Once again, I have found myself forced into writing my own version of a P&P "What If" plot that has always been hard for me to swallow. I hope you have fun reading it—I'll admit that I had a grand old time writing it. And in case it isn't clear, I am not Jane Austen, nor do I have any right to treat her characters so callously. But I'm doing it anyway.

04/16/2014 Update: This occurs on June 25th, which required fixing some time-span references.

Havenswood, Chapter One

"Miss Beth!"

Elizabeth half-turned toward the young man's voice, her eyes still intent on clipping out the dying hyacinths with a too-large pair of shears. "Yes, Michael?"

"Miss Beth!" the short, lean boy cried again, although his pounding feet had brought him near enough that he no longer needed to shout. "A gentleman is here to see you!"

Elizabeth refrained from rolling her eyes, but only just. Mr. Pippins, the middle-aged, portly reverend had been calling frequently of late to ask her unnecessary questions about the care of the "overabundant ewes" of his small flock. Although she was usually patient with him, she never appreciated being interrupted while doing her daily chores. Julia thought he'd become enamored of Elizabeth, but she knew that he was just a lonely man, and that she reminded him powerfully of his own daughter, a fact of which he reminded her during every visit.

He normally called later in the morning, but he must have some particular problem to concern himself with today.

"Very well, Michael. Thank you for telling me so quickly. I'll be there in just a moment."

Michael nodded once, his curly hair flopping into his eyes, then grinned at her and spun away, running back toward the house.

"Michael, wait!" she called. She'd been sitting on her heels in front of the plants, but now she slid to one side, her legs tucked against her, and sat on the blanket.

He turned back. "Yes, Miss?"

"Do you remember Miss Hannah's lessons? What did she tell you are the most important duties of a footman?"

He scrunched up his twelve-year-old face, still too round to be a young man's but too thin to be a boy's. "Um… I mean, yes, miss. The most important jobs of a footman are to be invisible but always present, to always be aware of the needs of the people around him, and to… uh… to always make sure a duty is carried out fully before moving on to another."

"Very good. Now, what was your assignment?"

"To tell you that a gentleman was here to see you."

"Which you did very well. But is it not also part of your duty to return to said gentleman and let him know that I will be in soon?"

Michael's eyes widened. "Oh. Yes, I suppose. I'll go straight away!"

He began to spin again, but Elizabeth caught his pant-leg, laughing quietly. "Wait. There is another part you must remember. What might it be?"

He frowned, sticking his tongue into his cheek.

"Is there someone nearby you who might be in need of your help?" she prompted.

He looked around at the other women working in the garden, most entirely unaware of their conversation. He finally returned his gaze to Elizabeth and shrugged.

"Don't shrug," she admonished. "Say, I don't know, Miss."

"Sorry. I don't know, Miss."

Elizabeth smiled gently at him and held her hand out.

"Oh!" Michael blushed, but he reached out quickly and helped Elizabeth to her feet, a much more difficult process than it used to be. "Forgive me, Miss Beth, for not noticing."

"No harm done, Michael. You are trying, and for now, that is the most important part. Now go deliver my answer."

"Yes, Miss."

Once again, he ran off quickly, and Elizabeth laughed at the sight, cheered right out of her irritation with Mr. Pippins.

She gathered her tools from the ledge near her and bent to pick up her blanket, reminding herself to have Michael pick up and fold the blanket next time, for her sake as much as for his own.

"I'm summoned, Martha!" she called to a straw hat she could see just through the hedge behind her. "I'll come out and finish later."

"No, you go on," Martha answered gruffly, her dark eyes peeking through the branches. "You've done your part this morning. I'll have Cora finish up for you."

Elizabeth nodded, relieved. She loved to be in the garden, but the low work grew harder every day. After luncheon it was her turn to help wash up, a job she still didn't mind despite her feet growing tired after only a few moments at the washbasin.

She made her way through the ornamental garden, gazing lovingly over the neatly pruned bushes and flowers. When she'd first arrived here, she'd hated this garden, hated its artificiality as well as its boundaries, longing for her solitary rambles through untouched meadows and along barely-visible paths. But now, having been a part of the work to maintain it and having learned her own limitations in the wilds around the manor, the garden had become a place of respite as well as activity.

She carried the tools to the gardener's shed, hanging each one carefully back in its place, and continued across the stone courtyard to the kitchen door, pausing just inside to hang her apron and straw hat on her peg. She noticed that Meg's, Lucy's, and Trinity's were missing, although she hadn't seen them in the gardens this morning. That must mean they'd been assigned the Birch Walk, a job she didn't envy them. On an early summer morning like this one, with the sun finally appearing and bringing some warmth after such a long and chilly spring, she wouldn't want to be stuck trimming hedges in a shady lane.

Elizabeth made her way through the kitchen, finding the simplest path through the clamor and noise that had made its home there every Friday morning since Laura, Katrina, and Cecily had been assigned luncheon duties together. A part of Elizabeth envied those who got to work in such an atmosphere, with everyone singing and laughing, but she knew she would not enjoy it for long, especially since Friday's luncheons inevitably came out burnt, sodden, and otherwise inedible thanks to the merry inattention. Elizabeth loved to laugh as well, but not when the result would be everyone else suffering for it later.

"Beth, are you making those treacle tarts again tomorrow night? I am dying for one!" Laura called across the melee.

Elizabeth laughed easily. "I shall now, just for you."

"You're an angel!" Laura sang, dancing into a twirl that caused Cecily, who was buttering the tops of several loaves of bread, to step back in surprise and splatter warm butter all over herself. "Oh, darling!"

"It's all right," Cecily giggled, setting down the bowl and wiping her apron with a nearby cloth, being especially careful around the taut roundness of her middle. "I think Baby shall learn to like butter."

Elizabeth joined in the laughter of the crowd of women in the room, but she made a hasty exit. She had no desire to be splashed with butter, flour, or anything else, since she'd only had this new dress for a week, the first one she'd ever made for herself and of which she'd been truly proud. It wasn't the height of fashion by any means, and the seams were a bit crooked, but all-in-all, it was surprisingly serviceable.

She followed the kitchen corridor out toward the main entrance, stopping to wave hello to the First Form children in the morning room and the Fifth Formers in the library. Both sets of children called out to her, begging for Story Time, but she reminded them that stories weren't until late that afternoon then taunted them with, "But I suppose I know why you're all looking so forward to it. I want to know what might happen to the knight in the dragon's cave as much as the rest of you!" The children begged anew, and she waved cheerfully, moving on. Truthfully, she looked forward to her stories as much as they did, still surprised at the pleasure she'd discovered in such a seemingly-simple creative endeavor.

She hadn't, however, proven herself of much use in teaching the children anything worthwhile. She knew how to read and write, how to do sums and long divisions, but she very clearly didn't have the knack for conveying the knowledge to a room of rowdy eight-year-olds. Miss Matilda herself had agreed to release her from teaching duties after a particularly terrible grammar lesson, as long as she conducted a singing lesson for the older children a few times a week and continued with her story times. Elizabeth had never been so relieved.

She eyed the closed door of the parlor as she stepped in front of the mirror beside the door. Truly, although it was out of his pattern, this wasn't such an awful time for Mr. Pippins to call. She had an hour or so of leisure before luncheon, and she was sure he would want to discuss how to handle Miss Mariam's constant outbursts of sobbing during his Sunday sermons. Elizabeth had no idea what to do about the problem, but since just telling her always seemed to lift such a weight off his shoulders, she was more than willing to lend a sympathetic ear. She couldn't begin to fathom the load he carried, the burden of caring for the souls of a house of nearly forty women, all of whom had struggles deeper and harder and truer than anything she could have imagined only seven months ago.

That accounting of time brought her up short, stopping her hands in the midst of fixing a pin that had come loose from her tight bun. Seven months. Oh, how different things were only seven months ago.

During their last private conference, Mr. Pippins had asked her whether she would go back, whether she would change where the last half-year had brought her.

"I…" She had thought carefully, closing her eyes in order to concentrate on what she found inside herself. "I… would change my decisions, yes. But would I change the outcome? That is a much harder question."

He had nodded as if she'd said something very significant, and she'd spent the last week puzzling over her answer. Would she change where she was now? She thought about her mail slot in the study, how rarely it was filled. But she also thought about Laura's and Cecily's smiling faces, about Michael's charm, and about the innocent anticipation of the children in the morning room.

She truly did not know whether she would go back.

"Beth," said a genteel, familiar voice from behind her on the wide, carpeted stairs.

"Suzanna," Elizabeth smiled, ascending a few steps and holding her arm out for the elegantly-dressed, not-quite-elderly woman to take. "How are you this morning?"

"Oh, pish tosh," Suzanna said impatiently. She made as if to avoid Elizabeth's arm, but in the end she allowed Elizabeth to carry her knitting bag and leaned on her, grimacing at the necessity as she lowered herself to the next stair. "I am getting better every day. So stop asking. I will tell everyone otherwise if something changes."

Elizabeth laughed, too pleased with Suzanna's return to gruff good cheer to be irritated. "I am glad to hear it, and I will try to stop asking, but since I truly wish to know, it is hard to remember to keep quiet."

The woman gave her a reluctant smile and patted her hand. "You're a sweet thing. Now, what are you doing in here at this hour? Shirking, are we?"

"Of course not!" Elizabeth laughed again. "Mr. Pippins is here and asked for me."

"Ah," she said, smiling fondly toward the parlor. "He is a good man, and you are very patient with him."

"I enjoy his visits, and I believe he does, too. They are good for us both."

"Of course. May I come in and say hello to him? I want to prove to him that all those prayers after my fall were effective in spite of my remonstrations against all things holy during the bone-setting."

"You were quite profane," Elizabeth giggled, blushing at the memory of some of the words she remembered drifting out of Suzanna's chamber that tense winter evening.

"Well," Suzanna laughed, "one can't live in a house such as this for as long as I have without picking up a few bits of colorful language."

"Indeed, not. Though poor Mr. Pippins was quite shocked."

"As was I!"

The two women laughed together as they crossed the entry and opened the door into the parlor. Elizabeth held the door steady, allowing Suzanna to enter the room slowly ahead of her.

"Mr. Pippins!" Suzanna said cheerfully. Elizabeth turned to set Suzanna's bag on the table near the door. "Oh. You, sir, are not Mr. Pippins."

"No, madam, I am not," a deep voice answered.

That voice pinned Elizabeth's feet to the floor even as it forced her head to whip up. She straightened, swallowed back some bile, and quickly grabbed Suzanna's bag back off the table, holding it in front of her like a shield.

"Mr. Darcy!" she choked.

Mr. Darcy, standing tall and imposing and impossibly handsome in the center of the room, stared at Elizabeth with a look of mixed shock and relief. "Miss Bennet."

Suzanna looked him over openly, examining his person as a queen would a supplicant asking for her favor. He wore brown today, not the finest thing he'd ever donned but certainly enough to attract the notice of normal people passing on a street. All was in place, everything as it always was with him, but something about him seemed disheveled to Elizabeth. Suzanna released a short, "Hmm," then turned to her.

"Beth, you know this man."

"Yes, Suzanna," she answered, her eyes darting between Suzanna and Mr. Darcy. "I know him."

"Did you come to see Beth?" Suzanna asked him.

"Yes." He stood very still, his dark eyes focused on Elizabeth. "That is, I came to see Miss Bennet, yes."

Elizabeth nearly shook her head. How strange that her name should feel so foreign now.

Suzanna turned serious, questioning eyes on her. "Beth, dear, do you want to speak to this man?"

Elizabeth returned Suzanna's gaze, hoping that some part of her feeling would be conveyed. Apparently it worked because Suzanna finally gave a tiny nod, almost unnoticeable, acknowledging that she knew exactly what Elizabeth's panic was trying to tell her. Then she waited for her verbal answer.

"Yes, Suzanna," Elizabeth said, dropping her eyes to the ground. "Yes, it's all right. I'll speak to him."

"Do you wish me to stay?"

Yes. A thousand times, yes. She was completely unprepared to see him, completely unprepared to face anything he might have to say, and she wanted a friend, someone to hold her hand and help her keep her mind focused.

"No, thank you," she said. "I'll be fine."

"Call if you need anything," Suzanna said, patting Elizabeth's hands gently. "We'll hear you."

Then she gave a stiff curtsey and slowly shuffled out, giving a significant glance to the bag Elizabeth held against her but not moving to take it.

It wasn't until the door closed fully behind her that Elizabeth took in a final deep breath, reminded herself of how different she was, how much she'd grown, and how little she had to fear now, and allowed her gaze to rise more boldly to Mr. Darcy's face.

He was staring at her again with that dark, deep gaze, the one that all those months ago she had thought was disapproving, then thought was vehemently approving, then decided not to ever see again because she knew she would never know what it meant.

"Are you not concerned with having a chaperone?" he asked, eyeing the closed door uncomfortably.

"Hardly," Elizabeth answered wryly. "What brings you to Havenswood, Mr. Darcy?" She moved into the room and sat carefully in the chair furthest away from him. Her giddy nerves almost made her laugh when she realized Mr. Darcy might be shocked to discover that only yesterday morning, she'd been on her hands and knees polishing the legs of the very chair in which she now sat.

"How can you ask me that?" he asked, sitting on the very edge of the sofa nearest her, his elbows resting on his thighs as he leaned toward her unconsciously. "Do you think I am come for a social call?"

Elizabeth stared at his face as his careful mask of indifference fell away and revealed a surprising depth of emotion.

"I am sorry, sir," she said uncertainly. "I simply did not expect to see you here, or anywhere, really. Ever again."

"I suppose that is what one expects after running away from home."

Elizabeth blushed. She wanted to defend herself, but explanations were impossible. And besides, he was right.

"Were you planning to ever see anyone again, Miss Bennet?" he went on. "Your friends, your sisters, your mother and your father?"

His words were painful jabs at her heart, which was already so tender and sorrowful lately. "No," she said thickly, swallowing against a tightened throat. "No, I was not."

He stood abruptly, striding across the room in agitation. Elizabeth knew that his suppressed emotion made him far more imposing than usual, each movement full of danger, but she couldn't fear him. The fact of his being deeply affected by her actions was so obvious that she could only feel his pain.

"How could you…?" he began then broke off. "Why did you…? What…? Argh!" He threw his hands up, pressing them against both sides of his head as if it were about to explode. Then he turned and strode to the window looking out over the grounds and the forest beyond. He crossed his arms over his chest and huffed, obviously trying to regulate his emotions.

Elizabeth knew she should be angry with him, angry for his presence and for all that had come before it, but even if she hadn't spent the last few months actively trying to forgive him, the sight of him standing in front of that window, all the impenetrability that she hated having washed away and leaving him wide open and honest, might have been enough to ease the rest of her resentment. Standing before her was a man she'd come to believe she'd only imagined, a man of deep feeling whom she'd met only once, though the meeting had changed her life irrevocably.

The question intruded again on her mind: would she go back? Would she change that night if she could?

"Mr. Darcy," she said slowly, "How did you find me here?"

"A good question," he said shortly, not turning from the window. "In some ways, I am still not sure how. When the search began for you in earnest after you disappeared, that morning after the Netherfield ball, Bingley and I searched the road to London. We found evidence of you at a wayside inn, but that was the last indication of your whereabouts. We stayed in London, but there was only so much we could do without any leads. The only clue I had, the only minor inkling, was that I thought your aunt's behavior was somewhat suspicious."

"My aunt?" Elizabeth asked, dismayed. "But she swore she would…"

"I know. She was entirely discreet. It was only in unguarded moments when she looked worried and slightly guilty that I realized she knew something more. She later told me how she abetted your escape."

"She told you?"

"I suspected her, but I knew she was too intelligent a woman to disclose the information to me upon questioning, so I employed a rather more time-consuming strategy. I removed myself to London entirely, and I spent the winter ingratiating myself with your aunt and uncle. I had begun to give up hope, although to be honest, their society has been so pleasant that I no longer had to use my search as an excuse to visit them, when something changed for your aunt two weeks ago. She seemed more agitated than before, more concerned."

Elizabeth felt her heart constrict. She'd sent her aunt an awful letter a fortnight before, the result of a long sleepless night of misery and self-recrimination. She'd followed it up with a far more cheerful one the next day, but apparently the damage had been done.

"Finally," he continued, "without any request or change in behavior on my part, she approached me during an evening party two nights ago, said, 'You must go to her, sir. She needs you,' and handed me a scrap of paper containing the address of this manor. I left early the next morning, have spent the last day or so trying to learn about this house, which was next to impossible, and finally resolved to simply come here and ask for you. Imagine my surprise when the young man who answered the door allowed me in and said he'd find you presently."

"I am sorry, sir, that you spent so much energy on such a fruitless endeavor, but whatever your purpose is here, nothing will change my situation or my future."

"But why?" he cried, spinning to face her. "Why are you here, Miss Bennet? What is this strange place, this commune of women? What is the purpose of this house, and why did you leave behind all those you loved to come to this forsaken end of the country? I do not understand."

"My choices are mine," Elizabeth answered, feeling the heat of anger begin burning. She was being cryptic, she knew, but who was he to demand answers? "You have found me out. Since the only reason I can imagine you might undertake such a task in the first place would be to prove that there is nothing you cannot accomplish, then I congratulate you. Well done. But I beg you to remember that my life is my own, that in only six more weeks I will reach my majority and my family can do nothing to force my return."

"Force you? Was your family life so terrible? For my part, I was never wholly impressed with your family's behavior, but it was obvious from the moment of your disappearance that they love you deeply, that your actions have cut them. Why would you run from them?"

"Run from them? I do not run from them! I run from myself, sir, and from all the pain I would bring them had I remained. I run for them."

"That makes no sense whatsoever. Unless you committed some heinous act, something wholly despicable, I cannot imagine the pain it would inflict upon them being any worse than the misery they suffer now at your abandonment. It is hard for all of them, but Bingley tells me that your eldest sister and your father suffer most keenly. He says your father only ever leaves his bookroom to sleep or to take long, aimless walks about the estate. And your sister's only relief seems to be Bingley's visits, although he is becoming quite discouraged that she won't agree to set a wedding date until you've been found."

"A wedding date?" Elizabeth gasped, clapping her hands together. "They are to be married? I am so pleased!"

He frowned. "You did not know? Didn't your aunt mention it?"

Elizabeth looked down, ashamed. "I asked her to give me no news of my family. Suzanna said it is usually easier to make a clean break, a fresh start. I miss them dearly, especially Jane and Papa, but it is for the best."

"Who is this Suzanna? Lady Suzanna Winters? She is the mistress of this manor, is she not? And it is called Havenswood, is that right?"

"Yes, Havenswood is her ancestral home. She cares for all of us here, provides us a life of safety, education, and purpose, to prepare us to go back out into the world when we are ready, hopefully for a far better life than we would have found for ourselves."

"Why?" he asked, a vein in his forehead bulging at the effort it took for him to control his temper. "Why are you here, Miss Bennet? And all those women I saw in the lane, in the garden?"

She took a deep breath to control the return of her nausea. She owed him this answer, a part of her said, and yet another part said she owed him nothing. And was he the sort of man who would make trouble for them, who would grow angry at the truth and reveal them to society?

She looked into his eyes earnestly for the first time that morning. He seemed to sense her need to examine him, the gravity of what she sought from him, so he met her gaze openly, pleading silently for an explanation.

"We are all women," she said quickly before she could lose her courage, "who have fallen in the eyes of society, sir. We are all women who had to remove ourselves from our homes, either before our families could discover us or after they did and sent us away. Suzanna takes in as many as she can, provides us a home, a doctor's care, and the word of God to give us hope. In return we care for her estate, we support and teach one another any and all skills we possess, and we provide a sisterhood to care for the children."

"The children?" he asked blankly.

She wanted to roll her eyes at his blindness, but he was far too sincere for her to tease him. "Yes, the children. Every woman who comes here is soon to be a mother, so we watch over and teach the children everything we can to prepare them for the hardship of growing up fatherless."

He shook his head, still confused. "But then why are you here?"

She sighed, allowing her exasperation at him to trump the abject fear clawing at her insides. "Because, sir…" She gripped the arm of the sofa and used her other arm to remove the knitting bag from her lap before pressing on the cushion to provide her the necessary leverage. She rose slowly to her feet and without meeting his eyes, she smoothed the folds of her dress over her rounded middle. "My child and I belong here."