Hello everyone!

I should probably warn you, if you didn't take the hint in the description: THIS HAS A BETTER REWORK.

I wrote this as a pretty depressed hormonal pre-teen with no one to vent to, so now that I know better I'll try to make them less immature. In case that wasn't blaringly obvious in the reviews, THERE ARE IMMATURE CHARACTERS AND NOT A LOT OF PLOT IN THIS STORY. Some of it is historically inaccurate.

Please understand that I only kept this up because those who've voted on my poll concerning the matter voted in favor of keeping this one up. YOU'VE BEEN WARNED.

On that note, enjoy the childish fluff!

~Alex

Lizzy had never minded what other people thought of her, especially because she was only six years old. No one's opinion had ever mattered to her more than her father's or Jane's, and they always reassured her that she was a good person – and she trusted their judgement, since Jane was the much more mature age of eight, and their father was even older and more experienced – thirty-nine. Or maybe it was thirty-nine. She couldn't be expected to keep count, but she tried anyways.

It was well into the summer that her father took her to see the parks of London. Hyde Park was, of course, out of the question, but some of the other parks welcomed the lower-class gentry, such as a few near Gracechurch Street, and some more near the affluent part of London – and an unfortunate distance from Aunt and Uncle Gardiner's home.

"Papa!" Elizabeth complained, pushing her brunette curls out of her chocolate brown eyes. "Why do we have to walk so far?"

"Now, Lizzy, we will be there soon, so you will be able to rest your poor tired feet. I apologize, my girl, but your uncle cannot spare any horses for our carriage, and you will have to walk. Jane at least does not complain, see? Worry not, my girl, you will be able to climb trees as much as you like, and run around to your heart's content. Perhaps you can even weave a flower crown for Mary."

"What good does a flower crown do for a girl of four years, Papa?" Elizabeth stubbornly asked, halting.

"Very well, for Kitty, perhaps?"

"It does even less for a two-year-old!"

"Alright, for Jane, then."

"Alright!" Elizabeth still remained standing in one place.

"Lizzy, the faster we walk, the sooner you can get there, and the sooner you can rest your feet."

"Yes, Papa." She began walking again.

"Now remember, there are two parks to visit today."

"Yes, Papa."

The first of these was a park the Elizabeth could not be bothered to remember the name of. It was wide, beautiful expanse of soft green grass, and on such a fair day as this one, it appeared to be liberty and freedom itself under the blue sky. There were trees and park benches, of course, but most of those were scorned by Elizabeth as she ran out onto the green, accompanied by her father and Jane. Their father took them to a part of the park where they would not be seen by most of the more fashionable crowd in the park, where Elizabeth could try to climb trees to her heart's content. And climb she did – after a good tea time picnic and a nice long rest for her 'poor tired feet'.

Jane had brought a few little snacks from her Aunt Gardiner's kitchen as well as the hamper their father had brought, and sat placidly next to her father as she enjoyed the treats. Elizabeth crowed from the third highest branch in the tree, her frock miraculously unharmed, as she waved her hands from the top. "Papa! Papa! See how high I can climb!"

Her father smiled indulgently, and beckoned her down to eat. "Lizzy, if you do not come down and eat, you will have nothing to eat later, and then you will regret it." Elizabeth scowled but climbed down. However, after a scone or two and some milk, she was racing across the grass with her arms stretched out. She had never been in this park before, so she was determined to enjoy it as much as possible before she must return to Gracechurch Street.

Such was her enjoyment, however, that she did not see the kite flying up in front of her, or its owner, focused solely on his pastime to notice the little girl in front of him, until they collided with such force as to bowl even the tall boy over.

His kite-string got tangled up in his dark hair and his arms, while the kite itself hit the ground four feet away from them. Elizabeth, disoriented, took a moment before she realized that the boy was standing up and trying to disengage the string from his purple fingers. He failed miserably, even managing to entangle his numb fingers even more.

Elizabeth laughed and reached up. "No – the string goes there, now the reel underneath, and over, and back again, no – not between them, over them. Sorry, did I tug it too hard? Sorry!" She tugged determinedly at the string, unknotting it, untying it, untangling it, until she could safely pull it out of his hands without cutting off one or more of his fingers.

Only when she had completely disentangled the boy's now-normal-coloured fingers did she dare to look up and examine him.

He was very tall, almost double her height, and looked to be about twelve or thirteen, even older than Jane, judging from his clothing. He was no longer in a little boy's coats, and he was also out of skeleton suits, evident by his green coat, cream breeches, dark boots, and cravat. His hair was very dark brown, almost black, and tousled, so that it looked very boyish and kind of... adorable, although his demeanour warranted that he would never wish to be called such. His face had not yet lost its childish roundness, but it was as serious and grave as a grown man's – or even more so, since Elizabeth had never seen her father look that severe. She wondered why so young a boy would be so sad-looking, though his face was flushed with the running he had been doing to follow his kite.

She at last raised her eyes to his. They were a brilliant cerulean blue, almost as light as the sky above him, and were studying her intently. Unashamedly returning his gaze, she noticed a golden ring around the blue irises.

"Hello, sir. I apologize for crashing into you," she said lightly, dropping into a rather awkward curtsy. She felt even more embarrassed about her bumbling curtsy when he sketched a perfect bow. "Good afternoon, miss." He dragged his bright blue-and-yellow square toy back to him, and Elizabeth felt bubbly with excitement. It was a beautiful – what was it? "What is that?"

"That is a kite," he said, articulating clearly and carefully to make sure she understood. He hesitated for but one second, then he offered her the reel. "Do you want to fly it? -Just once." His voice was not very deep, but it cracked several times all the same.

Elizabeth squealed in delight. This was wonderful! "Yes! Yes! Thank you!" she cried, throwing her arms around the boy's waist, which was the highest she could reach. He stood still, awkward, until he – driven by an instinct, perhaps (it certainly seemed so) – pulled his arm up and stroked her hair. When she skipped back, he gave her the reel and held up the kite. They waited until a strong gust of air blew their hair into their eyes, at which point the boy shouted, "Run as fast as you can when I say 'go!' alright?"

"Alright!"

"One, two, three, GO!"

Elizabeth pumped her little legs as fast as they could go – and it was fast. She looked back, breathless, and saw the great big blue bird soaring on the wind, and then she concentrated on her running. Finally the boy shouted, "Now stay still and let the wind do its work!"

She obeyed, turning back to see the kite flapping up and down in the wind, and the boy running towards her, a grin on his stoic face. It transformed his expression completely, and his demeanour went from staid and proper to boyish, wild, and happy. To her immense astonishment he actually did a cartwheel at the last stretch, coming up in front of her. She felt envious of his obvious dexterity and freedom, because his cartwheel was free and easy, and he evidently was very good at it.

"You are very good for a novice," he remarked, looking up at the kite. "In fact, you are very good, even if you had not been a beginner. I believe you have got the hang of the kite-string better than I!"

Elizabeth smiled. "Thank you!" As payback for the compliment, she handed the reel back to him, and steered his hands – they really were very inept – so that he flew the kite properly.

He smiled at her when the wind dropped as well as the kite. "Thank you for your instruction, Miss -?" He stopped short, remembering that he did not know her name.

"Elizabeth. Elizabeth Bennet." She grinned at him, and he smiled again.

"Miss Bennet, then."

"No, no, I am not Miss Bennet," she said petulantly, making him school his features, though an amused grin still danced in his eyes. Yes, his eyes. They were so expressive that they could be taken as a face altogether. "Miss Bennet is my sister Jane! I am Miss Elizabeth!"

He gave her a grave bow. "May I have the honour of meeting your sister, Miss Elizabeth?"

"Wait; not yet. I have not learned your name yet."

He shrugged uneasily. "If you have been good enough as to supply me with your full and real name, perhaps I should do so as well." He rolled up his reel. "Fitzwilliam George Alexander Darcy, at your service, Miss Elizabeth."

"How can you say that?" she asked in consternation. "Fitz-will-um is already a mouthful, and you add 'George Ale-sander Darcy' to that as well?"

He laughed. "I find it tedious to pronounce my name in its entirety, so I shorten it. Most people call me Mr. Darcy the younger, or Master Darcy, but I prefer to be called Fitz, as my cousins call me."

Elizabeth wrinkled her nose. "Fitz sounds like fizz – you are not fizz! May I call you William instead, Master Darcy?"

"William it shall be, then," he said, laughing again at her reaction to his nickname.

"And you may and can call me Lizzy," she offered.

"Not yet," he said. "I wish to be further acquainted with someone before I call them by a nickname. My cousin Richard, for example, I have known all my life, so I call him Richie. My cousin Alexander, who is named after his father – where my third name comes from – allows me and only me to call him Alex. So I will not call you Lizzy until we are better acquainted."

"Oh, very well."

"Fitzwilliam!" A man's voice carried over the field. "Where are you?"

"Oh," said Fitzwilliam, looking abashed. "That is my father. I must go, Miss Elizabeth. Goodbye!" The boy gathered his kite to his chest and took off. Elizabeth stared after him, looking for the man he said to be his father. William was very fast, she could give him that, although if she was his height and age she could probably still win in a race. Disappointed not to catch a glimpse of the older Mr. Darcy, she wandered back to her father and Jane, and ate a few more scones.

"Now, Lizzy," said her father mischievously, "I saw you running around earlier, with some poor boy's kite. What did you do now, Miss Lizzy?"

"I did not steal it, Papa," Elizabeth protested. "I bumped into him, and he offered to let me fly it once."

"Did he, now?"

"Yes Papa, and he is very tall. He says to call him William, and he looks very sad when he does not smile," Elizabeth rambled on, as a six-year-old is likely to do when they meet a person they like, particularly when that person has lent them his or her kite.

"How old is he?" Mr. Bennet wondered aloud.

"I think he is twelve, or maybe thirteen, Papa, for he is in men's clothes and not skeleton suits like you say boys have when they can wear pants but not breeches." She picked at the cloth on her father's knee for emphasis. "Also, he is very tall, and his voice is not very deep, but it deeper than mine – and it wobbles."

"Wobbles?" repeated Mr. Bennet in amusement.

"Yes, it wobbles, Papa! One minute his voice is deeper than yours, next minute it is as high as mine! And sometimes it is in between, so he sounds not quite a boy – but not quite a girl, either," she said, and scrambled off her father's knee to climb more trees.

Thomas Bennet laughed as his daughter pelted him with some of the small blossoms from the tree.