Chapter 2

July, 1818

Drawing Room

Greymere

Derbyshire

Jane Bingley leaned back in her chair and shifted her bulk. She was eight months into her second pregnancy and felt more like a hippopotamus than a lady. It was fortunate that her husband found her winsome and attractive, regardless of her figure.

The door opened to reveal a maid with a tea service, followed by Kitty Bennet and Mary and Anthony Quill.

"Jane, how are you?" Kitty asked warmly, taking her place near the tea service and pouring tea for her family, while the Quills took their places on a nearby settee.

"Large," Jane replied and added laughingly, "You see what you have to look forward to, Mary?"

"I am looking forward to it," Mary said with a grin as her hand touched her slightly protuberant stomach. The former Commodore Quill reached an arm around his wife and kissed her gently on the cheek, his eyes shining with pleasure.

Commodore Quill, who had abandoned his quest for Lydia's hand a few days into the journey to Gretna Green, had lost his arm during a naval battle some three years previously. The Darcys had invited him to rest at Pemberley for as long as he liked, and he had met Mary Bennet, who was also visiting. What began as a friendship turned into something more. Now Mary was Mrs. Quill, mistress of a small estate in Nottinghamshire called Fawnthorpe Hall, which had come to Mr. Quill when his uncle died without any sons to inherit.

Jane knew that the going was rather hard at Fawnthorpe, as Quill's uncle had not been a devoted master. But Mary was a serious, diligent young woman, and Quill was a sensible man, and they both had wealthy and intelligent brothers by marriage to assist. Furthermore, the distance from Fawnthorpe Hall to the Bingleys' estate of Greymere was but thirty miles, and the Darcys' estate of Pemberley was only twenty miles further. The eldest three sisters were able to visit regularly, and since Kitty, the only Bennet daughter not yet married, spent a great deal of time visiting one or the other of her sisters, the family had the pleasure of often being in one another's company.

Even Mr. and Mrs. Bennet made their way north on occasion, though usually to Pemberley. Greymere was a good estate, with a large, modern house, but the Bingleys were not great readers and hence the library was nothing compared to that of Pemberley.

The door opened again, and Charles Bingley appeared with Miss Gloria Bingley in his arms. The three-year-old squealed with excitement, wriggled out of her father's arms and ran over to her mother. "Mamma! Mamma! Papa show me kittens! In the stable!"

Bingley, after carefully studying his wife to determine that she was comfortable and happy, grinned and said, "They are sweet kittens, are they not, Gloria?"

"They ‘r sooo cute and cuddly."

/

Lydia Harding's Private Sitting Room

Half Moon Street

London

Lady Lydia Harding planted a kiss on her sleeping infant and handed her over to the nursemaid, who was waiting to place the tiny child in her crib.

"She ate well, Polly, and I hope will take a nice long nap."

"I hope so as well, Madame."

Polly carried the tiny girl away, and a moment later, the door opened to reveal Georgiana Darcy, dressed in a yellow morning dress which matched her hair. She entered the room, her cheeks flushed and her blue eyes wide.

"Lydia! I need your advice, but perhaps I do not, but I do not know. Oh dear!"

Lydia looked upon her sister by marriage and swallowed a chuckle at the young lady's somewhat wild look. Miss Darcy was two months younger than Lydia, but had always been a far more sedate creature. Lydia liked her very much but could not help but be a little amused at such passion from the usually calm woman.

"I would be pleased to offer you advice, or merely company, if you like. Do sit down, Georgiana, and I will fix you some tea."

The girl did so, breathing deeply in an attempt to calm herself, while Lydia poured tea for herself and her guest, both with milk and honey.

Georgiana took her cup with a soft murmur of thanks, took a sip, and then said, "Mr. Seth Lockhart spoke to me yesterday and asked if we can enter a formal courtship."

Lydia drank down half of her tea – nursing a baby kept her perpetually thirsty – and tilted her head. "Mr. Lockhart? Fourth son of Mr. Lockhart of Lindman Manor in Wiltshire?"

"Yes," Georgiana replied gloomily.

Lydia stared at the young woman in bewilderment. Miss Georgiana Darcy, niece of an earl, with a large dowry, had been pursued enthusiastically since she came out in society three years earlier. She had turned down at least a dozen offers, maybe more, so why was she so distressed now?

A moment later, understanding dawned.

"You love Mr. Lockhart," she stated.

Georgiana promptly burst into tears. "I do, I do. But he is a fourth son, and the family is not wealthy, and I am certain that the Matlocks would not approve. What am I to do, Lydia?"

Lydia was not used to being consulted about matters of the heart, but with the Darcys currently visiting the Lake District and her other three sisters at Greymere in Derbyshire, Lydia was the only relation nearby who could give advice.

She took a deep breath and worked to clear her mind. What would Elizabeth say?

"What is Mr. Lockhart like?"

"Oh, Lydia, he is such a kind person, able to speak to others with such ease. He is sensible and intelligent, and I feel safe and comfortable with him."

"Is he handsome?"

Georgiana wrinkled her brow and said, "Not conventionally handsome, no. I mean, I like the way he looks, but he is not tall and his nose is a little bit uneven because he broke it when he was young. I do not care about his looks, though. Do you think that is a bad thing?"

"No, not at all," Lydia said decidedly. "You know that Sir Christopher is not considered a particularly good looking man, but the longer we are married, the more I admire his appearance. In fact, to look on a man and think him good because he is handsome is incredibly stupid."

"Like Mr. Wickham," Georgiana said quietly. The two ladies had, three years previously, shared their horrific experiences with George Wickham, and it had brought them closer together. Wickham was dead now, slain by an illness which had swept the Foxdale Mines the previous year.

"Is Mr. Lockhart a man of leisure?" Lydia asked delicately.

"No, and that is part of the problem. He has taken Holy Orders and is hoping to obtain a living. The family is not wealthy, and obviously, I have a large dowry. I am afraid that some of my older relations will be horrified if I marry a fourth son with no prospects."

"Did not your cousin, Anne Buckley, marry an impecunious younger son?"

"She did, yes, but that was mostly to escape Lady Catherine de Bourgh. It was not a love match."

"I have only met the Buckleys two or three times," Lydia remarked, "but they seem very happy together, and their little son is a darling."

"Yes, we are all pleased that there is a healthy heir to Rosings."

Lydia poured herself another cup of tea, drank it down, and then turned to look down on her friend.

"Georgiana, you are of age, so can marry as you wish, but it would also be courteous and right to consult with your brother before entering a formal courtship. I know the Darcys are visiting the Lake District now, but perhaps you can send a letter to your brother regarding the situation, and tell Mr. Lockhart that while you cannot enter a formal courtship at this time, you are eager to continue your friendship."

"That is very good advice," Georgiana said, and then, after a moment of hesitation, said shyly, "Do you think … I hope I am not too forward, but might I be permitted to spend some time with you when you leave for Hampshire. Mr. Lockhart will soon be returning to his family estate, which is only some twenty miles from yours."

"But of course, my dear! You are invited to stay at Pine Manor for as long as you like," Lydia said with a glowing smile. "And I promise we will invite your suitor to visit us often."

"Thank you so much."

/

Back Parlor

The Gardiners' House

Gracechurch Street

"Would you care for more tea?" Madeline Gardiner asked.

"Thank you," Caroline Fitzwilliam replied to her hostess, holding out her cup with a grateful smile.

Mrs. Gardiner poured another cup of tea and handed it over to her guest who was also, remarkably, incredibly, now her genuine friend.

She had first met the former Miss Caroline Bingley some six years ago and before that, had heard a great deal about her from her nieces Jane and Elizabeth. Elizabeth's view of Miss Bingley had been far less charitable than her sweet older sister's, and when Miss Bingley had visited Gracechurch Street in order to cut Jane's acquaintance, Madeline had privately thought that Elizabeth had understated the case.

The contrast between the younger Caroline and the current one was stark. Though still dressed elegantly in silk, Mrs. Fitzwilliam no longer chose her apparel to show off her wealth. Mrs. Gardiner believed that it flattered her friend more to be less ostentatiously adorned; her handsome features were now more apparent, no longer overshadowed by extravagant jewels and ribbons. It helped, too, that Caroline no longer walked around with her nose in the air as she surveyed her fellow-man. Time and marriage had mellowed her and added wisdom, and her demeanor was consistently pleasant.

Two years previously, Madeline had stuffed down her trepidation when her husband had come home one evening to inform her that he had invited a new investor – Richard Fitzwilliam and his wife Caroline, the former Miss Bingley –to dinner the following week. To Madeline's considerable surprise, the evening had gone pleasantly, and she had been sufficiently encouraged to invite Mrs. Fitzwilliam over for tea. It had been the start of a beautiful friendship.

There was a shriek from outside, and Caroline hastily put down her cup and hurried to the window, while Mrs. Gardiner followed her at greater leisure.

The back garden of the Gardiners' home was a large one for Gracechurch Street, but it did not boast elegant flower beds or statuary. It had, in fact, been given over to a pleasant play area for the Gardiner children and their guests. Mrs. Gardiner, now forty years of age, had birthed no less than seven children, and the tradesman's wife had made the practical decision to eschew expensive elegance in favor of a cozy home, with balls and hoops and an amiable lawn, all surrounded by a wooden fence to keep her children and their guests from wandering off.

The shrieking, both ladies observed, was coming from the second youngest Gardiner, a sturdy three-year-old girl named Sophia, who had fallen down and was now being comforted by her eldest sister and a nursemaid

Caroline relaxed as she watched her only child, a three-year-old son who was racing around the yard along with the Gardiners' youngest son, with a nursemaid in attendance.

"Peter is well," Madeline Gardiner said gently.

Caroline chuckled and shook her head. "I know that I hover over him absurdly, but…"

"I know," Madeline said and patted her friend's arm. Richard and Caroline Fitzwilliam had lost their second child, a little girl, at the age of six weeks only eight months previously.

"Peter seems very healthy," Madeline said in a comforting voice.

"Yes, and little Evangeline was delicate from birth, but it is still difficult not to worry."

"I understand completely," Madeline said compassionately.

Caroline smiled gratefully, but before she could speak again, the door opened and both ladies looked over to see their husbands entering. Caroline smiled at Richard and he smiled back as Mrs. Gardiner reached for the empty cups waiting on the tray, and suggested, "Please, will you not join us for tea?"

The gentlemen sat down, Richard by his wife and Mr. Gardiner in the chair adjacent to his own, while Mrs. Gardiner leaned forward to pour. Conversation was light and eclectic, flowing easily between sips of tea and nibbled scones. Half an hour passed, with the sun sliding across the polished parquet floor and dark blue carpet, before a distant rumble like a runaway carriage became audible from the corridor outside. The Gardiners, experienced parents, exchanged smiles and hastily set their cups and saucers back on the low table before them.

The door burst open, and a horde of children tumbled inside like a breaking wave, the Gardiners' tiny son tumbling onto hands and knees before hiking himself up again with scarcely a break to tear over and clamber into his father's lap. Mrs. Gardiner wrapped an affectionate arm around a chattering Sophie, who had excited tales of catching a caterpillar and letting it walk on her arm.

"That sounds lovely, my dear," Mrs. Gardiner said warmly, but her eyes were straying over to the Fitzwilliams, side by side and leaning in towards Peter, his hands on his parents' knees as he jumped up and down in uncontainable joy. There had been quiet affection on their faces as they interacted over tea, and now both of them listened in rapt adoration to Peter's half incomprehensible babbling.

Madeline ran her hand up and down her daughter's back one more time before patting her on her way, contented. It was good to be surrounded by such exceptional friends.

/

The Lake District

The oars splashed the water with every stroke, the servants in the fore of the boat powering the slender craft forward with every haul. Elizabeth pulled back Annabelle from reaching for the water and handed the infant a soft cookie from the picnic basket at their feet for the baby to gum on to distract her from the crystal-clear – and incredibly deep – water all around them. In front of her, her beloved Fitzwilliam was wrangling both Luke and Joshua, and doing an impressive job. It was not one she envied; it was quite enough keeping the very determined one-year-old on her lap from diving over the side.

"M'ans, mama," Annabelle said indistinctly, looking between her mother's face and the deep green-blue mountains rising up around their lake like a basin, one tiny fat, finger wobbling around as she pointed. "M'ans."

"That's right, my love." Elizabeth smiled down at her daughter. "Mountains. You see the pretty mountains?"

"M'ans," Annabelle repeated, contented, and settled on her mother's lap.

Elizabeth met her husband's eye over their children's heads, and the two shared a smile. She was every bit still as in love with her husband as she had been the day the two of them had said "I will" in the Meryton church, with an ever-growing layer of love and respect and affection beneath. Her Fitzwilliam was a good man; a diligent master of Pemberley, an exemplary and patient father, and a wonderful husband.

She watched as Fitzwilliam brushed back Luke's hair – untamed chestnut curls like his mother's but much shorter, blowing in the wind – dark head bent to listen to the boy's excited chatter. Joshua, close beside his twin, was as silent and solemn as ever, but his eyes sparkled like the sun-lit lake, his own straight black hair resistant to the tugging of mischievous breezes. Both had recuperated well from their illness last year and the year before that, as the toddlers fell sick to first measles then mumps. Elizabeth remembered still the candlelit nights, wrapped in her husband's arms, with Fitzwilliam praying over her head, pleading for their sons' lives and wellbeing.

Both Joshua and Luke had recovered and grown into sturdy, healthy, vibrant young boys, and they had been delighted to receive their new little sister into the nursery. Elizabeth caressed her daughter's hair, listening to the tiny girl babble half-words. Yes, they truly were fortunate.