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Mr. Bennet

“I am not going,”

said Lydia, with folded arms and a rebellious air.

“You must,”

cried Mrs. Bennet.

“Or I shall have Kitty go in your stead.”

“I am not going either,”

said Kitty, without looking up from the ribbon she was pretending to sort.

Mrs.

Bennet blinked at them both.

Barely a month ago, they might have quarrelled for the privilege of merely glimpsing a regiment upon the road.

And now—an invitation to Brighton, with real officers, real uniforms, and the Colonel’s wife as their chaperone—was declined as though it were a sentence to the parish poorhouse.

In her younger days, such an offer would have provoked exclamations of delight, an excess of ribbons, and perhaps even a well-timed swoon.

“Lydia, my love,”

she began again, in her most coaxing voice.

“Do you know how I pined—pined—to be asked to travel with Colonel Miller’s regiment? Oh, the riding parties, the picnics, the musical evenings! And now you are invited—and you refuse? Brighton, Lydia! Only imagine it—the sea air, the sandy shore, the officers' entertainments!”

“I am not going,”

came the now familiar reply.

“But how do you intend to marry an officer,”

demanded Mrs. Bennet, her voice rising with every word.

“if you will not place yourself in their company?”

“I never said I wished to marry one,”

Lydia replied coolly.

“I have reconsidered. I must have a gentleman of true consequence—a viscount at the very least. Though a duke would be far preferable.”

“A prince, perhaps?”

came Mr. Bennet’s voice from the doorway, having caught the last part of the conversation.

“Papa,”

said Lydia with a pout.

“you are making sport of me.”

“Indeed. It is the only means by which I preserve my sanity under this roof.”

Mrs.

Bennet, who had now taken to fanning herself with the invitation, muttered something about ingratitude and the shocking independence daughters now assumed, and swept from the room in a flutter of indignation.

As it happened, neither Lydia nor Kitty married a prince, a duke’s son, or even a man in uniform.

They married brothers—respectable, untitled gentlemen—whom they encountered at a gathering held at Pemberley.

Lydia was, at first, disappointed that neither gentleman bore a title, but found some consolation in the prospect of spending half the year in London.

Kitty, to the surprise of many, acquired a degree of good sense in time, and was, in the end, considered the happier of the two.

Their dearest friend, Georgiana, likewise formed an acquaintance with a gentleman at the same gathering; but she required nearly sixteen months of courtship before accepting his addresses—a circumstance which gave the greatest satisfaction to the Countess.

Georgiana at length consented to become the Countess of __.

As for the officers—those gallant figures in scarlet—they were soon consigned to memory, along with a certain George Wickham, who had departed for the West Indies and was heard of no more.

Saturday, January 25, 1812

Lambton

Reverend Thomas Ainsley

Reverend Mr. Thomas Ainsley, now in his eighty-second year, sat in composed stillness amid the morning light, the day’s post resting in his lap. Though his duties in the parish had long since ceased, his faculties had not. His mind remained clear, his hand steady, and his eyes—remarkably unaffected by time—were still keen enough to thread a needle or detect a misplaced comma in the Times.

And at present, those eyes were fixed with interest upon a particular envelope that lay among the rest.

It was not every day that a letter arrived bearing the hand of Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy of Pemberley; in fact, he could not recall such an event ever occurring.

Mrs. Reynolds, that most dutiful of housekeepers, had been the usual correspondent from that great house: each December brought her neat hand on cream paper, offering the season’s good wishes and a small parcel of preserves or honey, sometimes both. These tokens were always well meant and politely received. But a personal letter from the master of Pemberley himself? That was something else entirely.

He turned the envelope over once more, examining the crest, the paper, the seal. Everything about it was precisely what one would expect from a man of Mr. Darcy’s standing: discreet, well-crafted, and entirely without ostentation.

Still, the timing puzzled him most. Mr. Darcy had been married only the week before—married in a church in one of the more remote southern counties, if the local whispers were to be believed. That a man, fresh in his first days of matrimony, should take up a pen to write to an old clergyman of passing acquaintance seemed… peculiar.

And yet here it was.

He drew a slow breath and murmured quietly to himself.

“Well, let us see,”

before breaking the seal, unfolding the heavy paper, and beginning to read.

Grosvenor Square, London

January 20

Reverend Sir,

You may be surprised to receive a letter from me, as we have never before corresponded; yet I trust it will not be unwelcome.

There is a certain matter, long unresolved, which I believe you ought to hear—concerning one whom you once endeavoured, with admirable persistence, to discover.

But first, allow me to speak of happier news.

You may already have heard of my recent marriage.

My wife is most eager to be introduced to you.

We are to return to Pemberley shortly and, should it be agreeable to you, we hope to call at the parsonage.

Now to the point: you once related to me an incident at a wedding you had presided over—an affair interrupted by some mischief, when the poor groom was struck by a stone, thrown by an unknown boy.

You said the culprit was never found.

I write to tell you that he has been.

I cannot name him, but rest assured, he has had his comeuppance.

Not by rod or reprimand, but by the subtler hand of Providence: he has fallen in love—and, what is more, been loved in return.

Thus, Heaven’s justice has been done, not by punishment, but by affection—of the most enduring and inconvenient sort.

I thought the story might still amuse you.

With the highest regard,

Your obedient servant,

Fitzwilliam Darcy

Reverend Thomas Ainsley slowly lowered the letter to his lap. The corners of his mouth, long trained to solemnity, betrayed the faintest curl of amusement.

“Well,”

he said aloud, addressing no one in particular save the mantel clock and the dust motes waltzing in the slanting light.

“it seems the Lord does not always choose fire and brimstone.”

He reached for his teacup—now quite cold—and regarded it fondly, as though it too had been in on the joke. Then, with a quiet, contented exhale, he smiled into the silence of his sitting room.

After all, some sermons are best delivered by life itself.

Insults

Meet Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy like no other, the embodiment of every Regency lady's romantic dream: a gentleman to the core, and one who remains so even after facing numerous trials. Insults is a novel that heralds the power of true love and how it always prevails.

"She is tolerable, but not handsome enough to tempt me."

The potency of an insult is profound, evoking diverse emotions, moulding thoughts, behaviours, and engagements.

Insults possess a remarkable capacity to linger in memory, casting their influence across lifetimes, permanently reshaping the path of one's existence.

It is not unfair to assert that insults hold lives of their own.

Regrettably, even an unborn insult has the power to reshape lives, as our dear couple discovers in this variation.

Insults form the fulcrum of the tale in this variation, but not in the way you think.

The most infamous insult mentioned above does make an appearance, but not the way you think.