Page 11 of Moments Frozen in Time (Pride and Prejudice Variation)
DARCY
T he weeks at Netherfield passed with a dull, almost painful sameness.
Each day blended into the next, marked by tedious conversation and little to occupy the mind.
The only moments of genuine enjoyment came during my brief rides across the estate—especially when those rides brought me into the company of Miss Elizabeth Bennet.
Nearly every morning, I spotted her atop what I had learnt was called Oakham Mount when I rode out. She seemed to delight in early mornings and solitary walks outdoors—yet another trait we unexpectedly shared.
Although I refrained from dismounting and engaging her in extended conversation in the days following our first encounter, the temptation was always present.
Each morning, I wished to dismount and sit with her as I had that first morning, but I resisted, exchanging brief greetings with her from the safe position atop my horse.
Still, I had seen her again after church, and in those few minutes of easy conversation, I was reminded exactly why I had found her so compelling.
There had been a brief moment when I questioned her intentions—wondering if she might be another grasping female—but she quickly put me at ease.
It soon became clear that her manner was not calculated but genuinely kind.
In that, it seemed my late mother’s words about her—spoken without ever having met the lady—were entirely accurate.
She was unlike anyone I had ever known, or at the least, I had met few like her.
The lady was quick-witted, observant, and unafraid to speak her mind.
There was a freshness to her manner, a liveliness of expression that caught me off guard.
In town, I was accustomed to carefully measured words and practised smiles, but this lady’s smiles felt genuine.
Despite this, I could not allow myself to forget who I was or who she was.
The distance between our stations was not insurmountable, perhaps, but it was significant.
My family, my obligations, and the expectations I carried on my shoulders all formed invisible walls I could not easily breach.
Closing my eyes, I recalled my mother’s words from the assembly, which only confused matters more.
What was I to Elizabeth Bennet, after all? Merely a guest in the neighbourhood where she had lived her whole life—a man whose conversation she did not shun, but whose presence likely meant little once he rode away.
Yet I found myself anticipating our next encounter with an eagerness I could not justify. I told myself it was the pleasure of intelligent conversation, nothing more. But I knew better. Even now, the memory of her unguarded smile lingered far too vividly in my mind.
Undoubtedly, my growing restlessness could be traced to the enforced confinement of the past two days.
The rain had begun almost the moment we returned to Netherfield after Sunday services and had persisted without mercy, steady and unbroken, seemingly without end.
It fell through the afternoon, intensified overnight, and continued into the next morning.
After thirty-six hours of Miss Bingley’s ceaseless prattle and thinly veiled barbs, I found myself longing for any excuse to step outdoors .
“Another downpour,” she sighed dramatically, gazing out the window during a late breakfast. “How dreadfully dull the countryside becomes when one cannot even walk in the garden. I do hope it clears by this evening, or I fear I shall go mad.”
“Indeed,” I murmured, keeping my eyes on my coffee.
Until that morning, I had not fully realised how much I depended on my early rides to preserve my patience in Miss Bingley’s company.
On occasion, she could be tolerable—amusing, even—but the prolonged time in her presence, without relief or diversion, tested my endurance.
She tilted her head, clearly pleased to have drawn a response from me. “Perhaps we might organise a game later? Something to raise our spirits. Whist, or perhaps a few charades? I daresay you would make an excellent Hamlet, Mr. Darcy.”
“I believe I shall retire to the library,” I replied, my tone deliberately neutral. “Perhaps something a bit less tragic than Hamlet .”
Her laugh rang out—light, polished, and unmistakably rehearsed, obviously a performance rather than a genuine expression of amusement.
I offered no further reaction to her words, unwilling to reward her efforts with further engagement.
Bingley, unfortunately, had excused himself to tend to some matter of business, leaving me to shoulder the burden of Miss Bingley’s gloom alone since Mr. and Mrs. Hurst provided no assistance.
The remainder of the afternoon proved little better.
Wherever I turned, she seemed to be there.
She lingered in the library whilst I attempted to read, attempting to engage me in conversation.
Later, she joined me uninvited during a solitary moment by the window, remarking on the rain with affected despair.
Her attention to me was constant, and her conversation grew increasingly tiresome the longer she prattled on.
By that evening, I resorted to retiring early under the pretence of fatigue, if only to preserve what little patience remained to me.
Thus, when the rain finally began to ease the following morning, I was already on my way to the stables, resolved to ride whether the ground was dry or not.
The air was heavy with damp, the earth sodden and treacherous in places, but I welcomed it.
Anything was preferable to another day confined indoors.
For a few moments, I lingered briefly at the stable yard before ordering Mithras to be saddled, allowing the pale morning sun a few minutes to work its slow magic on the worst of the mud.
Although I told myself I simply wished to stretch my legs, to restore some rhythm to my days, I knew better. The truth was far less rational.
I hoped to see Miss Elizabeth.
Whether she would venture out after so much rain was uncertain, but the possibility was enough to draw me forward.
Despite every effort to temper my thoughts, she continued to intrude in ways that both intrigued and unsettled me.
Whilst I had no claim to her time or attention, I found myself wishing for both.
Try as I might, I could not banish her from my thoughts—or ignore the strange memory from the assembly. My mother’s words, or what I had believed to be her words, lingered far too vividly.
Despite my efforts to dismiss it as imagination, the notion that my long-deceased mother might somehow have spoken in favour of Miss Elizabeth refused to leave me.
The rational part of my mind knew such a thing could not be.
Yet, the clarity of the experience—the feeling that her voice had truly spoken to me—continued to unsettle and perplex.
Shaking my head to dispel the memory, I dismounted Mithras at the base of Oakham Mount. The path was too muddy and slick after the rain to ride the remainder of the way, so I led the stallion to a secure spot, then continued on foot towards the summit.
When I reached the top and found it empty, a surprising wave of disappointment rose in me. It was foolish to expect her, especially after two days of rain. Yet I could not help the sense of letdown, far stronger than it should have been for someone I had known for such a short time .
I paused at the edge of the hilltop, allowing myself a moment to absorb the view. The damp air smelt of earth and moss, and the distant landscape lay softened beneath a veil of mist. I exhaled slowly, attempting to steady myself and sort through the odd mix of emotions that had taken hold.
Then, sudden and unmistakable, it came again—the voice of my mother, as vivid in my mind as though she stood close enough for me to touch. It was softer now, yet it carried the same warmth I had cherished in life. “Open your eyes, Fitzwilliam… and your heart.”
Startled, I turned sharply, half-expecting to see someone behind me. But it was not my mother. It was Elizabeth Bennet.
She was approaching from the path, her boots and hem heavy with mud, her cheeks flushed from the effort. I knew that path well enough to understand what she had endured to reach this point. I had ridden part of the way; she had walked every step.
An unfamiliar warmth rose in my chest at the sight. I took a moment to consider what that might mean; I was certain it was something like admiration but laced with something deeper, more lasting. I could not look away from her.
Inwardly, I resolved to accompany her when she returned down the path.
The ground was still slick, the footing treacherous in places.
I would not allow her to descend alone. I wondered whether I could accompany her all the way back to Longbourn and wondered whether I could do so unobserved.
Although I did not wish to hide my interest in her entirely, given what she said about her mother, I did want to be careful of raising expectations or inciting gossip in the area before I had made a decision.
“Good morning, Miss Elizabeth,” I said at last, waiting until she had reached a steadier portion of the path before addressing her.
Her head lifted quickly at the sound of my voice. “Good morning, Mr. Darcy,” she replied, slightly breathless, her cheeks flushed from exertion and—unless I imagined it—lit with a spark of pleasure at seeing me.
“I was unsure whether I might encounter you today,” I admitted after a brief pause. “Yet I suspected that someone as intrepid as you would not let a bit of mud keep her indoors.”
The corner of her mouth curved, and then she laughed. The sound was warm, unrestrained, and utterly delightful. Exactly as I had hoped.