Page 12

Willow

“‘...Colonel Fitzwilliam seemed really glad to see them; any thing was a welcome relief to him at Rosings; and Mrs. Collins’s pretty friend had moreover caught his fancy very much. He now seated himself by her…’”

There’s a pause, a rustle, and I swim against the fog.

I love this story.

Love that even when everything goes wrong, it all still works out in the end.

“It’s about damned time,” that voice mutters, going off script in a way that tugs me close to the surface, tempts me toward consciousness. “Finally someone is getting their fucking head together and realizing what a gift Elizabeth is.”

It’s a male voice.

And that has my stomach churning, my mind freezing, panic and worry tangling with the present.

But pain doesn’t come, and though the voice is gruff bordering on grumpy, it’s not sharp at the edges, doesn’t wound.

So, I stay near the surface and breathe evenly and…

Listen.

“‘...and [he] talked so agreeably of Kent and Hertfordshire, of travelling and staying at home, of new books and music, that Elizabeth had never been half so well entertained in that room before; and they conversed with so much spirit and flow, as to draw the attention of Lady Catherine herself, as well as of Mr. Darcy.’”

He grunts, as though shifting positions because he’s uncomfortable.

And, for the first time in what feels like forever, I notice that I’m achy and stiff and my nerves are on fire.

Like they’re desperate to get to work and start moving this body.

“Yeah, now that some other dude is showing interest, you’re going to pull your head out of your ass?” He snorts. “Douche bag.”

I hear him shift again, the chair creaking, his grunt of pain audible, and I wonder if he’s going to leave, going to stop giving me that gift of his voice, and I strain to move my hand, to reach out and stop him.

And when that doesn’t work, I fight with my eyelids.

They’re leaden and immovable, as though held in place by heavy weights.

And when the man with the gruff yet tender voice begins to read again, I give up the fight. I just do the only thing I can…

I listen.

“‘His eyes had been soon and repeatedly turned towards them with a look of curiosity; and that her ladyship after a while shared the feeling, was more openly acknowledged, for she did not scruple to call out. ‘What is that you are saying, Fitzwilliam? What is it you are talking of? What are you telling Miss Bennet? Let me hear what it is.’”

“Jesus,” the man mutters. “She’s a nosy bitch, isn’t she?”

Then he goes back to reading, “‘We are speaking of music, Madam,’ said he, when no longer able to avoid a reply.’”

“Ugh,” he grumbles and goes on, “‘Of music! Then pray speak aloud. It is of all subjects my delight. I must have my share in the conversation… There are few people in England, I suppose, who have more true enjoyment of music than myself, or a better natural taste. If I had ever learnt, I should have been a great proficient…’”

“God,” he mutters after Lady Catherine has continued to interject and dominate the conversation—and managed to insult Elizabeth’s friend before walking away to bother the next person. “She’s the worst.”

I hear a soft thunk—the book being closed—and then a grunt that is definitely the man getting to his feet.

Not now, I want to tell him.

Not when Mr. Darcy is finally getting the courage up to approach her.

When they’ll talk—well she’ll talk—and tease—again, she’ll tease. But the interaction will be the beginning of them.