Fitzwilliam Darcy, a man of three and twenty, sat staring at a fire late one damp March night, thinking of little more than the fact that his father was dying.

Certainly Darcy had no worries of the future when it came to what duties he would shoulder fully when his father passed away. In truth, he knew his father to be concerned of only one thing: his son's future wife.

It was definitely not uncommon for a young man of Darcy's age to remain a bachelor, but he knew his father had hoped to meet his bride before he passed on. George Darcy supported his wife Lady Anne's hopes for him to marry his cousin Anne de Bourgh, but until that moment, when his father lay dying, his one final wish unfulfilled, Darcy had never seriously considered it. Anne was a sickly little thing, but Darcy agreed with his father when he said that she could be more, if not coddled so by her mother and her companion, Mrs. Jenkinson. For a lady of three and twenty to retain a governess, thought Darcy, is not only unhealthy, but abominably silly.

But supposing he could get Anne away from her home at Rosings, and away from her companion, could he perhaps find a suitable wife in her? His father had always said that the blood-lettings were what was making her so weak and frail; if he could get her away from those and what ever other treatment her mother had her on, would she gain some strength? Would color come to her cheeks, perhaps a sparkle in her eyes? Could she be a poised, charming lady, a successful mistress of Pemberley? He supposed she was as eligible a match for him as any other lady he might encounter.

"Son," he heard his father whisper.

"Yes, Pap- Father," he corrected himself, rising and walking to his father's bedside.

George Darcy would have chuckled at his son's reflex to call him as he did as a child, if it didn't hurt just to breathe. "You may call me Papa, Fitzwilliam." He managed a feeble smile.

Darcy smiled back at him. "What may I do for you, Papa?"

"Take care of Georgiana," said the old man. "Take care of your sister, and take care of yourself."

By that Darcy knew what his father meant. He allowed a single tear to slip down his cheek after his father's last breath, and became determined to grant him his final wish.

A few months after George Darcy died, Fitzwilliam Darcy found himself calling upon his aunt and cousin at Rosings Park in Kent.

His visit moved along as normal. He noticed nothing he had not before in Anne's behavior or in her the behavior of the ladies who lived with her, except that now he paid more attention to it. He realized when her mother was gone away to the village, as she often was, how deftly she could handle the servants and small matters which came about. As far as conversation with Anne herself, he got very little done, for whenever Anne showed the slightest bit of fatigue, she was shown to her rooms. I must find some way past this, he thought, frustrated. Not only is she being coddled, she is being patronized. She is never allowed to make any decision on her own; her opinion is never solicited. She is three and twenty, for God's sake.

To remedy this, the day before his departure, he asked Anne if he might speak with her alone. Lady Catherine readily agreed, even though Darcy had not asked her permission, only Anne's, for she was sure he would ask her daughter to marry him.

As soon as Catherine had left the sitting room, Darcy turned to Anne. She was sitting near the fire with a blanket tucked around her, as she nearly always was. She looked up at her cousin with some degree of fear and excitement. Before that moment, he had always been very kind to her, but had never shown her any special attention.

"Anne," he began, "If I recall, you have never been to London?"

"No," she replied quietly. "I never have."

"Would you like to travel there with me when I depart Rosings tomorrow?"

Anne was surprised. "To . . . to London?"

"Yes," smiled Darcy. "Not for very long, of course; perhaps a fortnight. I know you are not well. You may bring your maid with you. I thought you might enjoy a trip there, and I admit I will be in want of company."

Anne was unsure how much company she could be to him but smiled, and felt an unfamiliar flutter in her stomach. "I . . . I shall ask my mother."

"No, no, Anne," he said, shaking his head with a little grin and sitting near her. "Please do not. Only answer my question. Would you like to go? If you would not, please say so. You will not injure me if you do not feel up to traveling."

"Mr. Darcy, I would enjoy it very much," she said.

Darcy thought for a moment that she sounded excited. "Then I shall make arrangements with your mother. You need not worry about that."

"Thank you, Mr. Darcy." Anne was positively beaming at her cousin.

The next day, among a lot of fussing from the very put out Mrs. Jenkinson, and strings of advice from Lady Catherine, Anne, her maid, and Darcy departed for London.

Even though she was extremely tired and did not feel very well, Anne gazed at her cousin's London home as the carriage pulled up with a little smile. She was shuffled inside and to a warm fire almost before she could admire the outside of the house.

"I am sorry it is so late, Anne," apologized Darcy after things from the trip had been settled. "Perhaps tomorrow, after breakfast, you would like a tour of the house?"

Anne was not sure she would be feeling up to such a task, but agreed, afraid of disappointing her cousin.

"If you are not feeling strong enough tomorrow, though, you must tell me. I do want you to enjoy your time here."

"Thank you, Mr. Darcy," she smiled.

A short, rosy-cheeked, cheery-looking older woman stood at the entrance of the sitting room. Darcy looked up. "Ah," he said, motioning her over to where they sat, and stood to introduce her. "Anne, this is my housekeeper, Mrs. Tuddle," he explained. "Mrs. Tuddle, this is the lady I wrote you about, my cousin Anne de Bourgh."

The women greeted each other warmly. Anne decided she liked Mrs. Tuddle right away, for she was far less severe-looking than Mrs. Jenkinson and the housekeeper at Rosings.

"You look rather tired, Miss de Bourgh," said Mrs. Tuddle. "Shall I show you to your rooms for the evening?"

"Well," she began, "I suppose--"

Darcy held out a hand. "Anne, if you are tired, please do not let me stop you from retiring. If you are not, however, then dine with me. But do what you want to do."

Mrs. Tuddle and Darcy both looked at her expectantly, though kindly, and Anne found herself in the unfamiliar position of having to make a decision for herself. "I should like to dine with you, Mr. Darcy," she said.

Darcy smiled at her, and turned to his housekeeper. "Do you know what will be served?" he asked.

"Lamb, if I am not mistaken," replied Mrs. Tuddle, and turned to her master's guest. "Do you like lamb?"

Anne grinned, almost unbelieving that she was so happy over what she was to be served for supper. "I have never tasted it," she replied, "but I shall look forward to it." Lamb, pork, and other meats were never served her at Rosings, for her mother thought them too rich for her delicate system.

"We dine at seven," reported the older woman. "May I show you to your rooms to change?"

Anne nodded and stood, and Darcy tucked her arm in his, for he knew she was tired from her trip and would remain weak for a day or two, until she could rest from the blood-lettings and get something with a little protein to strengthen her.

"Anne," he whispered to her on the way up, "Lamb is very rich, so perhaps you should consider not taking very much, or taking something a little dry before," he suggested. "I know you are not used to a lot of meat in your diet."

She could not help but gaze up at him. He was by far the most intelligent man she had ever known, and while she admitted to herself that she had not met very many men, she was sure that with Mr. Darcy's education and business, she was not very likely to meet a more knowledgeable one.

"I am not trying to mother you," he added. "I know you are able to care for yourself. I only do not want you to feel ill."

Anne flushed, smiled, and nodded. "Please do not trouble yourself so with me," she whispered. "I assure you, I will be fine."

The end of the fortnight came far too quickly for Anne, and she found herself reluctantly mounting the stairs on Saturday morning after breakfast to assist her maid in packing her trunk.

She had grown in strength so much in just the past two weeks that she could now gain two flights of stairs without having to rest. She noticed a change in her complexion; her face had taken on a pink hue rather than the pale white one it used to have. Her maid had also discovered new ways of styling her hair.

She considered that she had also grown intellectually. She wanted to please her cousin, for he had shown such kindness to her. She tried to converse with him, but didn't know very much about what interested a gentleman. She found, after a while, that he was content to share his knowledge with her, and that he was glad to show her new things, and even took her along when he went to visit his solicitor.

I do not want to leave, she thought helplessly. I do not want to return to Rosings.

Rosings was her home and she loved it, but here she was able to make her own decisions without the ominous presence of her mother and Mrs. Jenkinson. A return to Rosings would mean a return to her dependence on them, for her mother would have Mr. Grayson, the physician, continue the blood-lettings, and she would lose the strength she had gained. A return to Rosings would mean a return to Mrs. Jenkinson, who she knew cared for her, but she was so strict that Anne could never do anything for herself. It was frustrating and irritating, and her cousin's London home was a haven she was not ready to leave.

She heard pattering on the steps behind her, and as she reached the landing, she turned. It was Mr. Darcy; she smiled at him.

He returned her smile, and put his hand on her shoulder. "Anne, have you a moment to speak with me?"

"Of course I do," she replied, and he tucked her arm in his and led her up the remaining flight of stairs to a sitting room. He led her inside and she sat down; he turned to close the door. She rumpled her brow. "Is something the matter, Mr. Darcy?"

"No, not at all," he said with a comforting smile, and sat next to her. "Anne, have you enjoyed your time here in London?"

"Yes," she smiled, "I have. Especially the opera. It was very kind of you to take me, and twice."

"Would you consider staying here on a more . . . permanent basis?"

Anne was confused again. "What ever do you mean, sir?"

"I have enjoyed having you with me here," he answered. "Seeing you so much more active, and being able to talk with you has been wonderful. You have gone through so material a change in just weeks. Have you been happy?" he asked again.

"Yes, as I said before. I . . . I find myself not wanting to return to Rosings," she said shyly.

Darcy smiled. "Then do not. Not for a while, anyway. Stay for another week, and then I will return with you to Rosings."

"It is not a bother to have me here?"

"Of course not," replied Darcy. "As I said before, I would like you to stay here on a more permanent basis." Anne still did not quite realize what he meant, and after a brief pause, he took her hand in his. "Anne, will you marry me?"

Anne gasped, not having expected this in a hundred years. Why on earth would he want to marry her? She, so small and sickly all the time. Why her?

"I must admit that I brought you here to London, not only to be a kind cousin, and to have company, but because I wanted to get to know you. At Rosings, your mother and Mrs. Jenkinson are always so . . . so constantly . . . present. They keep you under lock and key, and they mollycoddle you to the point of ridiculousness. I could not have come to know you as I do now; I would not know your curious mind, or that you enjoy the opera, or that you can sing, and rather sweetly, if only you try, if I had tried to know you at Rosings."

Anne blushed, and looked down at her slippers. "I am sorry, Mr. Darcy. I do not know what to say."

"It is perfectly all right," he assured her, and smiled. "Only answer my question. Will you marry me?"

She looked back at his handsome face and smiled. "Yes."

It was with great fear that Anne found herself that night, newly married and in unfamiliar surroundings at what was now her London home. She tried to calm herself down, but to no avail. She started as she heard a knock on the bedchamber door. "C-come in," she said timidly.

Her new husband opened the door, stepping in quietly. He smiled. "Do you like these rooms, Anne?"

Anne nodded, smiling up at him. "Yes," she replied. "Were they your mother's?"

Darcy nodded. "Of course. I have many fond memories of her in these rooms."

Anne didn't know what else to do but smile back. She was very nervous and very tired. She had the utmost trust in her cousin, but he was so large compared to her that she was sure he would crush her with just a touch of his hand.

She started again as she felt that warm hand on her small, cold one, and Darcy sat down next to her. "You are very tired," he said.

She nodded bashfully. "I am sorry I could not get Mother to stop the blood-lettings. There were fewer, but it appears they had the same affect on me. I know I will become stronger soon."

"As do I," replied Darcy with another smile. "There is no need to apologize. In a few days, I wish you would see Mr. Jacobs, just to ensure your good health. Perhaps there is something more we can do. Mrs. Tuddle thinks very highly of him."

"Of course," replied Anne.

Darcy regarded her again for a moment, knowing that she was both tired and scared. She was so fragile and timid, he himself was almost afraid of her. "Do you have everything you need this evening?" Anne replied that she did. "I shall leave you to your rest." He kissed her hand softly.

Anne was suddenly alarmed. "Mr. Darcy," she began, "do not you . . . I mean, would you . . . should we not . . ."

Darcy perceived what she meant almost before she opened her mouth. "We have both had a very trying day. It was a long trip from Hunsford. We are both tired, and you especially. I can tell how nervous you are, and I will not have you making yourself sick over . . . over little things like this."

Anne smiled up at him, grateful for his understanding. He was really quite sweet to her. She wished, though, she did not feel as though she were dodging out of something. She did not wish to disappoint Mr. Darcy. Also, she had to secretly admit that she was curious about some of the things her mother had told her.

As if he could read her thoughts, Darcy leaned in, tilted his head, and kissed her. An unfamiliar tingle ran through her body as he moved his lips across hers. "You are very lovely today, Mrs. Darcy," he whispered. "I shall see you in the morning."

A few weeks later, Anne rose with a happy smile to a sunny Christmas morning. She called for her maid, Sarah, and dressed quickly in a gown of rich cream and deep red, having a few holly sprigs wound with her hair. Before she left the room, she tucked a small package in Sarah's hand.

"This is for me?" she asked of Anne.

"Yes," smiled Anne. "For teaching me how to embroider, so that I could make Mr. Darcy's Christmas gift."

"Oh," blushed Sarah, and she pulled on the paper and ribbon. She found two ivory hair combs, delicately carved with a swirl decoration, tied with a few new deep green hair ribbons.

"I thought they would look lovely with your curly red hair," smiled Anne. "Do you like them?"

"Oh, Mrs. Darcy," she breathed, "they are beautiful." She looked up at Anne. "I do not have anything to give you in return."

"It does not matter," replied Anne. "I didn't give you a gift to receive one."

Sarah smiled and looked over her new combs again. "Thank you."

Anne replied that she was welcome, and, happy that her first gift was well-received, headed into the breakfast room. Her husband smiled upon her entrance, set his cup down, and stood. "Good morning, Mrs. Darcy."

"Good morning, Mr. Darcy," she replied. "Did you sleep well?"

"Of course. You are looking very festive this morning," he said, seeing the holly leaves in her hair. "And rather beautiful, I must say." She blushed and looked down at her tea cup. "Happy Christmas."

"Happy Christmas," she whispered. Her eyes brightened. "I have something for you."

"You have?" asked Darcy, surprised.

"It is something my maid, Sarah, helped me with," explained Anne. She walked over to a corner of the room and pulled out a small box from hiding, proudly presenting it to her husband.

Darcy pulled his chair away from the table a little, and placed another across from it. He waited for her to sit down, and when she had, opened his gift. Inside the box were two new books, bound in rich brown leather and engraved on the spine with his initials. He smiled but rumpled his brow. "How did Sarah help you with these?" he asked.

"Open the covers of the books," she instructed.

Darcy did as she asked, and found two crisp, white, freshly-pressed handkerchiefs with FD delicately embroidered in the corners. He smiled widely. "I did not know you were learning how to do this," he commented.

"Sarah is teaching me how," said Anne. "She is really rather talented at it."

He tucked one in his breast pocket right away. "I believe I will keep the other."

"For what?"

"For a keepsake," he replied. She smiled. "They are wonderful, and the books are really quite handsome. Thank you, Mrs. Darcy." He picked up her small hand as she beamed in delight at him and dropped a light kiss on it. "Now, I have something for you."

"You should not have," she said, rather seriously.

He crossed the room to retrieve a velvet case from the table and raised his eyebrow at her. "I very well should have," he replied, and held it out to her. "Please."

She smiled excitedly and took the case from him, setting it on her small lap and opening it delicately. Her hand flew to her throat when she saw the pearl and diamond necklace nestled in the little box, and reached out with a timid finger to touch the ruby teardrops that dangled at the curve. "Oh, dear . . . Mr. Darcy. It is beautiful." She smiled up at him.

"May I put it on you?" he asked.

"Of course," she said, handing him back the case. He stood and fastened it around her neck, and slowly bowed his head to kiss her shoulder. He allowed his lips to linger for a moment, as he breathed in the soft rosewater scent of her skin. He kissed the other shoulder, and then returned to his chair. Anne sat across from him with her eyes closed. When she opened them, she had a faraway look in her eyes.

Darcy swallowed and smiled at her again. "Do you like it?" he asked.

"Yes," she whispered, "it is beautiful. How long has it been in your family?"

He grinned. "A few days."

Mrs. Darcy looked very stern all of a sudden. "Mr. Darcy, surely you have better things to spend your money on than me," she said.

"Indeed, I have not," he replied. "Please, do not think of it. I purchased this for you because I wanted you to have it."

She flushed and smiled again. "Thank you, Mr. Darcy," she said. "It is beautiful. I shall always cherish it."

"I know," he whispered, and they continued with their breakfast.

"Perhaps you will share the book with me when you have finished it?" asked Anne with a smile as Darcy led her to her chambers that night.

"Of course I shall," he replied. "I am sure you will enjoy it immensely. I could scarcely put it down for supper."

"I am glad you are enjoying it," she said, and then they were at her chamber door.

He bowed to her and began to wish her good-night, as he had done every night for the three weeks they had been married, but Anne boldly grabbed his arm before he could go. Before she reconsidered what she was saying, she whispered, mortified, "Mr. Darcy, please do not go."

Darcy took his wife's hands and squeezed them. "I will join you, for a while."

She sighed and they entered her chambers. When the door was securely closed behind them, and Anne could be sure that no one else was in the room, she walked up to her husband and whispered in the same mortified tone as before, "Mr. Darcy, please. I do not know how to say this . . . but I am your wife now, and I still feel, a little, as though I am your cousin."

"Are you sure you are strong enough . . . for this?" he asked.

"I do not know," she replied, "but I am strong enough to not nap during the day, and I am strong enough to walk outside in the cold."

Darcy nodded. "I trust you."

Anne smiled at him. "I do not know what to do," she said.

He blushed. "I suppose we should put on night clothes." He bent to kiss her cheek. "I shall be right back." He smiled at her and turned to go to his own chamber.

He returned a few minutes later, donning his robe, and found that Anne was still not out of her dressing room. He sat patiently in a chair by the fire for a few more minutes until she stepped out quietly; so quietly, in fact, that he did not hear.

"Mr. Darcy," she whispered, and he looked up. Her hair was longer than he supposed it to be, reaching down to her shoulder blades, and the way it rested upon her shoulders made her look a little younger. She was obviously very nervous, for she wore it in her smile. She looked a little smaller without so many clothes on.

He stood and walked over to where she had stopped just outside the dressing room door. "You have not taken off your necklace," he said with a grin.

"I was hoping you could help me," she said. "I do not know how the clasp works." He moved behind her and gently unfastened the necklace, moved back to his position, and laid it on the bedside stand. "Should not we put it in its case?" she asked.

"I am sure it will do fine there until morning," he said. "Come here, Mrs. Darcy."

She swallowed and stepped the few feet required to close the gap between them, and he purposefully took her in his arms and kissed her gently. "Are you certain you are up to this?"

She nodded, gazing at him, and the next thing she knew, he had scooped her up in his arms. With her own arms around his neck, she giggled a little, more out of nerves than anything else. He hushed her with another kiss, a little deeper this time. She gazed at him again when he broke the kiss.

"Why do you look at me so?" he asked her with a smile.

"I do not know," she answered, quite honestly.

"Kiss me, Anne," he instructed.

"What?"

"Kiss me."

She swallowed. "I do not know how to."

"Yes, you do," he replied. "Kiss me, please."

Anne considered it a moment, tilted her head a few times, and then slowly, softly, brushed his lips with hers. He shook his head softly. "Kiss me as I kiss you." Anne's face was flushed the reddest it could get by now, and her eyes looked worried. He tried to comfort her, sitting her down on the bed and keeping her wrapped in his arms. "Anne, this is just a little kiss," he cajoled. "You can do anything you desire; surely you can give your husband a kiss."

This time when she kissed him, as soon as their lips met, she knew there was no turning back. He held her small body against his large one that night, and she happily dozed off to sleep, thankful for such a gentle, kind husband.

Late the following February, Darcy entered the London house after a visit to his solicitor, surprised at being met by Mr. Jacobs. He was confused but stopped and said his hellos to the doctor. Mr. Jacobs assured him that everyone was well, was very courteous and smiled a lot, and when he left, he winked at Darcy.

Concerned that Anne was ill again, he practically ran up the stairs to his wife's chambers. When he did not find her there, he marched down the hall to her sitting room. She was rocking in a chair in front of a window, working on a piece of embroidery. She looked up when he stormed into the room.

"Mrs. Darcy, I have just seen Mr. Jacobs leaving the house. What is going on? Are you ill again? Why did not you tell me?"

Anne's eyes widened with fear, for Mr. Darcy had never spoken so harshly to her. She stood and crossed the room. "I am sorry that I have made you upset," she whispered. "I did not mean to. I--"

He sighed. "Mrs. Darcy, I am sorry for snapping. I am not upset with you at all," he said comfortingly. "I only wish you would tell me when you are being seen by Mr. Jacobs. I care about you, and if you were ill again and I did not know it, I would not forgive myself."

Anne looked earnestly into his eyes. "I . . . I am with child, Mr. Darcy. Mr. Jacobs saw me this morning because I am with child. I am not ill at all. I apologize. I will be sure to inform you when Mr. Jacobs comes next."

For a moment, Darcy was dumbfounded, and stared at Anne. "You . . . you are . . . sit," he instructed, taking her by the arm and moving her across the room to a chair. "Please, sit down. Are you well? Is there anything I can get for you?"

Anne was very much amused by this display. "I assure you, I am well," she replied with a smile. "I am quite well."

Kneeling beside her, Darcy gazed up at her. "I fear I am at a loss for words," he said. "When will it happen?"

"In seven months. Does this please you?" she asked.

"Of course," he smiled. "Of course it does." He took her hand and stood. "Would you like to go for a walk? May you go for a walk?"

"I certainly may," replied Anne. She allowed her arm to be tucked in his own, and they headed outside.

Later that night, Anne lay in her bed. She wondered if Mr. Darcy would join her that night. She did not know if it would be all right for them to make love if she was with child, but surely he would know such things. On their walk that afternoon, he talked more than she supposed he ever had. He told her that he was very pleased indeed that she was expecting his child, and hoped that it caused her no great trouble. She was sure that it wouldn't. Women did the very same thing every day, did not they?

Her husband's conversation with her that afternoon made her feel rather content. She felt as though he had confided in her. He told her of his childhood and of his school days, amusing her with stories about frogs and ponds and practical jokes.

She snuggled deep under the covers, feeling warm and comfortable. How wonderful he was, she thought, how gentlemanly and considerate. How handsome. He was truly the best husband any woman could ask for. She knew then, without a doubt, that she loved him.

She felt him crawl under the covers with her. She turned to face him. "Will this be all right?" she asked timidly. "With the child . . . will it?"

Darcy grinned at Anne. "I only wish your company, Mrs. Darcy," he said. "You are really rather darling when you dote on me."

She returned his smile, and he turned her around so that his body spooned hers. "Good night, Mr. Darcy," she whispered happily.

"Good night, Mrs. Darcy," he replied, kissing the nape of her neck. He held her close and fell asleep.

As weeks went on, Anne's condition grew steadily worse. In her third and fourth months, she could still rise in the morning and carry on as normal, obviously not without the normal sickness, aches, and fatigue of being with child. In her fifth and sixth months, she required more rest and had frequent pain, and Darcy had ordered a nurse for her. He spent much more time with her now, and he refused to leave London, even for a day. As the seventh month approached, Mr. Jacobs had ordered Anne permanently to her bed, and she stayed there until her time came.

Her husband was nervously waiting news of his wife and child when Mr. Jacobs gravely entered the library. Darcy stood. "Well?"

"Come with me, Mr. Darcy." He turned and left the library, giving Darcy no choice but to follow.

He followed the doctor to the nursery, where Mrs. Darcy's nurse handed him a screaming little bundle of blankets. "This is your son, sir," he reported.

Darcy looked down at what he had in his arms. As soon as he held the child, the shrieking stopped. He squirmed slightly, as if making himself comfortable in his father's arms, and fell asleep. Darcy pushed the blankets away and looked at his face. It was no larger than the palm of his hand. His hair was thick and black. A tear slipped down his cheek. "Anne?"

"Mr. Darcy, please sit down."

Darcy knew when the doctor said those words that Anne was not going to live much longer. He sat down, and Mr. Jacobs explained to him what had happened to Mrs. Darcy.

Mr. Darcy choked back tears as he held his son close to his chest when Mr. Jacobs left the room. A flood of regrets came back to him. He regretted that he had not ever fought with Anne, for now he would never know the sweetness of reconciliation. He regretted that he had never left London, for now he would not know the tenderness of reunion. He regretted that he had never shown her Pemberley, for he was sure she would have loved it, and he regretted that he had not taken her to Netherfield to meet his friend Mr. Bingley, or to their aunt and uncle Fitzwilliam's home so they could see her transformation. Mostly, though, he regretted that he had waited so long to tell her that he loved her.

The truth of the matter was that he did. He had always thought that if he ever fell in love, that it would be of the passionate kind, as was always depicted in the operas and plays and books, but his love for Anne was of a different kind. He loved Anne for her beauty, her curious mind, her gentle and angelic disposition, her delicacy and her innocence. She was everything that a lady should be. Not a trace of impertinence, indecorum, or obstinacy, all of which he had taken for granted, and he hated himself for not knowing sooner. He hated himself for not telling her.

He handed his son back to the nurse and headed for Anne's room.

Darcy entered the room solemnly, turning to close the door behind him. He practically tiptoed over to the bed where Anne's gray, weak form lay. He sat down on the edge of the bed and cringed as he touched her brittle, limp hand.

Anne turned her head. "Hello, darling," she said, smiling weakly. "Have you seen the baby?"

Darcy nodded. "Yes, I have," he answered. "He is perfect, Anne. You have given me a wonderful son."

"A son," she repeated. "I had not known it was a son." She seemed very happy.

"Mr. Jacobs did not tell you?"

"No," replied Anne. Then she rumpled her brow. "Or, perhaps he did, and I do not remember. I do not remember much about directly after the birth."

"It was only a few hours ago, Anne," he soothed. "Do not trouble yourself. Did you hold him?"

"Of course," she smiled. "I could not forget that. I am so proud to have given you a son."

"How are you feeling, dearest?"

"I am very tired," she replied. "I do not like it. I have not felt so tired since . . . since last I left Rosings." She paused to rest her eyes. "I know Mr. Jacobs has told you that I . . . that I am ill again."

He nodded, swallowing a lump in his throat. "Do not think of it, Anne," he said, placing his hand on her head to stroke her hair.

"I am sorry that I was not strong enough," began Anne. "I do not want to die, Fitzwilliam. I want to raise my son . . . and I would have liked to have a daughter. I would have liked to call Pemberley home--"

"Shh . . ." murmured Darcy. "Do not strain yourself."

Anne shook her head. "No, please," she said weakly, "listen. I have something to tell you . . . that I should have said long ago. I regret that I could not . . . that I did not before. Please listen."

Darcy replied that he would, and Anne paused a moment before continuing.

"I love you, Fitzwilliam," she said happily. "You are the only person who has ever shown any kind of faith in me. In my first visit to London, you showed such faith in my ability to care and fend for myself, to make my own decisions, that I began, for the first time, to have faith in myself. You are the only person who has ever told me that I am lovely. You can not know how that affected me on our wedding night, when you told me that I was lovely, and you called me 'Mrs. Darcy,' and you kissed me for the very first time. It was something I never thought I would have. I know I shall never forget it. These past months, you have been so kind and gentle with me, and you were so encouraging in my first months as mistress of this house. So helpful, and I knew after I discovered I was with child that I loved you." She paused for a moment, gazing at him. "Have you decided on a name for your son?"

Darcy hadn't before, but knew at that moment what he wanted. "Andrew," he replied. "It must be Andrew."

"For me?" she asked, smiling.

Darcy nodded solemnly.

"I wish it were not because I am dying," she said, still smiling.

"Anne, you are not dying," he insisted, but knew she was right. "You mustn't. You can't."

"I'm afraid I very well can," she said with a bit of uncharacteristic playfulness.

He shook his head. "No, Anne," he said helplessly, and paused. She blinked weakly several times, looking back at him. He leaned over and kissed her forehead. He took her hand and squeezed it between his own, bowing his head in silent prayer bordering on begging, wishing over and over that this was not happening. After thirty minutes, he looked up at his wife's gray face and ragged breathing. He knew there was nothing he could do. "I love you, too, Anne," he swallowed.

Her eyelashes fluttered, and the corners of her mouth turned up slightly. "I know you are not only saying that, Mr. Darcy," she asserted almost inaudibly. "I know you speak only the truth."

He moved to sit next to her on the bed, and enveloped her frail body in his arms.

Anne died three hours later.

Master Andrew Darcy, a lad of five, sat cozily in a large chair in the sitting room of a strange house his father had called Netherfield Hall. He looked with large, clear blue eyes around the room. "Papa?"

"Yes, Andrew?" replied his father, one Fitzwilliam Darcy.

"This is where Mister Bingley lives, isn't it?" he asked, pronouncing "mister" and "Bingley" as if it was the first time he had spoken the words.

"Yes," he replied.

"And Mr. Bingley is your friend?"

"Yes, he is rather a good friend."

"Are there any children here?"

"No, I'm afraid not," replied his father. "But remember, I promised that this is our time together, did not I?" Andrew nodded. "You should not be bored."

"I know that if I may be with you, Papa, I will not be," replied the little boy. "But is Miss Bingley here?"

"Yes, I suppose she is," replied Darcy.

"You will not leave me alone with her, will you, Papa?" asked Andrew, wide-eyed.

Darcy wanted to laugh. "Now, I told you, Andrew, that was just a story. There is not really a witch named Caroline."

"I believe you," replied Andrew faithfully, "but you will not leave me, will you?"

Darcy chuckled and pulled the little boy off the chair and into his arms. "No, of course not."

"Well, Darcy," came a cheerful voice into the sitting room, "finally you have made it. What a pleasure to see you." Charles Bingley stood in the doorway, his hand outstretched.

Mr. Darcy put Andrew down, rose and shook his hand, with Andrew in tow. "And to see you, Bingley," he said. "You remember Master Andrew, do not you?"

"Of course I do," replied Bingley. "Andrew, how are you this morning?"

"I am quite well, thank you," replied the little man. "How are you, Mr. Bingley?"

"I am also quite well," replied Bingley. "Tell me something, has your father been behaving himself?"

Andrew looked up, way up, at his father, not understanding that Bingley was teasing him, and then looked back at Bingley. "He is a perfect gentleman."

"And has he fed you breakfast this morning?"

"Yes," replied Andrew, "when we left the inn this morning. It was very early."

"Ah, I see. Would you like something to eat? I'm sure I can scare up a biscuit or two. Would you like that?"

"Very much, please!" replied Andrew with a grin.

"Andrew, you act as though you have never seen a biscuit before in your life," smiled Darcy, picking him up.

"We are still in the dining room," said Bingley. "Follow me."

Darcy followed, and after greeting his friend's sisters, Miss Caroline Bingley, who rather gushed over him, and Mrs. Louisa Hurst and her husband, seated himself and his son at the table. Master Andrew was served a glass of milk and the biscuit Mr. Bingley promised him, and Darcy sipped a cup of tea.

"It is delightful to have you in our company again, Mr. Darcy," continued Caroline. "And how was your trip, Anthony?" she oozed insincerely, unsure of what else to say to a child at an adult's breakfast table, and managed what she thought was a sweet smile, but was really more of a grimace.

The little boy's eyes grew as Miss Bingley smiled at him, and though he was afraid of her, managed to mumble a polite reply and bury his head in his father's arm.

"He's darling," she told Darcy.

"His name is Andrew," he replied coolly.

Caroline shrugged her faux pas off with a harrumph and changed the subject. "You have come just in time, Mr. Darcy. There is to be an assembly tonight. I am sure it will be charming; a country dance. You will come with us, won't you?"

"No," replied Darcy, pulling Andrew onto his lap. "Andrew and I are here to visit our friend Mr. Bingley, and to spend some time together, without matters of estate getting in the way."

"And does such a little boy often participate in important matters of estate?" asked Miss Bingley.

"Yes," replied Darcy, and returned to his tea.

"So you will not come to the assembly, then?" asked Miss Bingley.

"No," he replied. "I shall not. I am here to spend a little time with my son, and that is all."

Caroline looked a little irritated at the mention of the five-year-old. "Surely, though, he will be asleep by the time we depart," she said.

Darcy nodded. "Yes. Yes, he will be."

"So why do you not come?"

"Because I am here," repeated Darcy, "to spend time with my son." He turned to his friend. "It is not too late for you to duck out, Bingley. Andrew and I will be spending some time in the library this evening. You are welcome to join us."

"I am sure there is nothing to interest my brother in his own library with a little boy who can not even read yet in the dead of night," spat Miss Bingley.

"Certainly there is," replied Bingley, "for Andrew is not afraid of me." He grinned at his sister teasingly and sipped his tea. "However, I would go to the ball."

"Mr. Bingley," said Andrew, "why do you not have children?"

"Because I am not married yet," replied Bingley. "And that is why I am to go to the ball tonight."

"Out to find yourself a wife, are you?" asked Darcy.

"Mr. Darcy, how is Georgiana?" interrupted Caroline.

"She is well," replied Darcy patiently. "Andrew, do not let your milk get too warm, or you will not drink it."

"Andrew, do you get along well with your Aunt Darcy?"

He nodded shyly, his eyes huge, and took a drink of his milk.

"Georgiana is just the most charming girl, I am sure she spoils him rotten. Don't you agree, Charles?"

"Yes, Georgiana is quite the lady, but I am sure no one spoils you more than your own father; isn't that right, Andrew?" Andrew smiled at Mr. Bingley, who he liked very much. "Darcy, will you shoot with us this morning?"

Darcy looked down the table at Mr. Hurst, trying to gauge whether he was liable to get himself shot while shooting with the man, who tended to over imbibe on a regular basis. He was not inebriated, not yet anyway, but his eyes were bloodshot and he was obviously very tired. "No," replied Darcy. "I should like a quiet day with Andrew, but I thank you for your kind invitation."

"Papa promised that he would not go anywhere without me," reported Andrew proudly. He was very rarely without his father's undivided attention, and even when he did not have it, he spoke of his father in such terms as to make him sound more like an invincible, all-knowing, omnipotent being than the English gentleman he was. Indeed, they were inseparable.

After breakfast was over, Mr. Bingley showed the Darcys around the house. "Well, Master Andrew," said Bingley in his characteristically cheerful tone, "I know it is not Pemberley, but what do you think of Netherfield Hall?"

"It is a very nice house," replied Andrew. "I should look forward to reading the book you showed me in the library with my Papa."

"The one about Greek mythology?"

"Yes, that's the one. Do you think we can read it tonight, Papa?"

"I think your son barely utters a sentence without speaking about his papa," smirked Bingley.

Darcy smiled. "He is quite a talker."

"What was his first word?"

"I do not remember," lied Darcy.

"Really?" asked Bingley, a sarcastic tone in his voice. "It seems to me it was Papa."

"It could have been," said Darcy casually. "Andrew, will you be all right here for a moment?"

"Yes, Papa," he answered faithfully. Darcy nodded at his son and stepped out to the hall with Mr. Bingley.

Andrew looked about the room for a moment, glancing up at the portraits on the walls and feeling the softness of the fabric on a chair. He was soon in an entirely different room, unaware of the fact that Miss Bingley was following him.

Thinking to have a little fun with him, she was ever so silent as she sneaked up behind him. After a moment, she whispered in an eerie tone, "Little boy . . ."

The hair on the back of Andrew's neck stood on end as he turned around, with huge eyes, to see Caroline the Witch standing behind him.

"What are you doing in here?" she yelled as loud as she could, and waited for his response.

Andrew shrieked and ran out of the room, as fast as his five year-old legs could carry him, to the end of the hall, down the stairs and out the door, and he soon found himself farther away from the house than he wanted to be. He could no longer see Netherfield.

After getting himself turned around a few times, he began to realize that he was lost. He worried about what his father would think of him, for running away and getting lost, and being afraid of witches. Certainly his father would be afraid of no such thing. He chose the trunk of a fallen tree to sit down upon, and began to cry.

After a minute, he heard a lady's voice. He looked up and saw her, with dark curls around her face, and wiped the tears off his cheeks. He thought that she had rather pretty eyes.

The lady walked up to him. "Hello," she said kindly.

"Hello," he whispered.

"My name is Elizabeth," she continued. "You can call me Lizzy. What is your name?"

"Andrew," he replied.

"Andrew, do you have a nurse or a governess?"

"No," said Andrew, comfortable with her gentle tone. "Not here."

"And where is your mama?" asked Elizabeth.

"She died when I was little," replied Andrew. "Her name was Anne, and so my papa named me after her."

Elizabeth's heart wrenched at his tale. "I see. And where is your papa?"

"He is in the house with Mr. Bingley." He pointed in the general direction of Netherfield Hall. "We are visiting."

"I think you should perhaps go back to the house, then," she said. "Do you know your way?"

"No," replied Andrew. "Can you show me?"

"Of course," she replied, and stretched her hand out for Andrew to hold. He took it, smiled, and followed her lead. "You are very far from Netherfield," commented Elizabeth. "Did you run away?"

"No," replied Andrew, thinking. "Not really. I only ran because I was frightened. There is a witch living in that house," he whispered to his newfound friend.

"Oh, dear," replied Elizabeth. "Why, I would run from a witch, too."

"My papa told me about her. She is named Caroline, and she is very mean. She would turn you into a toad!"

"How awful!" declared Elizabeth. "But surely she would not turn you into a toad, for you seem very kind and a gentleman."

"No, no," insisted Andrew. "She is very mean to all people, whether they are kind to her or not. And she lives right along with her brother, who is my papa's rather good friend."

"But is her brother not a witch? Why does she not turn him into a toad?"

"No, Mr. Bingley is not a witch, and she is too smart to turn him into a toad. She knows that if she turned him into a toad, she would not have a place to live, and she would not turn my papa into a toad, for she would not be able to marry him."

"She wishes to marry your papa?"

"Yes," replied Andrew, "but I do not want her to."

"Well, I would not want my papa to marry a witch, either."

"Where do you live?" asked Andrew.

"I live at Longbourn House, not three miles from here," replied Elizabeth.

"I live in Derbyshire, in a house called Pemberley. It is near Lambton. Sometimes I live in London, too, when my papa goes there. He does not very often."

"I see," said Elizabeth. "I have never been to Derbyshire. Is it very pretty country?"

"My papa says it is the most beautiful country in England."

"And do you agree with him?" asked Elizabeth.

"Oh, yes," replied Andrew. He noticed that they were very near Netherfield. "There is the house," he said, gripping her hand. "Your hands are very cold. Should you like to come inside and warm yourself?"

"No," said Elizabeth, smiling down at him, "I shall be fine."

"My papa says, that if you have cold hands, you have a warm heart. He is right, for you have a very warm heart."

"You are kind to say so," blushed Elizabeth.

They entered the house at Netherfield, and Andrew led her down the only path he could remember, the one to the sitting room. He heard his name being called. "I will be right back, with my papa," he said proudly.

"Andrew!"

A tall, dark-haired gentleman stood in the doorway, looking rather cross. He descended on Andrew, swooping him up in his arms and holding him tight. "Andrew, where on earth have you been?"

"Papa, put me down!"

"Answer my question, young man!" replied Andrew's papa. "Why did you run off?"

"Miss Bingley scared me!" he replied. "Do not be upset with me, Papa, please? I did not mean to make you upset; I am sorry for running off."

"It is all right, Andrew," sighed the man, putting him down. "Only do not do it again. I was afraid that you were lost."

"Oh, but I was lost, Papa," replied Andrew, "and Lizzy showed me the way home." He pointed up at Elizabeth.

Andrew's papa took to noticing, for the first time, the presence of a young lady. He swallowed as he looked her over. "Lizzy."

"You are Andrew's father," she said, looking him over also. He was rather handsome, and she noticed that his son looked very much like him.

"Yes," he said, "Fitzwilliam Darcy."

"Elizabeth Bennet," she said, and they bowed to each other.

"Thank you for bringing my son back to the house safely," he said. "He is in strange country; I am sure he would have been lost. He did not cause you any trouble?"

"He did not," confirmed Elizabeth.

"It is good to hear," replied Darcy. "From where have you come? I shall have my carriage take you home," he offered.

"Thank you, but no," replied Elizabeth. "I live not three miles from here, at Longbourn. I walk these woods rather often."

"May I offer you a rest? A cup of tea, perhaps? Anything?"

"I am well, thank you," she replied.

"Darcy, have you found - well, there you are, Master Andrew," chirped another man, quite as tall as Mr. Darcy. "Where did you race off to?"

"He got frightened and ran out of the house without knowing where he was going. This is Miss Elizabeth Bennet. Miss Bennet, this is Charles Bingley, master of Netherfield."

"Mr. Bingley," bowed Elizabeth.

"Miss Bennet showed Andrew back to the house. It was very kind of you, Miss Bennet," he continued, looking at her. She was obviously amused with the entire ordeal, and it caught his attention.

"Thank you, Mr. Darcy," she replied. "Your son is quite the gentleman."

Mr. Darcy was about to make his reply when a haughty-looking lady walked into the room. "Well, he is right here. I do not know what the problem is."

Elizabeth's eyes sparkled as they greeted what must be the witch living at Netherfield. "And quite the storyteller."

"Ah, he told you that, did he?" Darcy blushed.

"Papa!" shrieked Andrew, ducking behind his father's leg.

"Andrew, please be a gentleman," sighed Darcy. "We are guests."

"I should leave you now," said Elizabeth, "but it was very nice to meet you, Mr. Darcy." She bowed. "Mr. Bingley."

"Wait - Miss Bennet," said Bingley, stepping forward, "do you belong to Mr. Bennet, of Longbourn?"

"I would like to think I do not belong to anybody," replied Elizabeth, "but yes, Mr. Bennet is my father."

"Ah, very good," he said. "Will you be at the assembly this evening, in Meryton?"

"Yes," replied Elizabeth. "Shall you all be there?"

"My sisters and I are going," said Bingley.

"I shall see you there," replied Elizabeth cheerfully. "Good-bye, Master Andrew." She waved.

"Good-bye, Lizzy," he chirped fondly.

"Allow me to show you to the door," offered Darcy, and he headed off in that direction with Andrew in tow.

"Tell me something, Master Andrew," said Elizabeth, "do you always follow where your father goes?"

"He does not mind," he assured her, and Elizabeth was more than a little inclined to believe him.

"Perhaps you should stick by him more often. That way you will not be so afraid of witches."

Darcy smiled as they reached the hall. "Are you sure I may not retrieve my carriage and have it bring you home?"

"Thank you for your kind offer, but no. I shall continue my walk." Elizabeth returned his smile, and he thanked her again, they bowed, and she headed for home.

"Papa," said Andrew, tugging on his father's trousers, "May we call upon Lizzy?"

"You should call her Miss Bennet, Andrew," replied Darcy, "and perhaps we shall see her again."

"I think she is very pretty," commented Andrew. "She has especially fine eyes, and she is very kind."

"Yes," agreed his father, still looking after her. "Very fine eyes."

Charles Bingley came down in a whistling mood the following morning, to find the Darcys at the breakfast table. "How was the ball last night, Bingley?" asked the older.

"Did you meet Miss Bennet there?" asked the younger.

Bingley laughed at both of them. "It was splendid, and yes, I did see Miss Bennet there. Indeed, I saw five Miss Bennets there."

"There are five Miss Bennets?" asked Andrew incredulously, envisioning quintuplets. "Do they all look just like Lizzy?"

Bingley laughed again. "No, but they are all quite pretty."

"Quite as pretty as Lizzy? What are their names?"

"Andrew, you ask too many questions," laughed his father. "And I have told you that she should be called Miss Bennet."

"I'm sorry, Mr. Bingley," said Andrew. "I don't mean to bother you." He looked rather upset, for he thought he had disappointed his papa.

"You are a darling child, and you are not a bother in the least. If anything, it is your papa who is a bother." Bingley smiled good-naturedly at his friend, who smiled back, and when Andrew saw that his papa wasn't really upset with him, he smiled again also, and Bingley continued. "It is not a bother to talk about the Miss Bennets. In fact, there is one which I would particularly enjoy talking about."

"Is it Lizzy?" asked Andrew excitedly.

"No, it is not Elizabeth. You see, Andrew, your Miss Bennet--"

"Mr. Bingley, Elizabeth does not belong to anyone," the little man reminded him.

Bingley blushed and corrected himself. "I am sorry; you are right. Elizabeth has four other sisters, one of them older, and three of them younger. Jane is the older, and Miss Mary, Miss Kitty, and Miss Lydia are the younger ones."

"And are you going to talk about Jane?"

"A very good guess, Master Andrew," complimented Bingley. "How did you know?"

"Because you called her Jane and not 'Miss Jane' or 'Miss Bennet.' Papa says that when a person feels close to another person, sometimes it is all right to address them in a more plain manner."

"I believe you mean familiar, Andrew, and certainly Mr. Bingley does not feel close to Miss Bennet. Not yet, anyway." Darcy smiled at his friend.

"Yes, that's just what I mean," smiled Andrew. "And also, I thought you would probably like the older sister."

Bingley blushed. "Indeed, I do."

"Tell us about her," requested Andrew.

"Well, she is really quite pretty. She is the most beautiful creature I ever beheld. She dances like an angel."

Bingley continued to relish the Darcys with his descriptions of Miss Jane Bennet until Miss Bingley came down to breakfast. When he saw the scowl on her face, Andrew talked to Mr. Bingley about the book his father had read him the previous evening.

By the end of a month at Netherfield, Andrew learned not to be afraid of Miss Bingley, and he was growing curious about the friend who had brought him back to the house on that first day. He asked his father if they might call upon Miss Bennet.

Their rather good friend Mr. Bingley volunteered an answer to Andrew's wish, and soon Mr. Bingley, Miss Bingley, Mr. Darcy, and Andrew were gathered with a large party at the home of Sir William Lucas, a neighbor of the Bennets.

Andrew, always a gentleman, was noticed by all of the ladies there, and they cooed over him, to which he and his father responded with shy smiles, and both watched anxiously for the arrival of the Bennet family.

Darcy noticed Mr. Bingley talking rather quietly, with a bright flush to his cheeks, to a beautiful woman some time after their arrival. Andrew tugged on his trousers. "Papa, is that Miss Jane Bennet?" he asked.

"I suppose it is," replied Darcy, "but I have no way of knowing for certain."

"I do not mean to interrupt your private conversation," came a soft voice behind them, "but I do believe your friend Mr. Bingley is talking to the lady you guessed."

Mr. Darcy and Andrew turned around to find a pair of very fine eyes sparkling with mirth. Andrew smiled at his father and bowed to the lady in front of him. "Hello, Miss Bennet," he said solemnly.

Miss Elizabeth Bennet's eyes continued to sparkle at the young boy. "Good evening, Master Andrew," she said. "Have you seen any witches lately?"

"No," replied Andrew proudly. "There aren't any more witches at Netherfield."

"That is very good to hear," replied Elizabeth. "And did you protect your papa from them?"

Andrew smiled up at Mr. Darcy and nodded. "Yes, I think so," he replied. Miss Bennet smiled at Mr. Darcy.

"How do you do this evening, Miss Bennet?" asked Mr. Darcy.

"I'm well, thank you," she replied, and inquired as to his own health. As they conversed, he began to find her face was rendered uncommonly intelligent by the beautiful expression of her dark eyes. To this discovery succeeded some others equally extraordinary; he acknowledged her figure to be light and pleasing, and he was caught by the easy playfulness of her manners. Of this she was perfectly unaware.