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“But, Lizzy, really? Mr. Darcy?” Lydia asked for what must have been the seventh time – and this time Elizabeth did not even try to stop her eyes from rolling.

“Yes, Lydia! Mr. Darcy. Now could we move on to another subject?”

“No, Lizzy, we certainly cannot,” Lydia said with great determination. “I declare he must be enamoured with you, to squire you about the country in this fashion. So much the better! You will be rich – and better still, you will no longer have an eye for Mr. Wickham, so you can leave him to me,” she said and twirled about the room, then dropped unceremoniously on one of the sofas.

“Lydia, I wish you would leave Lizzy be,” Jane interjected sensibly, but by then Elizabeth was too tired to see sense and subdue her temper.

“If you had anything other than flirtation, love and officers in your head, you would understand when I tell you that Mr. Darcy is no more enamoured of me that I of him!”

“So you will persist in accepting Mr. Wickham’s attentions?”

“Probably not,” she candidly owned, the Colonel’s words still fresh in her memory. “But we can speak of Mr. Wickham later. Now, would you take Mamma her tea and let me talk to Jane?”

“Mamma must be asleep. You know she keeps to her bed in the mornings, especially when she is unwell.”

“I did not know she was unwell,” Elizabeth replied.

Few and far between were the days when the mistress of Longbourn did not complain of an ailment or another, so the intelligence did not surprise her. Still, she would have hoped that, in the excitement of travelling to meet this mysterious relation, her mother would not need to seek further excitement in complaints.

“Mamma was well enough when we arrived,” Jane supplied, as though she had read her thoughts, “but when she learned that, after all this rain, the river burst its banks and the ford might have become impassable, the ill-tidings have brought on a headache.”

“I see. So is the ford impassable now?”

“I know not. Papa is to set out with Mr. Darcy to investigate the matter.”

Unlike her mother’s habitual response to any inconvenience, this was highly unexpected, so Elizabeth’s eyes widened.

“With Mr. Darcy?” she exclaimed, astonished.

“See, Lizzy? He is enamoured with you. Why else would he be courting Papa’s favour?”

“Hush, Lydia!” Elizabeth burst out with great vexation.

So the gentleman in question still seemed intent on baffling her then, as though yesterday was not enough. Considerate – silent – jesting – complaining about ferrets – throwing a temper tantrum over the English weather – in pain perhaps, and oddly vulnerable – recovered, chuckling in the darkness and offering to call at Longbourn, of all places. And now investigating the state of the ford with her father!

No plans of that nature had been voiced last night, during the light repast they all sat down to before retiring. Her father had requested it was served – once he had recovered from the shock of seeing her arrive escorted by Mr. Darcy and his cousin – but did not touch it, merely kept the others company as they ate.

As for herself, Elizabeth was too tired to do it justice. She was too tired to speak even, and – true to form – Mr. Darcy did not say much either. It was the Colonel and her father who seemed happy to strike up a conversation, only to find that it effortlessly flowed, much like the wine they had ordered. By the time Elizabeth decided she needed her bed, they were doing battle with the third carafe, while debating over the Peninsular campaign and the shocking way it was reported in the papers.

She had previously assumed that Mr. Darcy must have made his own escape soon after, but since she could not remember any talk of burst riverbanks, impassable fords or the need for investigation, she could only conclude that such matters must have been discussed after she had left them.

Elizabeth all but giggled and shook her head, not quite able to picture Mr. Darcy imbibing with the Colonel and her father – or indeed with anyone – and willingly engaging in lengthy conversations.

For some reason, despite having seen him light-heartedly bantering with his cousin on their journey, she rather doubted the same genial manner might have emerged in her father’s presence.

The thought gave her pause. Perhaps it had. Perhaps this was precisely why her father was prepared to ride out investigating fords with a man whom, much like herself, he could scarce abide.

Not that she found Mr. Darcy as intolerable as ever – not after yesterday. She did not like him –… No, that was not strictly true. She did like the facets encountered over breakfast. And speaking of breakfast and the ensuing warnings, she was no longer certain she could or should detest him on account of Mr. Wickham. But that was neither here nor there.

“Oh, Lizzy, only think!”

“Believe me, Lydia, I am trying to – if you would only let me! Come, take Mamma her tea – wake Kitty – find Mary –… ”

“I will not! You are sending me away so that you can confide in Jane, but I want to hear it too. I am not a child anymore, and I would like to hear of your beaus as much as anybody. Come, Lizzy, do tell! You spent a whole day in his carriage, surely you have something to impart! Did he hold your hand? Did he ask for a private interview? Did he flirt? Goodness, no, what am I saying? Of course he did not flirt – who can imagine Mr. Darcy flirting! Was he all brooding and romantic, then? Oh, Lizzy, just think – and he said you were not handsome enough to tempt him. Oh, what a laugh! Who would have thought it? Mr. Darcy!”

“Hush, Lydia!” this time Elizabeth and Jane urged, both at once, and Jane stared at her sister in concern, as Elizabeth’s mouth literally fell open.

Yes, he did hold her hand.

Yes, he did ask for an interview – or at least asked if he could call at Longbourn.

Yes, he did flirt – after a fashion.

Yes, he had been brooding – and perhaps romantic!

What sort of a world was this, were Lydia made her see things that she had not?

And there was more – things that Lydia would not even understand and never thought of mentioning. He had been mindful of her comfort. He had brought her into his inner circle. He had curtailed his visit with his aunt and had gone out of his way to convey her to her relations. He had even silenced Mr. Collins, when he most needed silencing – and had now moved on to staying late into the night with her father and planning rides to ascertain whether the ford could be crossed in safety.

“Good heavens!”

Was Lydia in the right? Was Mr. Darcy in love with her? Was he about to propose – to her, of all people? Was that why he had been so vexed by the wet weather and the lack of a private parlour?

“What is it, Lizzy?” Lydia piped up.

“Lizzy, are you unwell? You have gone very pale!”

Elizabeth pursed her lips and forgot to reply, as compassion softened her troubled mien. Poor man! He will be disappointed and she was sorry for it. What a blow must this be, for so proud a man, to learn that his affections were not returned!

His affections? Good Lord, was she blind? How did she not see it? Or had she been misled by her own former dislike of him into thinking that he disliked her also?

The unexpected word almost made her start. Former dislike? Where did that come from? She disliked him no longer – after just one day? After just one day of revelations? After just one day of casting his reserve aside?

Why now, though? Once Lydia had begun to nudge the pieces into place, others followed, until it was plain to see that he had singled her out as far back as the ball at Netherfield. Throughout his stay in Hertfordshire he had shown more interest in her than in any other female. So why had it taken him so long to discard his reserve?

More to the point, why did it matter? She was going to refuse him, was she not?

“Good heavens!” she repeated, this time with a loud gasp.

“What is it, Lizzy?” her eldest and her youngest sister chorused and then Jane added, “What is wrong?”

Wrong? Wrong? This was a disaster! It had just come to her – their final conversation in the darkened carriage. He had asked for permission to call on her at Longbourn, presumably with the intention to propose, and she had urged him to speak up on the morrow! Now – today!

‘I should like that very much. Aye, Miss Bennet. God willing, on the morrow.’

Poor man! He must have thought she was encouraging him – while all she aimed for was teasing him out of the notion of calling upon them in Hertfordshire.

“Good heavens!” she said, for the third time.

“Lizzy, would you stop saying that!”

“Hush, Lydia!” came the familiar admonishment, just from Jane this time, followed almost instantly by an urgent, “Lizzy, look!”

Had it not been for Jane squeezing her arm, very tightly, Elizabeth would have missed the warning, just as she had missed Lydia’s outburst, the ensuing reprimand, the knock on the door and Lydia’s voice piping up again to ask the caller to come in. She winced at the tight squeeze – but her head snapped up, only to see the door opening to admit Mr. Darcy.

“Jane, do not leave me!” she whispered in something very much like panic.

Had she been in command of her senses, she would have laughed. With a small difference – ‘Jane’, rather than ‘Kitty’ – this was, word for word, exactly what she said when she had been confronted with Mr. Collins’s imminent proposal. Was she forever doomed to enlist the help of one of her sisters, in order to escape her suitors?

Poor Mr. Darcy, the thought intruded yet again. How disagreeable must it be for him, if he ever learns that he was in the same boat as Mr. Collins.

Her highly-strung mind jumped erratically from one thing to another – from Mr. Collins’s imaginary boat to Polperro and then to damsels in distress, before she suddenly clenched her fingers together in her lap and willed herself into some control over her scattered senses. When she thought she had achieved it, she stood up.

“Mr. Darcy. Pray come in, Sir,” she offered, then looked back down towards her elder sister, her eyes pleading.

“Of course, Lizzy,” Jane reassured her in a whisper, before instructing Lydia, unusually sharply, to sit still and keep quiet – or else leave the room.

Making a show of pressing her lips together, Lydia did not budge.

‘Of course not!’ Elizabeth all but groaned, knowing full well that wild horses could not drag her away from a scene such as this. More worrying still, whatever Lydia learned would soon be broadcast over seven counties! For a moment, she contemplated the wisdom of walking out with Mr. Darcy, but thought better of it. If Lydia was the price for Jane’s support, then so be it!

With a deep, steadying breath, she walked towards their visitor.

“Good morning, Mr. Darcy. I hope you are well rested.”

“I am, I thank you, as I trust are you.”

“Would you not sit down – unless you are pressed for time? My sister tells me you have agreed to ride with my father to ascertain whether the ford can be crossed in safety.”

“I have. We are to depart shortly. I was… hm!… hoping to see you, though, before I left.”

It was cowardly in the extreme to feign forgetfulness – and yet that was precisely what she did.

“Oh? Were you?”

“I was. If you remember, there was something I most particularly wished to speak of.”

She swallowed.

“Oh, yes, of course. Pray, be seated. Would you care for tea?”

“I thank you, no. I…”

Darting swift glances towards Jane and Lydia, Mr. Darcy walked towards the sofa that was nearest to the door, and waited. She joined him there and sat down, yet apparently that was not what he was waiting for, as he did not take a seat, but came to stand behind a nearby chair, fidgeting with his cuffs.

It was so extraordinary to see Mr. Darcy fidget, that unreserved compassion flooded her again, chasing away the cowardly notion of suggesting that he should not speak now, but call at Longbourn after all.

No, she could not do that, she determined in the face of his acute discomfort. She had to let him say his piece, now, and be kind in her refusal. He would be hurt, but he would heal. He had his family – … No, the family included Lady Catherine. Well, at least he had his cousin. He would heal, and the sooner she allowed him to begin, the better. It was not fair for her to do otherwise. After all, it was not in her nature to torment a respectable man – as she had already said to Mr. Collins.

‘But this is not Mr. Collins!’, a sharp thought intruded, making her wish she could cover her eyes, run from the room and hide until the spinning haze that clouded her mind receded.

“Miss Bennet, I…” he began, then darted a look at Jane again. With a deep breath, he finally came to sit beside her. “Miss Bennet, is there a chance to talk in private?” he asked with some determination. “I am not comfortable speaking of it in your sisters’ presence.”

As nearly everybody is wont to do, at some time or other in their lives, Elizabeth understood exactly what it pleased her. She understood him to mean ‘sister’s’. That, coupled with his frequent glances towards Jane’s side of the room, painted the most rewarding picture. Sudden, blessed relief coursed through her and she all but laughed in sheer delight at her own folly, to have lost her senses over nothing!

“Mr. Darcy,” she said with a wide smile, “was it Mr. Bingley you wished to speak of?”

“Mr. Bingley!” Darcy exclaimed in his turn. “No, I do not wish to speak of Mr. Bingley!” he forcefully retorted – and at that, predictably, both Jane and Lydia looked up.

Before Elizabeth could feel concern for her elder sister – and indeed before she could fully comprehend precisely why the forceful retort seemed to please her rather than bring back the turmoil – equally predictably, Lydia spoke up:

“Mr. Bingley! Is he coming back to Netherfield, Sir?”

Two pairs of eyes turned upon her with silent but stern warnings and the elder sisters prayed that she would take heed. As for Darcy, he decided to attend to the interruption – albeit with considerable vexation.

“No, Miss… er… Lydia, I should imagine not.”

“He is not? How horrid! He is not giving up the lease though, is he?”

‘Hush, Lydia!’ would not have been civil enough for company, which is why Jane and Elizabeth simultaneously decided to drop the ‘Hush’.

“I really cannot tell. Why should you wish to know?”

“Because then he will never come back again and Jane will never see him.”

“Lydia!” they both urged, even louder, and at that she impatiently shrugged.

“Oh, la, Jane, what does it signify? Why can I not ask? You have been pining for him these five or six months together. Do you not wish to know whether he is coming back or not?”

“Lydia, enough!” Elizabeth commanded in the most determined manner.

As for Jane, she seemed to have forgotten how to speak. Extreme concern etched in her countenance, Elizabeth stood from the sofa with a swift, “Would you excuse me, Mr. Darcy?” and walked up to her elder sister.

She would not discomfit her by making a scene and putting her arms around her. She merely took her hands and asked, “Jane, would you not go to our mother?” before pursing her lips and almost hissing over her shoulder, “As for you, Lydia, you most certainly should!”

Lydia narrowed her eyes and folded her arms in defiance. Jane merely shook her head.

“I am well. Go to Mr. Darcy,” she softly urged and, reluctant as she might have been to leave her, Elizabeth felt compelled to follow her advice.

She found the gentleman standing by the sofa, his eyes fixed on Jane’s pained countenance. She did not sit, and neither did he.

“Miss Bennet,” he brought himself to ask, very quietly, “Was your sister much attached to Mr. Bingley?”

Mortified in extreme by the entire debacle, Elizabeth could only offer:

“Forgive me, Mr. Darcy, but I cannot discuss my sister’s sentiments with you.”

“But your sister Lydia – ”

“Has spoken out of turn!” she concluded, very firmly, then instantly regretted her sharpness of both tone and manner, for it was Lydia who deserved it and not him. On an impulse, she laid a hand on his sleeve. “I must apologise, Sir,” she said with a tentative smile. “Not only for the unmerited sharpness just now, but also for having to ask you to postpone our conversation. It seems…” she trailed off, with a slight gesture meant to indicate that she was needed elsewhere.

“I understand. Forgive me for having intruded for so long,” he offered, reaching to gather the small hand still resting on his sleeve.

He held it pressed between his palms for something that, by every standard, was a long time. Still – erroneously or not – she did not withdraw it. Suddenly, a smile fluttered on his lips.

“There is still Longbourn, Miss Bennet, is there not?”

The warmth in his eyes was unmistakable, as was the underlying message, and Elizabeth accepted both with unthinking pleasure, inordinately relieved that nothing had to be decided now. That she was suddenly freed from the fear of making a terrible mistake – one way or the other. His all-but-declared interest was gratifying, or at least had become so of late, and she could not help feeling thankful for his understanding and his patience. She had not orchestrated a respite – he had offered it freely, and at that very comfortable thought, her lips curled up into a smile.

“Indeed, Mr. Darcy. There is always Longbourn.”

She saw him swallow hard, before he carried her hand to his lips. They were warm and – strangely – both firm and soft at the same time, and his tingling breath sent a very foolish flutter right into the pit of her stomach, when he whispered against her skin:

“I thank you, Miss Bennet.”

He did not release her hand, but pressed it to his lips once more – a firm kiss that seemed to brand itself into her very flesh – before he gave the deepest bow, relinquished her fingers, farewelled her sisters, and was gone.

* * * *

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Elizabeth let out a small sigh and bit the corner of her lip. How utterly provoking that Sarah was still not showing any sign of imminent awakening! She could not blame her, not after the arduous journey she had undertaken in such a dreadfully short time. Nevertheless, she would have greatly preferred Sarah was awake, especially as Colonel Fitzwilliam also perversely persisted in abandoning himself into the arms of Morpheus.

With great caution, Elizabeth stole a glance towards the Colonel and pursed her lips. Now that was a fine to-do! He was utterly lost to his surroundings, his chest rising and falling with the slow breath of peaceful slumber, and was showing no signs of rousing himself either.

‘Aye, rest, why not indeed,’ she inwardly grumbled at the unsettling notion that no one was awake in the speeding carriage, apart from herself – and Mr. Darcy.

Elizabeth barely suppressed a huff as she pondered the wisdom to feign having succumbed to tiredness again. But it would not do. The nervous excitement that held her in its grip would certainly ensure that she would fool no one. There was no hope for her to lay convincingly still for any length of time.

She stole another glance, this time to the gentleman seated right before her. She could not see him well, not from the corner of her eye. A short while earlier, she had almost suspected him to be doing precisely the same – surreptitiously watching her – but she was swift to see sense and discard the foolish notion. From the very beginning of their vexing acquaintance, he had displayed very little interest in her and her pursuits and she could not imagine why this should alter now.

Having said that, it had been disconcerting to find herself a few minutes ago at the receiving end of something very much like considerate attention to her comfort. Not to mention the open, almost friendly turn of countenance. Elizabeth could not doubt she must have stared at that – so very unexpected, especially of late, when he had uniformly chosen to present nothing but a stern façade to the world around him.

She heard, nay, sensed him move, and stole another glance towards him, only to note, with some satisfaction, that he seemed to have produced a book from a light travelling case. She gave a silent thanks for the small mercy, for this removed the unpleasant notion that she should, at some point, make some vague attempt at conversation.

He did not seem engrossed in his employment though. Had she not known better, she would have been inclined to think that he was watching her, over the top of his leather-bound volume.

She briefly thought of looking, if only to reassure herself that she was mistaken, but then rather cowardly settled for the corner of her eye again. And now he did look up, she could scarce doubt it – but he appeared more interested in his cousin than herself.

She turned her head, by the smallest fraction. Aye. He was insistently regarding his cousin; seemed even to lightly prod his knee with his own, as though to ascertain that he was indeed sleeping – or aiming to wake him, presumably as tired as herself of this extended tête-à-tête.

She pursed her lips again, wishing – for the eleventh time at least – that she was not indebted to him of all people for conveying her to Basingstoke to rendezvous with her relations. She wondered once more at his willingness to do so, as the countryside scrolled at speed before the carriage window.

Another sigh escaped her, louder this time and, to her vexation, it appeared that Mr. Darcy heard it, for he lost interest in his cousin’s slumber and turned to look at her in earnest. A sudden jolt coursed through her at the steady glance of those dark eyes she had grown accustomed to regard as heavily disapproving. There was no disapproval now, she thought in passing, refusing to acknowledge the strange intensity in them – as well as her own extremely foolish jolt.

“Are you well, Miss Bennet?” she heard him ask, very quietly.

Had it come from any other man, Elizabeth would have been grateful. Under the circumstances, she was not. She pursed her lips again.

“I am. I thank you,” she brought herself to say, knowing that she had to.

“Is there anything you need?”

Had she not known better, Elizabeth might have suspected there was solicitude in his address. She did know better, though. It could not be. Not from Mr. Darcy!

“I thank you, no,” she instantly replied, wishing he would return to his book.

He did not. He closed it, his finger still keeping his place between the pages.

“With any luck, we should be in Guildford by noon. We are making good progress,” he assured her, and Elizabeth could only nod.

She turned to the window again, hoping to convey that she was not disposed for conversation. However, for a man who prided himself on his understanding, Mr. Darcy appeared uncommonly obtuse at the moment, for he did not resume his reading, but cleared his voice instead.

“Have your relations indicated how soon they might arrive in Basingstoke?” he asked.

Elizabeth frowned.

“From what I gathered, they should have arrived last night,” she answered, pushing back the travelling rugs and reaching for her satchel.

She rummaged for a moment, until she found what she was seeking. If pointedly staring out of the window did not persuade Mr. Darcy to leave her to her own devices, then perhaps feigning interest in her own book would!

She opened it at random and fixed her eyes upon it. And yet, over the top of her volume, she could still see, without purposely looking, that his own remained closed in his lap. She pursed her lips again and her eyes narrowed, willing him into silence. Just as the thought occurred, she all but laughed. That she should be scheming to avoid Mr. Darcy’s chatter, of all people!

She did not laugh but – to her utter shock – he did, or rather chuckled softly, and Elizabeth involuntarily looked up, half suspecting that the rumbling of the carriage wheels must have been playing tricks on her; must have tampered with her hearing. Surely Mr. Darcy was far above something as plebeian as chuckling, she inwardly scoffed – then all but gaped at the contrary evidence before her. There he was now, his gaze fixed upon her, a half-smile playing on his lips, his proud patrician features softened into barely suppressed amusement.

She stared again, quite certain she had never seen him thus. Devoid of stern reserve, he seemed almost human – and, in truth, more than a little handsome, a fleeting, errant thought intruded. In response to both the errant thought and the disconcerting countenance before her, Elizabeth arched a brow.

“May I inquire into the source of your amusement?” she asked despite herself and the infuriating man this time smiled in earnest.

“But of course. I was merely entertained, Miss Bennet, to note that despite firm opinions to the contrary, we do seem to be reading the same books after all,” he observed, turning his own volume upright so that she could see the title.

She cast her eyes upon it, only to concede that he was in the right. Apparently, they were both reading the second volume of Mr. Southey’s ‘Letters from England’ which, for some reason of the author’s, were presented as though written not by the Englishman he was, but by a Spanish traveller to his confessor. Elizabeth still failed to see the diverting side of the coincidence however, until all of a sudden she remembered the conversation – or rather verbal fencing – that they had engaged in, during their dance at Netherfield, last autumn. Her companion must have seen her comprehension dawning, for he resumed, with the same half-smile:

“All that remains to ascertain then, is whether we read them with the same sentiments, is it not, Miss Bennet? So may I ask, what is your opinion of this fictitious Don Manuel Alvarez Espriella?”

Her brows arched again – both of them, this time. Whatever had possessed him to discard the habitual hauteur in favour of this disconcerting jesting manner? She all but shrugged – unladylike as it might have been. It was his own affair, and she refused to ponder for another moment over Mr. Darcy and his whimsies.

“I cannot deny that he describes well, with keenness of eye and vivacity of spirit,” she owned at last. “Yet, while I cannot fault him for his style, I am singularly unimpressed with the way he approached his subject matter.”

“Indeed. He does write well, but he is horribly anti-English!”

“I daresay he deserves to be – ”

“…the very man he is impersonating.” 
(Author's note: That was Jane Austen's own opinion, mentioned in a letter to her sister).

“… precisely whom he claims to be,” they both said at once, and for a moment Elizabeth vacillated between laughter and vexation.

For some unknown reason, she succumbed to the first – only to veer towards the second, once Mr. Darcy chose to overstate the matter:

“I take it then that our responses are not so different either, in this case at least. Dare I ask about another, Miss Bennet, or would I be stretching my beginner’s luck?”

“We are not gambling, Mr. Darcy,” she observed, tilting her chin, and the gentleman promptly retorted, with another crooked smile.

“I should hope not, Miss Bennet, seeing as gambling is such a hazardous and objectionable pastime.”

She stared – again. Had it been any other man, she would have readily concluded he was flirting – either that, or he was in his cups! Since it was Mr. Darcy though, in all honesty she would have been more inclined to believe the latter – unlikely as that might have been, particularly at that hour in the morning – rather than imagine he would choose to flirt with her.

“So, what shall it be, Miss Bennet?” he prompted. “Dare we compare our views on yet another volume?”

She gave a dainty shrug.

“Oh, why not? There is a long journey all the way to Guildford…”

“In effect, we shall have to stop within the hour. The horses must be bated,” he casually observed.

Elizabeth pursed her lips. Of course. She was not travelling post, with a fresh team of hired horses at each stage. She had all but forgotten. Of course the noble beasts would have to be rested, fed and watered, which would imply further delay – and longer time spent with this exceedingly odd version of Mr. Darcy.

“So, may I ask, what were you reading before Don Manuel’s ‘Letters’?”

Her chin came up once more, with the same defiance.

“‘The Romance of the Forest’,” she retorted promptly – and was thoroughly amazed and, in truth, slightly provoked as well, to hear him chuckle yet again.

“Forgive me,” he offered, before she could decide between inquiring what it was that amused him, or denying him the afore-mentioned satisfaction. “I should not have laughed, and I beg you would pardon my ungentlemanly conduct. My sole excuse is that I have seen that turn of countenance before – the other time I was asked to despise you if I dared. May I assure you once again that no thought could be further from my mind.”

Her lips twitched, as again she swayed between laughter and vexation – and again, to her slight shock, settled on the first. It was an extraordinary notion to have laughed, genuinely laughed with Mr. Darcy twice, in as many minutes! Still, this jesting, boyish stranger was so far removed from the Mr. Darcy she had grown accustomed to that the notion was considerably less surprising.

The same could not be said of him though, and Elizabeth wondered what on earth possessed him to deviate so widely from the reserved manner he had uniformly given her reason to expect. Suddenly, Colonel Fitzwilliam’s intimation that he was generally different was no longer quite so laughably far-fetched.

“I daresay I have already mentioned this also,” her companion resumed, the same half-smile playing on his lips, “but I would never wish to suspend any pleasure of yours so, if you are still of a mind to scandalise me, pray continue – though I would suggest you do not use Mrs. Radcliffe’s novels for the purpose. I must confess I have found them rather pleasing.”

“How about Madame D’Arblay’s?”

“Engaging.”

“Mrs. Edgeworth’s?”

“Inspiring.”

“Mr. Richardson’s?”

“A passable read – except perhaps for ‘Pamela’.”

She arched a brow.

“How so? Do you dispute the value of the message?”

“I would not dream of it, Miss Bennet! No, I was merely bored.”

Despite herself, Elizabeth laughed again – with him rather than at him – for the third time in as many minutes. In truth, she could think of a volume or two which stood a better chance to scandalise him, but suddenly found she was not so keen to take that path today. Disconcerting as this strange shared good-humour might have been, it was still preferable to spending the entire journey at each other’s throats.

“I daresay we could move on to playwrights and poets, but you must allow me a moment to gather my wits. I am still reeling from the shock of hearing that you would read novels – and that you were bored by a moral tale,” she said with an impish smile, only to see him promptly return it.

“By all means, Miss Bennet, take all the time you need.”

She glanced out of the window, playfully pondering what should she mention next – or rather, devising tempting ways to trip him. However, before the matter was decided, a new voice, rather thick with sleep, suddenly broke her train of thought.

“Good morning, Miss – Sir. Pray forgive me, Miss Lizzy, I’ve been lost to the world. I trust you didn’t need me…?”

Having spent a long time wishing that Sarah would awaken, it was rather strange to feel disappointment now, Elizabeth thought in passing, before turning to her mother’s maid to reassure her that there was naught amiss, and nothing needed doing. Their conversation must have woken Colonel Fitzwilliam as well, for he stirred, greeted them and then groaned quietly as he readjusted his position.

“I should be glad to stretch my legs at last. I hope we stop soon,” he remarked, to no one in particular, as he cast a glance out of the window. “Ah. Not long now, if I am not mistaken,” he cheerfully added, then shifted in his seat, and groaned again.

“Are you well, Cousin?” Darcy asked, a slight edge to his voice and at that, the Colonel arched a brow.

“Well enough, I thank you. Stiff as a board, though. No mean feat, staying frozen in one attitude for ages,” he casually observed, and the other snorted, for some reason Elizabeth could not fathom.

Nor could she grasp the Colonel’s meaning some time later, when she chanced to overhear him muttering to his cousin:

“As I said before, heaven help us. I have given myself a bad back – and what for? Honestly, Darcy! Books?”