#also the sc folder is extremely well-organized and it turns out i had two outlines for each half of the story

[anghraine]

I have a very, very vague memory of there being more of Subsequent Connections than show up on AO3 -- am I totally wrong? It's a delightful series that definitely shows how two very different people deal with finding a birth family -- and in their case, it wasn't something they'd sought for themselves. I was rereading it today and really enjoying it, and thought I'd ask.

Oh, thank you very much! 

It’s such a weird concept for a P&P fic—I would never have thought of it on my own, but I read a couple with the idea of Jane and Elizabeth as Fitzwilliams, and was like “well, if I wrote it, I’d do x and y to make it less painful and then z to make it MORE painful and wouldn’t it be interesting if…” Therein lies the path to hell.

I thiiiiiink the eleventh chapter of SC on AO3 is as far as that particular version of the story ever got, though I had some “missing scene” side pieces that it doesn’t look like I crossposted. I’ve been catching up on crossposting anyway, so I could move those over.

Also, there was an original (substantially different) version of the story that might be what you’re thinking of? With this one, I really wanted to focus more on exactly what you mentioned—the discovery as more than a plot device, the profound effects of Jane having memories of her birth family where Elizabeth doesn’t coupled with differences in personality/situation, the really bizarre position that Darcy ends up in, a more subtle take on the Elizabeth vs Eleanor tension, Milton’s melodramas, and so forth. It’s a lot more gradual.

Bearing in mind that I last updated in *squints* 2009, I dug up my folder for the fic (I save everything), and it looks like I actually was working on something in 2010! And… oh hey, it says Ch 12. I genuinely have no memory of working on this, so this is about as new to me as to anyone else, but … here is what I’d written:

ChapterTwelve

“Goodmorning, Miss Fitzwilliam.”

Elizabethsmiled. “Good morning. How is my grandmother?”

“Herladyship is … she will be pleased to see you, madam.”

Sheis always pleased to see me, Elizabeththought, with more than a trace of regret. Lady Ancaster, haughty,whimsical, and often disordered in her mind, was regarded withvarying degrees of trepidation by all the others.

Eleanor,usually fearless, would greet her with a white face and icy,trembling hands, and turn paler and colder until she fled. Elizabethfelt not the smallest surprise that Eleanor’s brash sort ofcourage, if courage it could be called—all good nerves and boldspirits—would desert her in such a matter as this, and disliked herall the more for it. Yet even Cecily could endure only a few minuteswithout palpable discomfort. Edward refused to come without hisbrother or sister, correcting Lady Ancaster in a flat, humourlessvoice nothing like his own, while loquacious Richard rarely spoke.

Elizabethherself neither felt nor understood any of this. She sat with LadyAncaster almost every day, and treasured thequiet hours she spent with her, away from the rest of the world—reading novels aloud or eagerly listening to her reminiscences. Itwas such a relief to escape from everything,just for a little while; the troubles and irritations of her lifeseemed to weigh much less on her mind, when she could confide them insomeone who listened evenwhen she did not understand.

It helped, too,that Lady Ancaster always loved her, whether she knew her or not. Elizabeth found it strangely easy to accustom herself to being called“Catherine” or “Laura” or even “Cassandra,” often in thecourse of a single conversation.

“Good morning,Grandmama,” she said gaily, kissing her forehead. “How are youtoday?”

“Very well.” Lady Ancaster cast her a sly look. “I heard that you danced thricewith Lord Bertie. I hope you are not thinking seriously of him.”

Elizabethhad never heard of him in her life. She laughed. “Indeed not. Idid go to an assemblylast night, however; we all did. I did not sit down once.”

“Youhave always enjoyed dancing,” Lady Ancaster remarked. Elizabethchose to believe this was true—true for her,not one of the phantoms of her ladyship’s memory.

“I expect so. Icannot remember a time when I did not—so I enjoyed the assembly. Perhaps you do not know, but it was my first since my f—since Icame to Houghton. I cannot remember all the people I met, but theywere all pleasant to me.”

Lady Ancaster casther a sharp look. “Only to you, Phylly?”

“ ‘Tis Elizabeth,not Philadelphia,” she said easily, “and of course they were not. At least—well, everybody was very deferential to my uncle,naturally, and people always seem to like Edward for some reason.”

“Charm andcharity do not always have very much to say to one another.”

Elizabeth’sbrow furrowed. “Er, quite so. Then there is Richard; he makeshimself agreeable everywhere. Eleanor, I suppose, intimidates theworld into fearful awe, but Cecily—I could not help overhearing—”

“Do you refer to the elder MissFitzwilliam?” Sir George looked incredulous. He was abaronet, Elizabeth had been reliably informed—a young, attractivebaronet of good family—four thousand a-year—and expectationsof a doting godmother, too—

“The younger is, er, dancing with,er, Mr Talbot, I believe.”

“I believe,” he saidicily, “that a man of family and refinement, such as myself, mightaim a little higherthan a witless, penniless girl with no greater claims than those shealready makes on the earl’s charity. Forgive me if my requirementsare too nice.”

Elizabeth,scarcely able to believe her ears, turned to Cecily in astonishment. She immediately wished she had not; Cecily’s bloodless face crumpled—in humiliation, misery—in everything but surprise, then wentblank.  Elizabeth was strongly reminded of a kicked puppy.  

“I know you are fond of Cecilia, and her circumstances certainlyattract an undesirable degree of attention,” Lady Ancaster said,“but Laura, dear, you must know by now that your cousin is quitecapable of managing her own concerns.”

Elizabethpressed her lips together. “Forgive me, madam, but Cecilyis nothing of the kind.”

Something flickered in her grandmother’s eyes. “Cecily?” sherepeated. “It was not Henry’s Cecilia, then? I never heard thatshe was called—oh!  'Twas little Cecilia, then?”

“Yes, Grandmama.”

“Ohdear.”

Elizabeth snatched at the moment of lucidity. “Sir George Pelham—I don’t know if you are acquainted with him, but he declined to dancewith her in very uncivil terms. No; I believe it was more than awant of consideration, but active cruelty. Poor Cecily heard everyword.”

“I detest all the race of Pelhams,” said Lady Ancaster.

“I certainly detest him.” Elizabeth sprang up, unable to remainquiescent in her chair, and paced furiously before the window. “Heasked to dance with me later. I am no handsomer than Cecily and wehave all the same connections, so I cannot think what made thedifference.”

“I trust, my dear, that you managed to refuse the compliment in thespirit it deserved.”

Elizabeth laughed. “I persuaded him that he must have mistaken mefor Eleanor.”

“Theresemblance is not thatstrong.” Lady Ancaster gave her a sharp look. “You must havebeen very persuasive, Elizabeth.”

Sheopened her eyes very wide. “Oh, but Sir George could not haveintended such a great compliment to me, a mere poor relation of LordAncaster’s. He made that perfectlyclear when he disparagedmy cousin to half the room; only the earl’s daughtercould possibly be worthy of such a discriminating taste.”

“I see,” murmured the countess.

“Naturally,” Elizabeth added, her tone sharpening, “I alwayswish to be of use to my superiors, so I explained his error to himbefore I returned to my proper place. He must have understood, forhe asked Eleanor to dance immediately afterward.”

“Did she accept?”

“Eleanor? Of course not.” And her brusque refusal had expressedall the astonishment and contempt that Elizabeth could have hopedfor. Sir George had been humiliated before everyone in earshot.

Hergrandmother laughed, then fell silent; Elizabeth remained at thewindow, staring at the dirty, melting snow. In retrospect,she supposed she should not have done it. Polite set-downs were onething; with her sharp tongue and quick temper, and even a sort ofinnocent vanity, she had certainly delivered more than one of those. But this was not an intemperate remark. Spur-of-the-momentthough it had been, she had contrived—schemed.  

Elizabeth shut hereyes. She had been so angry, the blazing fury blinding her toeverything but herself and that stupid, self-important littlepopinjay. Since her father’s death, apathy seemed to have consumedevery slice of rage she ought to have felt, until that moment. Thenall at once, she felt it all.

Mr and Mrs Bennet—and Mr and Mrs Fitzwilliam—were gone. She could hardly returnEleanor’s abrasive manners or Edward’s caustic insouciance in kind,not without descending to their level of incivility. James and Janedeserved nothing less than the gentle kindness they dispensed to all. As for Darcy, she could not say with any certainty what she thoughtof him, or felt toward him. He was clever, interesting; hehad not thought her handsome enough to dance with; he had started allof this; he was at Pemberley.

In some fashion oranother, they were all beyond the reach of her anger; but Sir George,standing before her—smiling—

“Goodmorning,” whispered Cecily, her smile bright and brittle. “How is she today?”“Well enough,”Elizabeth said. “She had a few lucid moments, atleast.”Cecily bit her lip. “I—I washoping I could steal you away, Elizabeth. The snow is nearlyall melted, and my uncle says we may walk out again.”“Oh! I should very much enjoy that—just permit me a moment to put apillow under—thank you, Theodore.” She bent to kiss LadyAncaster’s wrinkled cheek, then hurried after Cecily.“Thankyou,” she said. “You see, Sir George called; SirGeorge Pelham, who—you remember? He—Ella refused to dancewith him last night. Apparently he has some business withEdward.”Elizabeth laughed. “I did notknow anybody had business with Edward.”“Hedoesn’t.” Cecily quickened her steps. “Ofcourse he came to see Ella. Brown thinks so, at any rate; Ididn’t see him myself—did not even know he was here, until she toldme. Then I went down to Lord Ancaster’s study, and found you,and—well. I would rather not see him, and it is a niceday.”“It is a very nice day,” Elizabethagreed, uncertain whether she felt more pity at Cecily’s quandary, oramusement at Eleanor’s.“That is exactly what Ithought! And—and perhaps you would like to see Gulliver? I am sure you haven’t.”Elizabeth, though lighter andseveral inches taller than her cousin, almost ran to keep up withher. “Who is Gulliver?” she asked breathlessly,blinking when they stepped outside, into the daylight.“Mydog,” said Cecily, smiling more genuinely. “Oh, I amglad to be outside again. Are not the gardens pretty?—He’s twelve years old; Fitzwilliam gave him to me when he was justa puppy. He said it was a favour, that Gulliver was sougly that nobody else would take him, and he certainly didn’t wanthim, but I knew better. It was my birthday, and boys—youknow how they are.” “Oh, yes,” saidElizabeth.“Edward and Richard’s dogs frightened him,poor thing, so he doesn’t sleep in the house any more. EvenAunt Milton’s pug terrified him. It was ridiculous,really, to see Gulliver cowering before a little dog like that.”“Ishould like to see him very much,” Elizabeth said, rememberingJane’s account of her early quarrels with Pugsy. “I adoredogs. Where do you keep him, Cecily?”Cecilyhesitated, then grinned up at her, her usual manner entirelyrestored. “I shan’t tell you until we get there,” shesaid airily.  “It will be a surprise.—Do not worry,it isn’t far.”They talked lightly as they walked,somewhere between enjoyment and relief. Cecily spotted a bunchof chrysanthemums with a cry of delight, promptly picking them all. Elizabeth only shook her head and asked about their second cousins ontheir mothers’ side.Within a few minutes, she foundherself staring at a small, square, ridiculously picturesque house. It was built on a small eminence, backed by three stands of trees,and looked out upon all the splendour and elegance of Houghtonproper.  Snow still adorned the roof, cheerful yellow curtainshung in the windows—windows undoubtedly covered by honeysuckle inthe summer. Gilpin himself could not have improved upon it.

“Is it notpretty?”

“Very,” saidElizabeth. “Is this the parsonage?”