georgiana by a year or two, and more of an age with Miss Swan, but something about her reminded him of his sister.  It was something indefinable, but still—it tugged on his heart a little.

Carefully, he got up from his seat and approached the two ladies.

“Mrs. Bennet,” he greeted, only to see Miss Lydia look up in shock.  “I take it Mr. Claude Bennet is not here.”

“I—” she gasped, glancing at her friend.

“Whatever Wickham promised to you, it is a lie,” he told her calmly, leaning down, his hand resting on the table.  When is the wedding date?”

Lydia, if it was possible, looked terribly small. 

“I see,” Darcy murmured.  “We’ll put this to rights.  Which room, Miss Lydia?”

“I—” she began, but then licked her lips and crossed her arms petulantly.

It was then that Pen leaned forward.  “Yeh’re not married, Mrs. Benneh’?” she asked carefully.

Eyes welling up with tears, Lydia looked at her friend and then up at Mr. Darcy.  “Room Four,” she told him before her shoulders hunched.  She then picked up her glass of wine and downed it in one gulp, in a way that very much reminded Darcy of Miss Elizabeth.

Darcy nodded his thanks and then took the stairs up to the rooms.  He did not even stop to knock at Room Four, and just opened it up to see Wickham drinking from a decanter of wine while sitting in the only comfortable looking chair in the room. 

Wickham looked up, startled, and tried to stand.

“Do not bother,” Darcy told him, closing the door.  “You seem to have run away with a gentlewoman and you have yet to marry her.”

“Lydia is not—”

“She is of gentle birth,” Darcy argued sternly, falling into the easy familiarity of childhood friendship with Wickham.  “What were you thinking?  She has no dowry.”

“I thought of that, but she just will not leave.”  Wickham looked at his decanter and then poured himself another glass. 

Darcy just looked at him in disgust.  He could not believe that Wickham was—if his father’s dying declarations were to be believed—his half-brother.  “Well, you must now put it right.”  He looked over at a small table with two chairs, and pulled out one to sit in. 

“I have no income.”

“I will purchase you a commission in the Regulars,” Darcy promised.  “Rank of Captain.  You cannot go back to the Militia.”

“I have no income,” Wickham pressed, a slight hint of aggravation in his tone.

“The Regulars will give you an income,” Darcy argued, “if you live within your means.”

“But—”

“Mr. Bennet will pay you fifty pounds per annum, surely that with Miss Lydia’s marriage portion—”

“One hundred.”

Wickham was surely grasping.

Darcy nonetheless made a sign of agreement with his hand.  He only hoped that Claude Bennet could afford it.

Wickham’s green eyes gleamed.

“I have debts in Hertfordshire.  I cannot visit my wife’s parents without the fear of creditors dogging my steps.”  Wickham took a large drink of his wine and smacked his lips together.

How, Darcy wondered, could his father have possibly fathered such a creature?  If it were not for their similar height, their dark curls and green eyes, Darcy would never even consider believing that his father had lain with his steward’s wife and got her with child.

“In lieu of a settlement,” Darcy bargained after a moment, “I will purchase your debts in Hertfordshire and not call them in at the present time.”  This really was too easy, Darcy thought.  He waited for Wickham to make any other stipulations, but he did not.  “Miss Lydia will withdraw to her uncle’s house here in Town, and you shall be married from there by special license in a week’s time.  I will stand witness as will Miss Pen—”  He did not know her surname.  “Your wife’s friend,” he qualified.

“That mousy little servant.”  Wickham scoffed.

“Beggars cannot be choosers,” Darcy told him unsympathetically.  “Miss Pen also has a certain gentility about her for one so lowborn—”  He thought to himself of the young woman who even now was sitting with Miss Lydia Bennet down in the inn’s open room, and could not quite grasp how a servant could have such remarkable hair. 

“Gentility?” Wickham snorted.  “She has her uses.”  When Darcy looked at him in question, Wickham added, “She keeps Lydia occupied.”

“I trust you will not now run from your obligation,” Darcy checked as he stood, picking up his hat that he had placed upside down on the small table.  “I will call in your debts in Derbyshire next you are in the vicinity if you think to go back on your word.”

Wickham looked into the depths of his wine.  “I have no occupation.  I cannot think to afford this room—”

Darcy was too well bred to show his aggravation, even in shifting from one foot to the other.  “I shall see the innkeeper.”

Raising his glass to him, Wickham drank from it.

“I will have him send in more wine.”  Darcy held back a grimace.  “I shall go inform the bride of the happy news.”

Loathe as he was to acknowledge this man who had been his childhood friend and his companion through early adulthood, Darcy offered his hand in agreement of the settlement, and Wickham did not hesitate to accept it. 

“Remember, Darce,” Wickham reminisced, “when we were boys and ran to the great horse chestnut tree in the Autumn?”

Darcy placed his hat atop his head and held back a sigh.  “How could I forget?”  The last time he had been in the shade of the horse chestnut tree, Darcy had been in the company of Miss Elizabeth Bennet and he had thought he had reason to hope that she might someday feel respect for him, even if he had long since realized she would never feel affection for him.  She had looked so pretty in the summer light, her blonde hair bright beneath her bonnet, her blue eyes sparkling in the morning sunshine.

“I almost wish—” Wickham mused, and Darcy turned to him.  Wickham glanced at his childhood companion and took a deep breath.  “I half think I should have run off with another Bennet sister.”

Feeling his shoulders tense, Darcy nonetheless regarded the other man.  “Which of the five did you prefer?”  The old companions had often spoken of women, or, more exactly, Wickham had spoken of women and Darcy had made the odd observation.

Wickham looked at him with his verdant gaze.  “You cannot be in ignorance of my preference.”

Darcy walked over to him, plucked the decanter of wine from his hand, and then turned back to claim the discarded second glass on the small table.  He poured himself a portion and took a long sip from it.  “Miss Elizabeth then,” he posited, having noticed the familiarity between the two, long before Wickham had failed to appear at the Netherfield Ball.  Miss Elizabeth had also been Wickham’s champion when he had made his ill-fated proposal of marriage.  “Miss Lydia,” Darcy noted, “does bear a passing resemblance to her older sister.”

“Yet none of the maturity,” Wickham breathed out harshly, causing Darcy to look up.

“I would not think you would like a mature bride.  You have shown no preference for maturity in the past, Wickham.”

At first, Wickham did not acknowledge the words.  He was clearly deep in thought before he admitted.  “I am six and twenty, Darcy.”

Yes, Darcy did not care to be reminded of that.  Darcy and Wickham were only ten months apart in age.  Darcy’s father—George Darcy—clearly sought his solace elsewhere when his wife, the beautiful Lady Anne Darcy, was with child with his son and heir.  And he had sought his comfort with none other than his own steward’s young bride, getting her soon with child as well.

“You mean to suggest,” Darcy murmured, “that you have matured even though your actions prove otherwise?”

“It was a moment of weakness,” Wickham argued.

“A moment of weakness?” Darcy parroted.  “With a girl of fifteen years?  With nothing in her mind but ribbons and officers?”

Wickham spread his hands wide to show that he was in the waistcoat of an officer.

Darcy snorted elegantly.  “I do take your point, on Miss Lydia’s part—not on yours.”

Laughing lightly to himself, Wickham returned to his wine.  Darcy regarded him. 

That morning when Darcy first learned of the elopement, with Miss Elizabeth, when her pretty blue eyes were filled with tears, Darcy had immediately resolved to find Wickham and make him marry Miss Lydia.  The purpose was to save Miss Elizabeth’s reputation with the hope that, if circumstances were to chance, he could one day propose marriage to her once again.  However, he now saw that such a thing was impossible.  He was linked to Wickham by base blood and a sense of duty to his late father.  He could not further entangle himself by connecting them by marriage.  Then they would be brothers in earnest.  If Miss Lydia married Wickham, and she must, then he could never marry Miss Elizabeth.

With that final thought, Darcy set his empty glass on the table.

“Do you require anything else, Wickham?” he asked.

“I know you will never trust me with coin—” Wickham tried.

Darcy sighed and went to his purse where he took out several shillings, amounting to more than two pounds, so that Wickham could purchase himself bread and cheese for the next week.

“Mighty obliged to you, Darcy.  You were always a true friend.”

Darcy hated that he was forced to be the constant in Wickham’s world.

With a clap on Wickham’s shoulder to soldier him up, Darcy left the room and closed the door behind him.  Standing there in the hallway, Darcy allowed the magnitude of what had just occurred to settle upon his conscience.  Miss Elizabeth would have her reputation restored.  She had never wanted Darcy and, more cogently, she had never wanted Pemberley.  She would never miss them.

Going down the stairs, Darcy entered the inn proper and saw that Miss Lydia and Pen were still at their table, two glasses of wine in front of them, leaning toward each other and clearly whispering.

He took a moment to look at the two young women.

Miss Lydia was facing away from him.  Her hair was nonetheless the same honey blonde color as all of her sisters, and Darcy knew she had the same sky-blue eyes as Miss Elizabeth and Miss Mary.  Miss Lydia was undoubtedly pretty and unusually tall for her age, but she was never so beautiful as Miss Jane Bennet, the eldest, or as lively as Miss Elizabeth.

Pen, the servant who had helped him, was quite different.  Her blue eyes were more piercing.  They seemed to see right through a man and his intentions.  Her glorious hair that was usually hidden by her hood was now flowing freely down her back.  She was unusually plump but it suited her well.  The more Darcy looked on her, the prettier he considered her.  It was quite a strange phenomenon.

Looking up, Pen saw him and her voluptuous lips curved in a smile of greeting.

He nodded to her and came and approached the two women.

“Miss Lydia,” he greeted.  “You will be pleased to know that one week hence from today, you will be Mrs. George Wickham.”

She looked up at him with a startled hope in her eyes.  “George has set a date?”

“A date has been agreed upon,” he told her instead.  “I am to escort you to your uncle’s house in Cheapside, from whence you will be married.  I am certain Mr. Gardiner can see to your wedding clothes.”

“Look a’ tha’, Mrs. Benneh’!” Pen exclaimed.  “Mr. Darcy has seh’ ih’ all to rights.”

“I hope,” Darcy said, turning to Pen, “that you will agree to serve as witness.”

Pen looked up at him, completely startled, and a blush suffused her cheeks.  “You be wantin’ a serving girl a’ the wedding?” she asked, looking between them.

It was Miss Lydia who answered.  She reached over to her friend and grasped her hand.  “You must come, Pen.  I will have it no other way.”

Pen swallowed.  “I will call on Mr. Gardiner an’ learn the place an’ time of the weddin’.  Should Monday mornin’ be suih’able?”  She glanced up at Mr. Darcy.

Darcy nodded.  “I’m sure the Gardiners will be pleased to receive you.  The wedding should be on Thursday.  Now, Miss Lydia, if you will go and fetch your things, I will escort you to my carriage and then to your uncle’s house.”

Miss Lydia looked a little afraid.  “George did agree?”

“He did,” Darcy promised her.

She glanced over at Pen, who squeezed her hand and nodded.  “To think, Mrs. Benneh’.  You will be Mrs. George Wickham in seven days’ time!”

This brought a little brightness to Miss Lydia’s eyes.  She nodded firmly to herself once and then stood.  “If you will excuse me for a moment, Mr. Darcy.”  She then turned and went up the stairs to the inn’s accommodations.

Darcy watched her go before he turned to Pen.  “If you could indulge me for a moment.”

She nodded to him, and Darcy turned to the bar, where he paid the tab on Room Four along with a further week.  The innkeeper was glad to do business with him as the room had not been paid for and Wickham and Miss Lydia had been staying on credit, which would not have lasted for much longer.

Turning back to the table, he went and took Miss Lydia’s empty seat.  “If I need to speak to your mistress, I would be glad to do so, Pen.  I think it would be good for Miss Lydia to have a friend—”

Pen put up a hand.  “My mistress is mos’ kind.  Ih’ twill be no problem.”

“If you are certain.”

She gave him a smile, making her round face prettier, and he nodded at her.

“I twill even hav’ a nice dress,” she promised.  “Ih’ tis not every day a girl gets to go to a weddin’.”  Penn paused.  “Twould you lik’ me to serve as chaperone?  In your carriage?”

For once, Darcy smiled.  “That is most thoughtful, Pen.  If you will not be missed, I would most appreciate it.”

“If you could drive me back—” she checked.

“Indeed,” he agreed.

Darcy sat there, observing Pen for several moments before he asked, “Who is your mistress?”

She gave him a sidelong glance.  Then, she answered, quite surprisingly, “Lady Whistledown.”

Darcy stared at her.  He had only been in London for just under a fortnight, but even he was aware who Lady Whistledown was.  His sister, Georgiana, and even Miss Swan read Lady Whistledown.  Georgiana, although she refused to go out into society, quite enjoyed reading about it.  Miss Swan would occasionally pick up a sheet if she had finished with a book of poetry.  She had even asked Darcy a question about the Bridgertons two mornings previously.

“You know the lady?” he checked.

“She is as flesh an’ blood as you or me,” Pen told him.  “She can naugh’ do her business, bu’ I can do it fer her.”  She looked to the side as if considering.  “If you leave me in Grosvenor Square, I ken find me way home.—behind the houses,” she amended.

He looked at her, taking her in, and nodded.  “Of course, Pen.”  Darcy regarded her for a moment.  “I have not properly thanked you for your assistance this morning.”

Pen took him in, a startled look on her pretty face.  “Anything tah help a friend,” she murmured.  “I knew somethin’ was afoot.  Ih’ twas not righ’ between Mrs. Bennet—thah’ is, Miss Lydia—and the gent.  I would naugh’ see her hurt.”

“You are a good and loyal friend, Pen,” he told her sincerely.  “I only wish the ladies of society could be like you.”

Her startling blue eyes showed her surprise.  They really were quite fine when Darcy considered them.  “If ih’ were so, then me mistress would naugh’ hav’ a gossip shee’.”

“No,” he agreed, leaning back.  “I suppose she would not.”

Darcy called for another two glasses of wine, and he was contented to look at Pen, although his observance of her clearly made her a little self-conscious, which was to her credit.  It was not long before Miss Lydia appeared, wearing a pelisse and with a carpet bag.  He shared a look with Pen before standing and greeting her.

“Are you ready, Miss Lydia?  Pen has promised to serve as chaperone.”

“Oh,” Miss Lydia breathed, her blue eyes (sky blue like Miss Elizabeth’s and yet so much duller than Pen’s bright eyes) flitting to her friend.  “How wonderful.”  She reached out and took Pen’s hand and squeezed it.

Darcy took her bag and led the ladies out of the establishment, knowing that the day was only halfway done.

The walk through Bloomsbury was an easier one than the walk an hour prior as a weight had been lifted from Darcy’s shoulders.  He followed along after Miss Lydia and Pen, the former quite tall and wearing a bonnet with pink ribbons, the latter quite small with a hood over her glorious hair.  When they came to the better part of Bloomsbury, he moved ahead of them and indicated that they should follow.  “My carriage is just up ahead.”

He looked back and it seemed like Pen was signaling someone but when he looked to check, he saw only another carriage, where the footman was getting on the front seat and preparing to depart.

Shaking off the odd feeling that Pen was signaling to the footman, Darcy led the two young women to his own carriage where his own footman took the carpet bag before opening the carriage door for them.

Miss Lydia entered first and then Pen waited for him to step up into the carriage.

“Pen,” he indicated, aware of Miss Lydia’s reputation.

She blinked at him and then her pretty blush suffused her cheeks.  Nodding, Pen accepted the hand of the footman and entered behind Miss Lydia and settled beside her.  Darcy then looked out across the street once before stepping up into the carriage himself, sitting opposite Miss Lydia and Pen.

“Do you know where my uncle lives?” Miss Lydia asked as the carriage started to move.  She bit her lip in worry.

“Indeed, madam,” he told her.  “I am not ignorant of your relations’ address.”

Miss Lydia seemed to deflate and she looked over at Pen.  “What will Uncle Gardiner say?”

“He will be happy to see you,” Darcy told her, looking out the window.  “Still, it does not signify.  I shall enter the house first and speak to your uncle before you and Pen will see him.  When you are settled, Pen and I shall take our leave.”

“You cannot stay?” Miss Lydia asked Pen, grabbing her hand.

“I must ge’ back to me mistress,” Pen apologized.  “I shall come on Monday tah inquire the time of the weddin’.”  She squeezed Miss Lydia’s hand back.  “You have nothin’ tah worry fer.”

Miss Lydia opened her mouth to speak, but Darcy interrupted her: “Indeed, Pen is quite correct.  She will see you Monday morning and again at the wedding.  You would not wish for her to get into trouble?  She has already been so generous with her time.”

“No!” Miss Lydia argued.  “I would never wish for Pen to get into trouble.”  She turned to her friend.  “You will tell me if your mistress is harsh to you.”

For a moment, Darcy thought that Pen was going to argue with Miss Lydia, but then she only nodded. 

Silence descended over the carriage for several minutes until Miss Lydia asked, “Do you think I should be married in yellow?”

“Yellow is mos’ appropria’e,” Pen agreed.  “Ye will look so pretty with your blonde hair an’ blue eyes.”

“I shall have to have lace,” Miss Lydia continued, and Darcy tuned out the conversation, not caring to think about wedding clothes.  He knew that when it came time, he and Colonel Fitzwilliam would have to see to Georgiana, but that was surely years to come as she was only sixteen.  Of course, his ward, Miss Swan, was quite a different case at the age of eighteen, but she had asked not to be presented to Queen Charlotte until the next year.

Darcy looked out the window at the passing streets and houses, but he was acutely aware of Pen.  He did not think as to the why he should be aware of her eyes or her hair.  She was simply a servant.  He would see her again on the Thursday following and would never see her again.  It was how it should be.  He would return to Pemberley and take Georgiana and Miss Swan with him.

Suddenly he was glad he had turned down Bingley’s offer to escort Georgiana and Miss Swan up to Pemberley just earlier that month.  If Bingley had brought Georgiana and Miss Swan, Darcy might have been rash enough to introduce his sister to Miss Elizabeth in expectation of another proposal of marriage.  With his disappointed hopes would only be exacerbated by his sister’s confusion on a new acquaintance made and then dropped.  What Miss Swan would think Darcy could only guess.  Miss Swan confused him.

Darcy was brought out of his musings by the carriage slowing and stopping.  He looked out the window and saw a row of respectable houses.  Turning to look at his companions, he saw that Miss Lydia was also looking out the window.

“I will endeavor to not be long,” he promised.  “Pen will stay with you, Miss Lydia.”  He looked at Pen for agreement.

“Indeed,” Pen murmured, turning to the window herself.

He smiled at her, a small smile, but she caught it and gave him one in return.  Darcy waited for the footman to come around and then exited the carriage.  Setting his hat once again on his head, he took his walking stick and knocked on Number Ten.  He did not have long to wait.  A respectable looking servant opened the door and admitted him.

“Is Mr. Gardiner at home?  I am here on urgent business.”

He found himself in a narrow but clean hallway in deep purples.

The servant turned to him, and inquired, “May I ask who’s calling, sir?”

Taking out his card, he handed it to her.  “Mr. Darcy of Pemberley.”

The servant did not even look at it.  “If you wait here, sir.”  She curtsied and then walked down the hall and disappeared into a side room.

Darcy was not accustomed to waiting in hallways, but he was here with a purpose, and that purpose was facilitating the marriage of Wickham and Miss Lydia Bennet.

He did not have long to wait.

With a rustle of movement, Mr. Gardiner himself appeared at the side room where the servant had gone down.  He was a portly man with a bald head, the same sky-blue eyes as Miss Elizabeth and Miss Lydia.  He was respectably if not fashionably dressed, and he looked harried as if he had not slept since they had last seen each other over a fortnight earlier.

“Mr. Darcy!” he greeted, coming up and offering his hand.  “I bid you welcome.  You find the family quite at sixes and sevenses, but you are most welcome.”  Gardiner was leading him down the hall and escorted him into a tidy study, offering him a chair across the desk.

Darcy sat and accepted a glass of sherry.  “I hope, Mr. Gardiner, that I have brought you good news.”

Gardiner was settling into his seat and he looked up in confusion.

“Good news?”

“If I may speak frankly.”  Darcy turned his green eyes on him.

Gardiner indicated that he should speak frankly with his hand.

“This morning, with the help of an extraordinary servant, I found Wickham and Miss Lydia.”  (Gardiner actually squeaked.)  “I have negotiated a settlement with Wickham and we have agreed that Miss Lydia will be married from this house in one week’s time.  She is waiting in my carriage.”

“You have Lydia?” Gardiner checked, clearly not believing him.

“Yes, and she will be respectfully married to an officer.  I will clear his debts in Hertfordshire.  All the Bennets need do is assure whatever dowry she is due to her upon her mother’s death and settle on her one hundred pounds per annum.”

Gardiner blinked.  “That is all?” he checked.  He was clearly disbelieving, as she perhaps should be given that Wickham was a fortune hunter.

“That is all.  I go from here to speak to the Bishop of London for the necessary special license.”  Darcy took a sip of his sherry.  “I hope this is all satisfactory.”

Gardiner looked at him, his bald head slightly sweating, perhaps from nervousness.  “Why?”

“Why?” Darcy repeated.  “They eloped.  I am seeing to it that the actual marriage takes place.  With the right story and correct social finesse, I am certain Mrs. Bennet can use this marriage to her advantage in Meryton.”

Waving his hand, Gardiner reiterated, “Why?”  At the look of incomprehension on Darcy’s face, he clarified.  “Why have you helped us?  How did you know?”

Darcy sat in his seat for a long moment.  He could not admit that he did it for Miss Elizabeth.  He could not admit that Wickham was his illegitimate brother and he felt an obligation to clean up his messes.  He would also never tell anyone that it was his father’s late wish that Darcy look after Wickham.  Looking down at his hands, Darcy then glanced up.  “I am a good neighbor.—and I came upon Miss Elizabeth shortly after she read her sister, Miss Bennet’s, missive.  The situation became known to me before it became known to you.”

Gardiner looked at him incredulously.  “I shall not blame Elizabeth for her indiscretion as it has brought about the family’s salvation, but your aid goes beyond Jesus’s commandment to love thy neighbor.”

“Does it?” he asked, standing.  “Shall I fetch Miss Lydia and her chaperone?  Pen, that is the serving girl who found them, will serve as second witness on Thursday and will call Monday morning to learn the time and location of the wedding.”

“A serving girl found Lydia?”

“Yes,” Darcy agreed.  “It was quite astonishing.  It is our good fortune.”  He stood and finished his sherry.  “Perhaps you should call Mrs. Gardiner.”

“Yes, yes, of course,” Gardiner agreed.  “I shall write to my brother Bennet and tell him that Lydia is found.”

“I do not wish him to know of my involvement—” Darcy pressed.  He did not wish for Elizabeth to know at all and have her expectations raised.  “I must insist upon complete secrecy, sir.”

Gardiner paused in rising before standing tall on his two feet.  He nodded.  “I will not pretend to know your motives nor your reasons.  But as you do not wish for me to know, I can understand you not wishing others to know your part in the matter, as well.  Come, let us to the ladies.”

Darcy went back out to the carriage and then escorted a nervous Miss Lydia and a supportive Pen into the house.  It took more than half an hour to settle Miss Lydia, but he was soon able to disentangle himself from the Gardiners, taking Pen with him.

He lifted her back into the carriage and asked, “Where in Grosvenor Square do you wish for me to take you?”

“Behind the houses,” she requested.

This only made sense.  As a servant, she would go into a house through the servant’s entrance in the back of the establishment.  Darcy relayed the direction to his driver before entering the conveyance himself.

Suddenly, he realized he was completely alone with Pen, with no chaperone, and he was sitting across from her and was able to take her in completely, her hood having fallen from her head.

Pen was looking out the window as the carriage began to move but, perhaps sensing his observation of her, she turned to him with her bright blue eyes meeting his verdant gaze.  Their eyes locked for several moments and hers filled with a question.  He offered no answer.

Looking away, she commented, “The Gardiners seem tah be good an’ ‘onest people.”

“Indeed,” Darcy agreed.  “They are not of the station of myself or your mistress, or indeed Miss Lydia’s own father, but they are thoroughly respectable.”

She nodded.  “Am I correct in thinkin’ they are in trade?  This is Cheapside, is ih’ naugh’?”

“Indeed, Pen.  Miss Lydia is the daughter of a gentleman in Hertfordshire, but her mother comes from trade.”

Pen glanced out the window before her bright eyes shot back toward him.  “How do yeh know Miss Lydia?”

He hesitated as he looked at her, and she assured him, “I shall naugh’ tell me mistress fer the gossip sheets.  You are qui’e safe from me, Mr. Darcy.”

“I was slightly worried for Miss Lydia’s reputation that something of the scandal would make it into the lady’s pages,” he admitted.  “My sister is a devoted reader.”

“Can I at least tell Lady Whistledown thah’ Mr. Darcy of Pemberley is briefly in London thouh’ naugh’ tah partake in the Season?” Pen was looking at her hands which, strangely, were perfectly manicured.  Pen did not have the hands of a servant but instead had the hands of a gentlewoman. 

Curious but not willing to pursue a servant’s hands, Darcy leaned back and realized he so little saw ladies’ hands except for his own sister and ward, as hands were so often covered up by gloves.

“You may tell her that, Pen, and only that.”

She glanced up at him, those blue eyes still so startling, and nodded.

“As to how I know the Bennets, last Autumn I went to Hertfordshire as part of a house party and the Bennets were one of the leading families in the neighborhood.”  His green eyes traveled up her hands up her shapely arms and round shoulders.  She really was very pretty for a servant.

“The society was unvarying, then,” Pen observed.  “Ih’ is only, when we go intah the country, the society is naugh’ as ih’ is in London, buh’ there be several grea’ houses in the area.”

“And what part of the country do you hale from, Pen?” he asked quite openly, taking in the pretty curls that formed on her forehead.  “Or are you a child of London?”

She blushed at the question, making her all the more fetching.  “I was born in London,” she answered.  “And yerself, Mr. Darcy.  Where is Pemberley?”

“Derbyshire, in the lake district, Pen.”  He watched her eyes light up.  “Have you had any cause to go there?  Perhaps your Mistress has had reason?”

“Naugh’ as of yeh’,” she admitted before clearing her throat.  “I do want tah see more of the country.  I’ve been tah Hampshyre.”  Her pretty eyes flitted up to his gaze.  “Buh’ that is naugh’ so far, as distances go.”

“Perhaps not,” Darcy agreed.  “But it is undoubtedly a start.”  Then a thought occurred to him.  Considering it for a moment, he took Pen in and realized it would be harmless to see this servant again.  He was in no danger.  He was in full control of his faculties.  He would not be disarmed by fine eyes in a pretty face as he had been with Miss Elizabeth Bennet.  The distinction of rank protected him entirely.—“Pen,” he broached.  “I live in Hanover Square.”

“Indeed,” she agreed, clearly not understanding why he should tell her such information.

“Would you like me to escort you to Cheapside Monday morning?  It is an unusually long walk.”

Pen opened her mouth, her voluptuously red lips parted delicately, but she made no answer.  Darcy had clearly dazed her.

“I mean no insult,” he continued.  “I only think of your comfort and the economy of your time.  It will be good for me to check with Mr. Gardiner that all is set for the wedding.”

She closed her mouth and then took a deep breath through her nose.  Then, carefully, “If ih’ be no trouble.”

“None whatsoever.  Would ten o’clock be convenient?”

Considering, she answered, “I believe so.  I apologize if I accidentally keep yeh waitin’.”

He wanted to reach forward and squeeze her hand, as if she were his sister, Georgiana, but he repressed the impulse.  “Not at all,” he assured her, only now looking out the window.  That did not stop him catching glances of her once she similarly turned her attention out the same window.  Her unusual prettiness, so against the standard of beauty in the Ton, but undeniable nonetheless, was really quite startling.  Darcy wondered if men in her class recognized that she was a beauty.  Did she have a sweetheart?  As a ladies’ maid, it was nearly inconceivable that she had a husband, and, indeed, she was full young for that.

If she had been a young woman in society, she would only have been in her first season, her second at most.

But she was not, he had to remind himself.  She was only a servant.

Men had taken servants to their beds before, Darcy intellectually told himself, but he would not seduce a young woman, especially one who was so respectable as Pen.  That did not stop him, however, from admiring her.

When they reached the better parts of London, Pen sat back so that she was not visible from the window.

There were more carriages in the street now, but they made good time to Grosvenor Square, and the carriage soon pulled up behind a row of houses.

“Who lives here?” Darcy asked as the carriage came a stop after she had indicated Darcy should bang his walking stick on the roof.

“I will make use of the Bridgertons an’ the Featheringtons,” she told him with a mischievous smile.  “They have many young ladies.”

“Ah, yes, the Bridgertons.  My ward asked me about the Viscount Bridgerton just this past Tuesday after reading your Mistress’ latest gossip sheet.”

Her eyes brightened.  “Everyone expected a proposal ta Miss Edwina Sharma after the Bridgerton country ball, but ih’ did naugh’ occur,” she told Darcy in a whisper, leaning forward as if telling him a secret.  “No one knows why.”

“Hmm,” he murmured.  “To my knowledge Miss Swan has never met Lord Bridgerton.”

“Are yeh cer’ain?” she asked, causing his eyes to widen in shock.

“Surely not—”

She shrugged.  “I will listen out fer you, Mr. Darcy.”

The footman had come around and opened the carriage door and was waiting for Pen to exit.  Pen smiled at Darcy and then stepped down.  By the time the footman had returned to the front seat and Darcy could look out the window, Pen had disappeared into the back alleyways of the Bridgerton and Featherington townhouses. 

Darcy sighed inwardly to himself, but he knew he would see Pen on Monday morning.

His next stop was the Bishop’s Palace.

Darcy was able to get an immediate appointment with the Bishop of London, who was glad to give him a special license for one Mr. George Wickham and one Miss Lydia Bennet, once Darcy had made a sizable donation to the diocese.

His work complete and the lunch hour almost being over, Darcy made his way back to Darcy House in Hanover Square.  He entered the front hall and gave over his hat and his walking stick.  “Are the ladies at luncheon?” he asked.

“They are waiting to begin,” the footman told him.  “They are in the music room.”

“Tell the butler to serve luncheon.  I shall go and tell the ladies.”

With several strides, Darcy walked down the hallway and then opened the double doors that separated him from the music room.  Georgiana was sitting at the pianoforte but was clearly reading a gossip sheet instead of looking at her music while Miss Swan was sitting on a chaise and reading a volume of verse.

“Ladies,” he greeted.  “Luncheon is served.”

Georgiana immediately glanced up with her green eyes that were identical to his own and smiled.  “Fitzwilliam!” she greeted.  “I am so glad we waited.  How was your business?”

“More than satisfactory,” he told her.  “And how was your morning?”

“Very comfortable,” Georgiana told him, coming around the pianoforte and walking up to him.  “We were quite at home.  Were we not, Isabella?”

At this, Miss Swan finally looked up from her volume.  Her brown eyes were wide, as if she had only realized that someone was speaking to her.  “What was that?”

Georgiana sighed.  She looked up at Darcy and gave him a small smile.  “Shall we go through?” she asked the room at large. 

Darcy offered his arm to her and she quickly took it.

Miss Swan had returned her attention to the book.

“Isabella?” Georgiana asked, and Miss Swan looked up again. 

“Sorry?”

“Would you care to come in to luncheon?”

“Oh,” she looked between Darcy and Georgiana.  “I’m not hungry.”

“Miss Swan,” Darcy tried, knowing that this was a pattern with her.  “Come at least for a cup of tea.  Your book of verse will still be here in an hour.”

She sighed but put it down after marking her place.  Standing, she came over and took Darcy’s other arm, which he had offered to her.  Sometimes Darcy wondered if Miss Swan had not been given food before she became his ward.  Her past was shrouded in mystery.  He could not account for it at all. 

Still, they passed a pleasant luncheon.  Miss Swan was nearly completely silent, but she did eat a few bites of her cold ham.  Georgiana kept up the conversation with her quiet voice, and Darcy’s mind did not run to Miss Elizabeth, Wickham, or Miss Lydia.  Instead, he dwelt on the bright blue eyes of a pretty servant girl who had struck him in a way that was quite surprising.  He would see her again on Monday, he reminded himself.  He only had to wait that long.

Still, there was business to be done.

Darcy wrote to Colonel Forster, the commanding officer of Wickham’s former regiment, and learnt the names of all of Wickham’s creditors in Hertfordshire.  Buying out his debts was surprisingly simple.  He sent a respectable agent to go about Meryton and do it for him.  By Tuesday, he was the owner of all of Wickham’s debts in both Derbyshire and Hertfordshire. 

He also purchased Wickham a commission in the Regulars and that included securing his uniform in time for the wedding.  It was not expensive compared to Wickham’s gambling debts from their days in Cambridge.  Still, it was an expense.

On Sunday he went to church with Georgiana and Miss Swan.  Miss Swan did not know any of the hymns, but she did open the hymnal to the correct page and moved her lips at the appropriate moments.  Sometimes Darcy wondered if she had been a Papist before she had become his ward given the fact that she knew nothing of the Church of England.  It was possible that her parents had been Separatists, but they had many of the same hymns as the Church of England. 

He was determined to speak to her on the subject.

Leaving Georgiana in the music room, ostensibly to practice the pianoforte, Darcy indicated that Miss Swan should follow him to the receiving room.  She stood from her seat, half-tripping over the hem of her gown so that he had to catch her, but she gave him a rare smile in thanks. 

When they were alone, without even the young ladies’ chaperone, Mrs. Ainsley, in attendance, Darcy sat across from her on a settee as he feared standing would make him appear imposing.

He took in his ward.  She was a thin girl with wide brown eyes, a pretty face, the pale skin of the gentry, and hair as dark as midnight.  He was unaware of any Swans in England.  It was an unknown name to him, so he was unable to give her a family tree.  All he was able to do was lend his name to hers to give her respectability, along with a small dowry of ten thousand pounds that he had saved for difficult times.  He was happy to relinquish it to her if it meant securing her a respectable husband.

“Do you have everything that you need, Miss Swan?” Darcy asked solicitously.

She looked up at him in confusion and, then, a moment later, Miss Swan nodded before looking back down at her hands.

“It is only,” he continued carefully, “you seem so very lost.”

At this, Miss Swan did not look up.  She just continued to look down at her hands as if they were truly riveting.

Darcy waited for several moments in case Miss Swan was gathering her thoughts, but it seemed she intended to remain uncommunitive.

“Was it so different behind the door?” Darcy inquired quietly.

At this, Miss Swan did look up.  They rarely spoke about her appearing at Pemberley over Christmas through a door in the gentleman’s library.  Darcy had been reading late at night, when the door opened where a drenched Miss Swan, wearing peculiar britches she called “jeans” and a purple shirt, appeared.  Darcy had immediately looked out the darkened window to see that it was not raining, and yet Miss Swan—then an unknown young woman to him—was clearly soaked to the skin.

Of the many mysteries that surrounded Miss Swan, the puddle of water beginning exactly where she stood was perhaps the most baffling.  There was no trail of rainwater leading to the library from anywhere else in the house.  It was as if she had been drenched by the nonexistent rainstorm immediately where she stood.

If Darcy did not know the story of Frank Wickham, George Wickham’s supposed grandfather, he would not have believed the evidence of his eyes: Miss Swan had walked from some other location, some other time, into Pemberley—and she had walked directly through the door of the gentleman’s library and directly into his care.

Frank Wickham had come from a time he called “the Blitz.”  He had run from a war and ended up at Pemberley at the age of seven.  Darcy’s own great-grandfather, George Darcy I, had given him to the steward to raise as his own son, and Frank Wickham had become steward in his own time. 

Miss Swan came from a ballgame and had thought she was entering a horseless carriage, but had instead entered Darcy’s library.  She was, naturally, Darcy’s responsibility.  Miss Swan was clearly a woman of intelligence and youth and so Darcy determined that she should become his ward as she was only seventeen years of age.  She would come out with Georgiana when the time was correct, especially as she asked not to come out that year.  That would give her an entire year or two to become used to 1813 England. 

Her transition was proving difficult in that she was silent and acted as if she were a ghost or a silent observer of everything around her.

Miss Swan licked her lips.  “It was different, yes,” she admitted.

Darcy nodded.  “How can I make it easier?”

She looked at him and considered for a moment.  “I had a boyfriend back home.  Charlie—my dad—didn’t approve, but he was mine.”

“What exactly is a ‘boyfriend’?” Darcy asked, although he thought he understood the generalities of the term.

Blinking, she paused.  “A beau?” she asked, rather than qualified.

That was what Darcy had feared.  “When you come out in society, you will have many beaux,” he promised her.  “You will dance, and we will go on promenade—”

“I’ve met the Viscount Bridgerton,” she interrupted and said it in a great rush.

Darcy stared at her, his recollection of what Pen had said just the other day coming to him.  It was almost as if Pen had known that Miss Swan and Lord Bridgerton had met.—which meant Lady Whistledown knew.  How did Lady Whistledown know before he did?

That, however, was immaterial in that exact moment. 

“Would you consider him a beau?” Darcy asked her delicately, not wanting to scare her or have her shy away from confiding in him.

She looked down at her hands again.  “He does not know my full name.”

That was an interesting development.

“This proves difficult,” he told her gently, “as you are not yet out.”  He took a deep breath.  “If you should like to see more of Lord Bridgerton, however, that can certainly be arranged.”

“How?” she asked, her wide doe eyes gazing up at him.

Darcy considered.  “We can go on promenade and I will inform him of the time.  Does he not know your name at all?  I remember when we met you informed me your name was ‘Bella’—”

She blushed at this.  “I did tell him my name was ‘Bella,’” she agreed.  “It came out without thinking, Mr. Darcy.  I forgot the rules of propriety.”  At least she sounded somewhat contrite.

Yes, she had forgotten the rules of propriety.  A lady should never introduce herself to a gentleman, and a gentleman, such as Lord Bridgerton, should never introduce himself to a lady.  However, Darcy could not completely fault Miss Swan.  She came from a different culture where names were given easily and informally.  Case in point, Miss Swan never used the name ‘Isabella’ and had to be convinced by Mr. Darcy to give her full Christian name to Georgiana in friendship instead of the diminutive of her name.

“We shall promenade on Tuesday,” Darcy told her.  “We shall bring Georgiana as I wish for you to be confidantes.”

“I try,” she apologized.  “It is only I do not like the pianoforte.”

There was more of a story there, Darcy thought.

“You are both interested in Lady Whistledown, which you cannot deny.  Poetry, also, is a shared interest.”

“I do not care for the modiste,” Miss Swan disagreed, “or bonnets.  I have never met ‘the Colonel.’  Who even is ‘the Colonel’?”

“Our cousin,” Darcy told her, standing now and offering her his hand.  “The son of our uncle, the Earl of Matlock.”

Miss Swan accepted his hand.  “Does he have a name?”

“Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam,” Darcy informed her, threading her hand through his arm.  “I shall inquire if he is in London and have him call next week.  He is Georgiana’s second guardian.  It is only right that you know him and are on familiar terms with him.”  They walked up to the doors and he paused before opening them up to the hall.  “Also, Miss Swan, I wish you would try to eat more.  If the food is not to your liking, you need only say so.”

“I never ate when I lived with Mom,” she admitted, her voice barely a whisper.

He looked down at her.  She only came up to his shoulder given his superior height. 

“We never had money,” Miss Swan murmured.

He reached over with his free hand and squeezed her hand.  “That is no longer the case.  Just come to every meal.  Try the dishes.  You need not finish them if your stomach revolts.  I am your guardian.  I wish to take care of you.”

She nodded.  “I’ll try.”

“Thank you,” he murmured before he led her out of the room.

On Sunday night he once more dreamt of Miss Elizabeth and Wickham, but the dream had changed.  Again there was a field of paper flowers, all blue and crisp, somewhere near Pemberley.  There was a forest around the meadow and Wickham was at the far side of the flowers, hiding in between the trees.  Miss Elizabeth was walking among the flowers, her bonnet clasped loosely by the ribbons, her honey blonde hair shining nearly silver in the moonlight.  She turned and Darcy could see her sky-blue eyes.  He had once called her eyes “fine,” but they now seemed dull and pale.  Everywhere Miss Elizabeth stepped, she crushed the paper flowers beneath her feet and her footsteps were wide and gaping throughout the meadow of paper flowers.

Then Miss Lydia entered the meadow.  Her blonde hair was up in a simpler hairstyle, the same color as Miss Elizabeth’s, the same silver.  She was slightly taller than her sister, and her sky-blue eyes flashed with uncertainty where Miss Elizabeth’s sky-blue gaze showed only mischief.  The two sisters walked through the paper flowers, crushing them, and then they were walking hand in hand toward Wickham.

Wickham walked out of the trees and held his hand out to them.  Miss Elizabeth reached out to him, dropping her sister’s hand.

A noise startled Darcy and he turned to see Pen emerging out of the trees.  She was dressed not as a servant but a young lady of refinement, in a gown of pale white, her glorious ginger hair falling down around her shoulders.  As she ran through the paper flowers, the flowers bowed out of the way so that she did not crush them.  Pen was light footed and quick.  She reached out and caught Miss Lydia’s elbow and pulled her away from Wickham and her sister.

Miss Lydia startled and she fell backward into the flowers, which curled up around her, hiding her from sight.

Miss Elizabeth glanced back to where Miss Lydia had disappeared, but then turned again toward Wickham whose hand was still reaching out toward her.  She smiled at him and when their hands clasped each other, Wickham pulled her into the trees.

Darcy felt no twinge of regret or surge of anger.  Instead, he walked in his dream through the paper flowers toward Pen who was kneeling down next to Miss Lydia.  Miss Lydia was lying in that magical meadow, tears running down her face.  When Darcy reached the two women he crouched down and looked down to see that Miss Lydia was crying.  She looked so young and helpless, but there was nothing Darcy could do to help her.

Pen looked up at him and said, “Wake up.”

His brows furrowed as he returned her gaze, so bright and so blue.

“Wake up,” she repeated.

The words only confused him.

“Wake up!” she shouted.  Then she slapped him.  Bewildered, he heard Pen shout, “Wake up! Wake up! Wake up!”

Darcy awoke, sitting up in his bed, seeing that it was just dawn.  He ran a hand down his face as he remembered his dream, of Miss Elizabeth going toward Wickham and the distress of Miss Lydia.  Pen had been there too.  What was Pen doing there?

He shook himself and got up to start his morning ablutions.  He did not notice the purple rose on his bedside table.

At exactly ten o’clock he was waiting in his carriage behind the Bridgerton and Featherington houses in Grosvenor Square.  He had half a mind to go over to the Bridgerton house and demand to see the Viscount, demanding to know what he had said and done with his ward, Miss Swan.  But today was a day for other business, and there would be plenty of time to deal with Viscount Bridgerton.

His footman came to the door and Darcy handed him a note meant for the Viscount Bridgerton.  It was a simple note.  It read: “Miss Bella will promenade Tuesday morning at eleven o’clock.”  If Bridgerton was really a man of his word, he would come and promenade, with or without his family.  “Knock on the front door,” Darcy told him.

The footman nodded and walked in between the two houses and disappeared.  Darcy watched him go, but then turned back to his own thoughts.

It was then, just a few minutes later, that the door opened, and Pen stepped into the carriage without any assistance.  Darcy had been so lost in his thoughts that he had not realized where she had come from. 

“Good morning, Pen,” he greeted with a smile.

“Good mornin’, Mr. Darcy,” she said, smiling back at him.  His breath was almost knocked out of him, her smile briefly reminding him of his dream. 

“We have to wait for my footman,” Darcy explained, quickly coming to his senses.

Looking at him in curiosity, her bright blue eyes questioned the reason although she did not verbalize it.

He sighed.  “It seemed you were correct about Lord Bridgerton and Miss Swan.  I sent him a note.”  He leaned forward.  “Not a word, Pen.”

“Ye should read this afternoon’s Lady Whistledown,” she suggested, looking at him directly.  “Only Lord Bridgerton is named buh’ his fickleness is no’ed.”

“Fickleness,” Darcy repeated.

“Ih’ is per’aps naugh’ the best word—buh’ he ‘as raised expectations in the past.”

Darcy’s mouth thinned into a line.

“Ih’ could have been the lady’s faul’,” Pen soothed, seeing his distress.  “—Ye should speak with Lord Bridgerton.”

“I shall, Pen.  I shall.”  He took her in, her face just as pretty as he remembered it.  He nodded to her, as he would to any lady of good society.  “Thank you, Pen.”

A hint of a blush spilled out across her round cheeks, giving her a hue of health that was utterly attractive on her.  Darcy thought that a blush might perhaps clash with her ginger hair, but it did no such thing.  Quite the reverse, in fact.  It complimented her.  He was also quite proud of himself for making the young servant girl blush.  To his knowledge, he had never made a woman blush before.  Perhaps he should have realized much earlier that Miss Elizabeth never cared for him given her lack of blushes—but that was a thought for when he was alone, and not when he was in such favorable company.

Darcy glanced out the window and saw his servant walking up the passageway and as soon as he was once again on the carriage seat, Darcy banged his walking stick on the roof of the carriage so they were soon on their way.

“Your mistress will not be missing you?” Darcy checked.

“Naugh’ fer an ‘our or two,” Pen promised as she looked out the window.  “Lady Whistledown is a kind an’ generous mistress.”

“Yes,” he agreed, leaning forward.  “How did she know about Viscount Bridgerton and Miss Swan?”

A blank look fell over Pen’s features.

“Hmm,” he breathed.  “Keep your secrets then,” he decided.  “I know now, which is what matters.  I trust you know nothing of Georgiana and a gentleman?”

“I know nothin’,” she promised.

Darcy took her in and saw only honesty in her face.  At least the intended elopement with Wickham had not become public knowledge.

Pen had a very open countenance.  Darcy doubted that she could lie or a keep a secret, although she managed to run around London on errands for Lady Whistledown quite competently, it would seem.

The lady’s identity, of course, remained a mystery.  All Darcy knew was that Whistledown supposedly lived in Grosvenor Square and even that could be a feint. 

The trip to Bloomsbury was once again quiet and Darcy sat back and took in the loveliness of Pen.  The farther they got away from fashionable London, the more Pen looked out the window.  When they arrived in Cheapside, Darcy exited the carriage first and was certain to personally hand Pen out.  Although she was wearing gloves, he felt the visceral pleasure of holding her hand.

When Pen made to go to the servant’s entrance, Darcy grabbed her elbow and pulled her toward him.  “Oh, no, Pen.  You are a wedding guest.” 

She looked at him in confusion.

“You will go through the front door with me.”

“Bu’, Mr. Darcy!” she exclaimed.

He looked at her with a firmness he had not had to use since Georgiana was eleven years old.  “I insist, Pen.”  He took her wrist and threaded her hand through his elbow.  “Think how happy Miss Lydia will be to see you.”

She blushed as they moved forward.  “I will insul’ the lady of the house.”

“I arranged the entire wedding.  You are a guest.  They will not insult me even if I insist on a few peculiarities,” he told her, coming up to the door of the Gardiner home and knocking on it three times with the head of his walking stick.  “You also discovered the couple, if you recall.”

“Ih’ is only because Miss Lydia was buyin’ ribbons when I was ou’ purchasin’ naugh’ fer the mistress.”

“And what a happy coincidence that proved to be,” he assured her just as the door opened.  It was the same servant as the previous visit.  “Good day,” Darcy greeted.  “Mr. Darcy for Mr. Gardiner, and Miss Pen for Miss Lydia.”  He lifted his arm so Pen would let go and then ushered her into the house ahead of himself.

They were led into the same narrow hallway and there were immediately footsteps on the stairs.  A moment later, the figure of Miss Lydia appeared, so like Miss Elizabeth with her blonde hair and sky-blue eyes, but so young and invigorated.  “Pen!” she cried.  “You are here!  You must see my wedding gown.”

Pen glanced at Darcy and he murmured, “I shall not leave without you,” before he indicated that she should follow Miss Lydia up the stairs.

Miss Lydia bit her bottom lip, showing how young she was, before she picked up her skirts and hurried up the stairs.  Pen wiggled a little in her haste as she followed, and Darcy found it absolutely charming.

The servant had left them and soon reappeared from the direction of Mr. Gardiner’s office.  She indicated that Darcy should follow her.

The man was pouring two glasses of sherry when Darcy entered, and he appeared much more rested than the last time Darcy had seen him.

“I hope you have the special license?” Gardiner inquired as he handed Darcy the glass.

Darcy accepted it and sat down in a chair in front of the desk that dominated the room.

“Indeed.  It is signed by the Bishop of London.  Do you have a time secured on Thursday?”

Taking a sip of sherry, Gardiner nodded his head.  “Yes, Thursday, two o’clock.  St. Alban’s here in Cheapside.  I hope that is acceptable to the groom, but we thought it would be better for Lydia to be married from our local parish.”

“Very suitable,” Darcy agreed, not caring if Wickham had an opinion.

“I have convinced Brother Bennet to leave everything to me.  He and his wife and other daughters will not be in attendance.”  Gardiner regarded Darcy carefully, perhaps to look for his approval.

Darcy set down his glass of sherry.  “Good.—Miss Lydia was saying to Pen when they left me that she had her wedding clothes.”

“Indeed,” Mr. Gardiner agreed.  “We indulged her in the amount of lace, but she has been through an ordeal.—She was promised marriage and was uncertain for weeks whether her wedding would take place.  The least I could do was give her some lace.”

Pen, Darcy thought, would not be frivolous with lace.  The thought almost physically startled him, but he had fortunately already set down his sherry.  He immediately picked it up and took a drink to mask his discomfort.

“Mr. Bennet,” Darcy checked, “agreed to the terms for the dowry.  One hundred pounds per annum?  A possible visit from the bride and groom before Wickham accepts his commission in the Regulars?  Whatever is due to her upon her mother’s death?  All three of these stipulations?”

“An agreement to all,” Gardiner told him, looking through the papers on the desk and extracting what appeared to be a letter.  He held it out to Darcy as proof.  “You can read his reply here.”

Darcy set down his now empty sherry and took the letter.

Bennet had a dry style of writing and seemed to care little what he had to promise as long as Miss Lydia was married at the earliest possible opportunity.  He seemed to prefer that all of it was arranged with little distraction to him.  He also seemed glad to not have to arrange a journey to London for himself and his family. 

“He is not the most affectionate of fathers,” Darcy murmured.

“No,” Gardiner agreed, taking back the letter.  “Elizabeth, whom you met when we were visiting Lambton, is his favorite.  I am not certain he knows what to do with Kitty or Lydia.”

Kitty—she was the fourth sister.  She was the one whose name Darcy could never remember.  He wondered if her name was short for Catherine or some other name.

“I have purchased all of Wickham’s debts in Hertfordshire so his character is unblemished in the neighborhood—except for a previous engagement to a Miss King,” Darcy relayed to Mr. Gardiner.  “I do not believe there is any more business than the marriage itself, and I will ensure that Wickham appears.”

“That is a relief, as I do not know where he is staying.”

“Bloomsbury,” Darcy admitted without giving exact details.  “How long will Miss Lydia be with her dress?”

Gardiner looked toward his study door.  “Who knows with women?  I will have the maid go and call your—”

“Miss Pen,” Darcy supplied.

“—your Miss Pen in half an hour.”

Darcy nodded and accepted another glass of sherry.  When a half hour had come and gone, the maid was sent for and both Pen and Miss Lydia emerged from upstairs to Darcy who was waiting in the hallway.

“You promise to bring her back for the wedding, Mr. Darcy,” Miss Lydia checked, standing arm in arm with a smiling Pen.  “None of my sisters can come, and I should like to have a bridesmaid.  None of my cousins are old enough.  Mariah is only twelve!”

“I can assure you that Pen will be present to be a bridesmaid,” Darcy promised the bride, who looked genuinely anxious.

Miss Lydia turned to Pen and the two embraced, Lydia crying a little. 

“Hush, now,” Pen was saying.  “Ye’ll be married soon.  Jus’ think.  Mrs. Wickham!”

“But I do not know whether or not I wish to leave London.  If I wish to leave you!” Miss Lydia cried into her friend’s shoulder.

Pen patted her back.  “Ye can come back tah London.  I’ll be here durin’ the Season.”

Laughing, Miss Lydia admitted, “We do not have the Season in Hertfordshire.”

The two friends pulled apart and laughed again. 

“Thursday,” Miss Lydia made her promise.

“Thursday,” Pen agreed.

Miss Lydia finally let Pen go and Darcy opened up the door for Pen, nodding politely to Miss Lydia, who was so young to be married.  When they were standing in the sunlight on the step, Darcy put his hat on his head and offered his arm to Pen.

“Ye don’ have tah do thah’,” she told him again.

“I want to, Pen,” he told her, and Pen reluctantly took his arm.  They walked down the steps to the waiting carriage, the footman standing at attention and opening the door for them.  Darcy lifted Pen into the carriage and then entered in after her.  “Now a quick stop to Bloomsbury,” he told her.

“Wickham?” she guessed.

“Indeed.”

He sat back and looked at the line of her neck as she gazed out the window, her hood down.  She breathed in deeply and Darcy watched her bosom rise and fall.  A bosom such as Pen’s would be a multitude of riches.  A man could lose himself in such a bosom.  It would overflow his hands if he could ever undress Pen—

Darcy shook himself from these thoughts. 

Pen was looking at him.  “Do ye look at every woman thus?” she asked quite boldly.

“Not every woman,” Darcy told her honestly.  He had looked at Miss Elizabeth Bennet to admire.  Now he looked at Pen in what he could only call unbridled and yet carefully controlled admiration and lust.  He was a man, after all.  He hated to think he was prone to his baser instincts, but then he reminded himself he had never given in to his lust—except for his unfortunate proposal to Miss Elizabeth.

She nodded.  “Lady Whistledown would naugh’ take kindly—”

“I quite understand your meaning,” Darcy told her as their eyes met, green to bright blue.  “I have no ungentlemanly designs on you, Pen.”

Pen regarded him for several long moments.  She must have accepted his words because she once again turned to the window.  A light blush suffused her cheeks quite prettily and Darcy sat back to admire her until they were once again in Bloomsbury.

Stepping out of the carriage with the parcel of Wickham’s new uniform, Darcy turned back and spoke to Pen through the window.  “I shall be no more than half an hour.  Send my man after me if you grow disquieted.”

“Of course, Mr. Darcy,” she returned.  “I hav’ naugh’ meh’ Mr. Wickham buh’ I now know ‘im naugh’ tah be a gentleman given ‘is behavior tah my poor friend, Miss Lydia.”

“No,” Darcy agreed darkly.  “Wickham is barely deserving of the title of gentleman.  Miss Lydia unfortunately did not have a lucky escape like other women who have known Wickham before her.”  He was—of course—referencing both his sister and Miss King, who had escaped Wickham’s influence before he could marry them for their fortunes.

Pen’s pretty blue eyes widened and then she nodded.  She then disappeared back into the carriage.

Darcy turned away from the carriage and entered the “Golden Sceptre” which was just as small and dark as he remembered it.  The same innkeeper was still behind the bar and Darcy came up to him.  “Is the gentleman in Room Four still there?” he inquired, leaning against the bar, his walking stick in his hand.

“Aye, sir,” the innkeeper agreed.  “Ee ‘as no deb’s if thah’ be wha’ yeh’re askin’.”

“I am glad to hear it,” Darcy responded.  “I’ll show myself up.”

He took the steps two at a time and came to Room Four soon enough.  He knocked on it two times with the head of his walking stick and waited for Wickham to call out for him to enter, which was more courtesy than he would normally give the man.  Coming into the room, he saw that Wickham was sitting in the window in his shirtsleeves and britches, his boots tucked into a corner.

Darcy placed the parcel on the small table.  “I brought your uniform.”

“Will it fit?” Wickham asked, not looking over at Darcy, still gazing down at the street below.

“I had your measurements from Meryton.  If it does not fit, it is because you have not been eating properly,” Darcy assured him.  “Your wedding is Thursday at two o’clock.  I’ll pick you up an hour before.  Be sure to be washed and ready.”

“Is the pretty piece in your carriage Pen?” Wickham asked, finally looking at Darcy.  “I see why you like her, all round and soft—”

“Wickham, that is no way to speak of your betrothed’s bridesmaid.”  His voice was firm and his green eyes cold and hard.

Wickham’s eyebrows rose in surprise.  “I see you have noticed then.”  He stood and came over to the table, uncorking a bottle of wine.  “Would you like a glass?”

“That is unnecessary,” Darcy assured him as Wickham began to pour a glass, which he picked up.  He regarded Darcy with the same green eyes both Darcy and Georgiana shared.  “There is nothing wrong with tumbling with a servant.  It is a little inconvenient that she is not your servant—”

Darcy drew in a deep breath through his nose.  “At least I do not have to worry about you chasing after the maids at Pemberley anymore,” Darcy countered.  “You were always insatiable.”

“I never knew why you did not join me in the sport,” Wickham laughed, taking a long drink of his wine.  “Are you sure I cannot tempt you?”

“No,” Darcy declined again, his gaze flicking to the wine bottle.  “Mr. Bennet has agreed to all of your stipulations.  I have purchased your debts so you can visit Hertfordshire at your pleasure.” (Wickham nodded.) “You will receive one hundred pounds per annum and upon Mrs. Bennet’s death you will receive Lydia’s share of the marriage portion.”

“How much is that?” Wickham asked, pouring himself another glass.

“I believe it is approximately one thousand pounds,” Darcy informed him.

Wickham looked over, pensive.  “Mrs. Bennet’s marriage portion was only five thousand pounds?  Mr. Bennet took her with so little?”

It was true.  The Longbourn estate was worth about two thousand per annum, and if Lydia’s marriage portion was one thousand, that meant that each of the five sisters had an equal share of that amount.  Thus, Mrs. Bennet’s dowry had been five thousand—from trade.  It was odd that a landed gentleman would take so little.

“I cannot account for it,” Darcy agreed.  “You will be ready at the appointed time.”  It was a command, not a question.

Wickham drank his second glass.  “I will,” he agreed.  “I should like some money for tailoring.”

They both knew no tailoring was needed.  Darcy nonetheless went into his moneybag and produced another three pounds.  “I trust this will see you through.”

“Indeed,” Wickham agreed.  “I thank you.”  His green eyes flitted up and met Darcy’s mirroring eyes.  “Think, if we had been switched in the cradle, we would be in reversed positions.”

“We never would have been,” Darcy told him firmly.  “You would have been too small to be mistaken for me.  Your mother, also, was too fond of you to relinquish you for any reason.”

Wickham threw his head back and breathed in deeply.  “Yes, Mama,” he agreed clearly in thought.  “She was fond of me.”

“You were her only child,” Darcy agreed.  He clapped Wickham on the shoulder as a sign of old familiarity and comradeship before leaving.

He quickly took the steps to the common room and made his way to the innkeeper.  He slid a pound over the bar.  “See to it he has a steady supply of wine,” he requested.  “He is to be married on Thursday.”

“Is ‘ee naugh’ already married?” the innkeeper asked, picking up the coin and biting on it with his teeth.

Darcy just shook his head and then tipped his hat to the man before leaving the innkeeper to his patrons.  He entered the street again, bustling as it was in the June heat.  The carriage was waiting where he had left it, and the footman opened the door for him as he approach and as he entered Darcy was pleased to see that Pen had waited for him instead of abandoning the carriage as she could have done given their recent conversation.

“Is all well with Mr. Wickham?” Pen asked as Darcy banged on the roof with his walking stick, the carriage beginning its trip to Grosvenor Square.

“Indeed,” Darcy told her.  “He has his uniform for the wedding, he knows the time, and I have told him when we shall pick him up for the ceremony.”

Pen regarded him with her bright blue eyes.  “I am naugh’ certain I wish tah share a carriage with him,” Pen admitted carefully.  “If yeh tell me the church—”

“I will ensure he will be entirely respectful to you,” Darcy assured her, slightly worried that he would lose time alone with this strangely alluring servant.  “You have my word as a gentleman.”

She looked him over with her bright blue gaze.  “Ih’ is unseemly thah’ I ride in a carriage with yeh, whah’ will people think if I ride in a carriage with both of ye?” she asked.  “No, I shall make me own way to the church.  Miss Lydia said Sain’ Alban’s, methinks.  I am sure I can find ih’, if ye confirm—”

Knowing he could not argue with her because Pen’s mind was fully made up, Darcy checked, “It is St. Alban’s.  You will come for the wedding breakfast.”

“Of course,” she answered with a small smile.  “I would naugh’ disappoin’ Miss Lydia.”

Darcy felt his shoulders relax.

They held each other’s gazes—green to blue—for several long minutes before Pen eventually looked away and turned her attention out of the window.  Darcy knew she was aware of his regarding her, but they did not speak until they returned to Grosvenor Square.

“Thank ye, Mr. Darcy,” she murmured as the footman opened the carriage door for her.

“I will see you at the wedding,” Darcy reiterated, and she nodded.

Then she was gone between the houses and Darcy wondered where her final destination ultimately was.

He returned to Hanover Square less satisfied than he had hoped.  It was a full hour before luncheon and he could hear Georgiana playing the pianoforte.  He walked toward the music room and slipped in to find Georgiana sitting behind the instrument and Miss Swan reposing on a chair, hands settled on her lap, clearly paying attention.

Darcy had completely forgotten that Pen had mentioned that Lady Whistledown was publishing that afternoon.  A footman came in with two copies of the gossip sheet shortly after luncheon and Georgiana immediately took hers up, abandoning her music, and began to read it voraciously.  Miss Swan was presented with a copy but she merely set it aside.

Carefully standing, Darcy approached Miss Swan and picked up her copy.  He scanned the gossip sheet until he found the name Bridgerton.

“It has come to this author’s attention that the Viscount Bridgerton, after not finding love and a fitting partner in this season’s Diamond, has turned his attention to another young lady.  The lady is not yet out in society so this author has to wonder, what is Lord Bridgerton about? We shall await a development in this story and this author will soon learn the Viscount’s intentions for, after all, this is the season the Viscount announced he intended to find his Viscountess.”

Pen was correct.  Miss Swan was not mentioned. 

“You might want to read the fourth paragraph,” he murmured to Miss Swan quietly enough so that Georgiana could not overhear them.

Miss Swan looked up, startled, with her wide brown eyes.  “Why?”

“Read it,” Darcy told her, handing over the copy of Lady Whistledown.

Carefully taking it up, Miss Swan’s eyes turned downward and she appeared more and more distressed until she finally put the paper aside.

Darcy had gone to the side table and poured a glass of wine, which he presented to Miss Swan.  “This may calm you.”

She looked at it for several long moments before she accepted it.  Miss Swan sipped at it and then took a long drink.

Darcy looked over his shoulder and saw that Georgiana was still reading.

“How does she know?” Miss Swan murmured.

“How does any gossip sheet know their gossip?” Darcy asked as he took a seat beside her.  “It is our good fortune that you were not named.  Who knows beside the Viscount?”

Her eyes flicked back and forth as her mind seemed to race.  “No one,” Miss Swan declared.  “Not even Mrs. Ainsley or Georgiana knows.”

Darcy wondered, once again, how Miss Swan and Lord Bridgerton had even come upon each other, but he did not ask.  It was immaterial to the conversation at hand. 

“I sent him a note,” Darcy told her, “that we are to promenade tomorrow.”

This, certainly, caught Miss Swan’s attention.  “We are to—promenade?”

“Indeed,” Darcy agreed.  “If he is serious about the ‘Bella’ he met, then he will promenade, even with Lady Whistledown publishing her rumors.  If he is not, then we will be well rid of him.”  Darcy was not even certain if he had ever met Lord Bridgerton.  He had been at Cambridge, Darcy believed, but well before Darcy’s time.  He must be a member at White’s but their paths had never crossed. 

Miss Swan nodded.  “Surely he must come.”  She looked then at Darcy.  “He will come, won’t he?”

“I hope he will,” Darcy murmured.  “One can only hope.”