I'm baaaaaack. And this time I am armed. Prepare yourselves.

Anywho, those of you who read this before, sorry for the confusion. I took it down for minor fixups, and I ended up completely burying myself in schoolwork for, like, a month. So my apologies for that.

For those of you who haven't read it: Enjoy, and please review!

Disclaimer: I'm not over 200 years old, so no.

...

Elizabeth always wanted a beautiful wedding. One strewn with white flowers and tittering, happy laughter. She supposed she got it that day, but her own voice was drowned out in the congratulations of the life waiting for her—she couldn't explain why she couldn't marry this particular man. Only her father seemed to have noticed.

"Are you sure you want this, Lizzie?" he had asked only an hour before. She'd had to smile and assure him of her love for her husband; could he tell when she hesitated? It made transparent tears (ones of joy, to everyone else) appear and fall on her skin, make streaks in her perfect white powder.

There was not a cloud in the sky, and it was warm that day. Flowers grew wild and colourful around the chapel, so many kinds that Elizabeth could not count them.

It was so painfully gorgeous the morning of her wedding to the wrong man.

She knew, eventually, she would accustom herself to her husband's demeanour. She did not know how long 'eventually' would be. It would be difficult to put up with man as prejudiced and arrogant as he—though, she'd already been exposed to those little niceties many times before.

They danced for a while, and she thought she did very well at acting her part. Even her newlywed couldn't tell her own happiness apart from anyone else's. As soon as there was a time when she could leave, however, she went out into the air.

When Charlotte asked her if it was true, did doves burst when they ate rice?—she had to laugh a little, and help her friend test the notion. Her husband came and simply stared at them, amusement written on his features. Elizabeth knew he loved her. She merely ached for him.

"Everybody's gone home," Charlotte said after a while, "and it's nearly dark. I do so hope you are happy, Lizzie. You must want to leave for London, now?"

"Oh," cried Elizabeth, sparing a glance at her husband's form, and dropped her voice. "You must not speak so freely, my dear. He might see we are speaking of inappropriate matters, and berate me!"

Charlotte's smile wavered. "You do not love him, do you?" she whispered. "I have been looking for that spark in your eyes, Lizzie, but it is not there when you speak of him. Do not tease—why are you marrying him?"

"Of course I love him, Charlotte," she said curtly. "It was only a joke." She searched for something to say after that, but could not find a word. She closed her mouth.

"But you are angry with him, after what he did to Mr. Bingley and Jane? And Wickham?"

Elizabeth rubbed her forehead. "I am very tired, Charlotte," she mumbled. "I will write you about it, if you persist. But not now, please."

Her friend nodded, understanding. "Of course. Write to me more than once, Lizzie. I shall miss you." She kissed her cheek with affection, and Elizabeth almost let herself cry once more. "Fare-well, my dear."

And Elizabeth watched as the Collins coach rolled out of sight, Mr. Collins still making noise about the beauty of the wedding and the couple. She remembered, with no small sadness, that her eldest sister had been the first to leave.

"Elizabeth," her husband said behind her. She shivered. There was no one left to talk to, save their coach driver, and he wasn't about to strike up conversation for her escape even five minutes more.

"The moon is beautiful, Mr. Darcy," she muttered. She heard; then felt him come closer and touch her neck.

"Yes," he agreed, "very beautiful."

She put on her best smile and turned toward him.

"I am a bit cold, Fitzwilliam. May we not leave now?"

He seemed puzzled, but his eyes were lit with a bright flame she feared would run her through. After all of this, all the cautiousness when it came to her words, the talks with her mother, mannerisms that made her certain he would quit her—they all served to strengthen his devotion. But do not misunderstand her. Lizzie loved her husband quite deeply. It was simply during the time that she resented him.

"We may," he said, and kissed her. It seemed such a guileless, ordinary thing to Mr. Darcy, so Lizzie's resentment turned it into thoughts of other women, and her grip was harsh when he offered her his arm. They stepped into the carriage. The door shut. And Lizzie, peeking through the curtain on her window, watched the stars and the church as they dwindled into nothing, lights disappearing as candles in the rain.

…

A fortnight passed and Elizabeth Darcy had still not received her letter from Charlotte. She'd written quite a long one herself, explaining her motley emotions toward Fitzwilliam, and hoped for tutelage from her friend. But nothing was here.

Why?

Lizzie did not make a habit of pacing. She did not often speak loudly, to be sure. She had no manner of expressing her disquiet, other than sewing with unnaturally large stitches. (Her mother had instilled a fear of herself the morning of her wedding, giving her a stern talking-to that made the girl assisting with Lizzie's dress blush.)

"Now, Lizzie, you are going to walk in there and you are going to say 'I do,'" she had fussed with conviction. "And then you are going to ride to Pemberley and do whatever that man tells you, whilst you lay back and think of pretty laces or your sisters or whatever goes through that thick head of yours. Is that clear?"

It had been difficult to see the maternal pride in Mrs. Bennet's eyes, but pride was there nonetheless. Lizzie needed no rouge to redden her cheeks, however, and she was glad for the veil that covered her face. She had followed her mother's words to the dot. But she hadn't been told that it would feel good at all, and rather than something barbaric, as her mother said it would be, being loved was beautiful. So much so that she could not permit it to happen again.

So in these days she sewed and sewed, smiling and kissing her husband when he seemed to need it, laughing or clutching his hand when they read together in the library. She saw some raw sort of fear ticking at him whenever she retired to her own chambers every night, but never spoke upon it. She knew why she resisted him, but he did not. He loved her. She loved him. In his mind, should not everything be perfect?

"Letter for you, madam," said a voice from the doorway, and a slight knock followed it. Lizzie stood from her needlework and walked with concealed excitement to the door of her bedroom, thanking her maid and taking the milk-coloured parchment into her own hands. In her enthusiasm, she nearly tore the paper as she broke the wax seal on it, and took more care as she read each word.

My dearest Lizzie, it began. Elizabeth returned to her seat and read with a smile, one that waxed and waned when she read the same words twice.

How are you? I did receive your letter, and I apologize for not responding to it sooner. But your issues were not to be taken lightly, given pity and sent back. They required much thought from me. I hope you share my sentiments.

Anyway, for the matter with your husband, I can somewhat relate to you. In my relationship with Mr. Collins, I feel something which is neither hate nor love, but it is not indifference. I care for his well-being; his full-hearted devotion to his place as a parson, and his disappointment when he expects kind words from Lady Catherine but receives none. I truly believe he loves me in his own way, Lizzie, and I make it my duty to try and love him as well. But Mr. Darcy is another element entirely. You once explained to me how you talked to him, how you coaxed him into telling you what his discourteous front truly protected, and I felt the worst of people for thinking the least of such a man. He loves you, Lizzie, and it is obvious to everybody around you. I am aware that you know this, but it does not hurt to be reminded.

So here is my advice, Lizzie: you must give him time, and you must talk to him. You will never solve this silent enmity by shutting him off. Believe me when I tell you this, for it has worked so many times in my marriage as well. I love you so, my dear, and I wish you happiness.

Yours,

Charlotte Collins.

…

There was a time when Elizabeth truly believed that walking was the cure of all ills.

When her mother fretted over nerves, or Lydia made an obvious remark of her sisters' lack of beauty, or when Fitzwilliam had been very rude to her early in their acquaintance, she would walk. Over marshes, hills, through forests and meadows; it didn't much matter to Lizzie, who thought it all perfectly beautiful. Sometimes she would end up in Meryton. Other times, she would broaden her steps to Netherfield, even before Mr. Bingley had taken it. Fitzwilliam had nearly proposed on one of her walks—she never really thought of it until now, after she understood his conduct.

That day, the hem of her dress had been soiled, her boots dirtied and caked with mud, and her face flushed. The clouds hung low on the cerulean skyline, bone-white and in shapes of knights and geese and bitter-eyed, handsome men. Fitzwilliam had approached her straight from Netherfield, wrapped in an overcoat, dark shirt and some other ridiculously expensive particulars.

"Mr. Darcy!" she had said in surprise. "I did not expect to see you here."

She expected him to speak, to bow or even scowl and mumble and walk away, but instead he froze in his place. He took off his top hat and held it in front of him, meaning to bow, in all likelihood. He nodded and smiled a tiny smile.

"Yes."

Yes? Lizzie thought. What an odd thing to say.

"I was walking," she said, and rebuked herself because she was sure she'd sounded quite stupid. But the man's smile never faded.

"I see that." He nodded again. They were less than four feet apart; only scant patches of grass separated them, and Lizzie unconsciously took a step backward.

"Is there something you wished to speak about, sir?" she asked brazenly, only it wasn't very brazen for her voice came out as nothing more than a whisper. Fitzwilliam tugged at the sides of his black hat and stared at her for a while. He swallowed a bit audibly.

"Mr. Bingley and I are travelling back to London," he said. His piercing eyes searched her face for something she now knew was melancholy. "I expressed the desire to see my sister again, and he and Miss Bingley wished to come as well."

"Then I wish you a pleasant journey." That much was true, of course. But what of Jane?

"Miss Elizabeth—"

He had hesitated, after saying her name, and looked to the ground.

"I would ask you…" he said, but he suddenly looked very angry. He twisted his hat in his hands, bowed, and walked away. Lizzie always recalled the experience as odd and told her sister so. Only now did she see what he had meant by all the broken sentences.

Perhaps her husband was hiding more than she previously thought, after all.

"…Lizzie?"

She started in surprise, pricking her finger on her sewing needle, and looked up. Fitzwilliam stood over her, dark and cold-looking and… soaking wet from head to toe. When he smiled weakly, she put away her needlework in haste and stood from the small cushion on her window seat, looking him up and down nearly twice.

"Mr. Darcy!" she admonished, plucking the hat from his head and pushing the dripping, black waistcoat from his shoulders. Lizzie was becoming much like her Mamma, to her disfavour, but she knew what became of people exposed to the elements. One glance out of her window showed sheets of rain falling from an ash-grey sky. She pursed her lips and walked across the room to place the coat and hat on rightful hangers. Then she turned back and watched her husband stare at her. She attempted not to sound too concerned when she spoke.

"Where have you been, Fitzwilliam?" she asked primly. "I was expecting you back nearly two hours ago."

He looked amused at her expense, taking a moment to gaze wistfully at the roaring fire in the fire-place. It had been about three hours since Lizzie had removed herself from the room with the letter, so he had most likely been looking for her there first. It was dreadfully cold in this house, she realized. There were too many rooms and not enough fires to warm them. The door of the library hung open, releasing a draft into the room, and she immediately closed it. "I was becoming worried."

"My apologies, madam," Fitzwilliam said dryly, and beckoned to the window. "As you can see, I was delayed by the weather."

She followed his eyes. "…Yes."

Then it was silent for a while. Lizzie could finally hear rain pattering softly against the roof, far above her head, and she smiled faintly. She realized she'd locked herself in with Fitzwilliam, really, when she shut the door. The nerve to confess almost appeared and she took a deep breath to begin. But her husband got to words first.

"I… brought you something," Fitzwilliam said, "from London." He cleared his throat. He stepped forward. The moment he pulled the elongated jewellery case from his front-pocket, Lizzie felt her mouth go dry. When he opened it to reveal a silver, sapphire-studded pendant necklace and looked to her for approval, she brought a hand to her smiling mouth and she looked at the pitiful picture of him: drenched, hair tousled and transparent white shirt clinging to his skin.

"Oh, Will," she said. He had given her a few gifts like this before. It was not an odd thing for him to do. But the fact that she loved him, she loved himand she could not stand him came to her all at once in a rush of guilt and aching affection in her chest. Fitzwilliam looked confused. He must have read her silence as consent, though; he walked behind her, gently pushed her long braid off of her shoulder, looped and fastened the necklace.

It was heavy. It dropped to the point on her bodice where the very edge of it dipped below, but it was beautiful and perfect and so was the soft kiss he pressed to the nape of her neck when he was done. Lizzie released a sigh and tilted her head to the side. Long fingers wove and locked around her waist. Fitzwilliam's breath was heavy in her ear.

"I love you," he whispered. "Why have you left me?"

"I'll always be here," was her reply, "…even when you don't want me anymore."

He turned her by the elbows and kissed her. And in her happiness, she kissed him back with something like a fever; the tears trailing down her face, the indifference and Wickham and Jane, they had all stopped her before. Lizzie let them go, and they rang out weakly before disappearing for the rest of the night.

…

Dear Charlotte:

Forgive me for not entering with formalities, but there is something of urgency I must tell you—I finally talked to Mr. Darcy. It may have been the hardest thing I have done in my life, but when have I ever done anything easily?

At first, Mr. Darcy did as I feared: he became expressionless and quit the room. It was many an hour before he came back, and only by then was he able to explain to me his motives for separating Jane and Mr. Bingley. However, he told me this as if I were an equal; I found myself thinking I would do the same for somebody like you. He truly believed Jane did not love Mr. Bingley! And he finally spoke again of Mr. Wickham—oh, Charlotte, how stupid I was! Wickham was no better than the average rake; he spent his living on cards and women, and when he ran out of funds he returned and did something quite awful when he spent the summer with Mr. Darcy and his sister. I beg you to excuse me for not going into detail, but some things are better left unwritten. And to think, I nearly confronted Mr. Darcy about both subjects when he proposed to me. I cannot imagine the pain I would have put the both of us through. But I digress.

When I heard the candidness in my husband's voice I blushed hard enough to make him smile slightly through what he said, and yet I still could not find it within myself to tell him

Lizzie's pen paused mid-sentence, and the rhythmical scratching of paper and ink ceased. The stuttering of her heart in her chest reached a quiet crescendo. She sighed; then she smiled, and let a plethora of beautiful names run through her head. Perhaps through the Es? Eleanor, Evangeline, Eric, and Elijah. Or, perhaps, the As: Amelia, Alexander, Alessandra and Audric.

Yes, she could tell Charlotte. If she could force her way past her own nervousness, Lizzie could tell her husband as well. So she began to write.

And when she saw Fitzwilliam again, she would not be afraid. She had bared her soul to him last night, and he had accepted it almost greedily. Perhaps he could accept another? Perhaps his face would light up and curve into what would become a laugh when she finally said she loved him—and that he would be a father?

.

Elizabeth always wanted a beautiful marriage. One strewn with unshaven cheekbones, the deepest sort of love and tittering, happy laughter. She knew she got it that day, but her own ethereal joy was drowned out in the devotion of her husband, the man who stayed. Her hand was pressed gently to her abdomen. Tiny, quiet words were spoken.

And only Fitzwilliam, suddenly paralyzed and wide-eyed in the doorway, seemed to have noticed.