Page 61 of Moments Frozen in Time (Pride and Prejudice Variation)
DARCY
A few days after the confrontation with Miss Bingley, I received a letter from Charles Bingley. I was tempted to toss it into the fire unread, but curiosity got the better of me.
To my surprise, the letter was clearly written, not at all in his usual manner, and stated his intention to follow my aunt’s suggestion: he, his sister and their mother would be relocating to the Americas as soon as he could arrange the journey.
He did not ask for my forgiveness nor make any promise that I would never see him again but simply stated his intentions to remove himself from our society.
Elizabeth and I followed my aunt’s recommendation and remained in town through the first part of June, departing the Monday after Derby Day. Although we attended far more events than I would have preferred, we still managed to decline a fair number, much to my aunt’s chagrin.
“It is your duty to be seen, Fitzwilliam,” she would huff, waving an invitation in one hand. “How else is society to accept your marriage unless you give them no excuse to speak against it?”
“My dear aunt,” Elizabeth replied once with a smile both pleasant and politely dismissive, “I daresay society will find fault with me no matter how often I am seen. But I will not sacrifice my husband’s peace—or my own—to appease those determined to find us wanting.”
My aunt, stunned into silence for half a second, simply muttered something about “a true Darcy” and relented.
It would be disingenuous to say Elizabeth was universally admired—many ladies of the ton made thinly veiled attempts to intimidate her, and more than a few insinuated a greater intimacy with me than ever existed, hoping to provoke jealousy or insecurity.
Yet each time, Elizabeth met their efforts with composed dignity and a serene smile that unsettled even the most seasoned of society’s schemers.
One such attempt came from a particular lady—I believed her to be an associate of Miss Bingley, if not an outright friend—whose venom was poorly disguised beneath affected sweetness. She approached us at a soirée with feigned delight and unmistakable intent to distress Elizabeth.
“How are you this evening, Mrs. Darcy?” the woman asked, her voice sugared to near cloying sweetness, though the glint in her eye betrayed true intent.
“It must be quite an adjustment, stepping into the Society here in town. Your Mr. Darcy has always been so very...attentive to ladies in the first circles. Why, I distinctly recall both Lady Amelia Hartwell and Miss Cassandra Ashcombe speaking last Season of how devoted he seemed to them. Of course, he must have been playing one off the other, but you know how fickle men can be. Your husband was ever generous with his attentions—how remarkable it is that you were the one to finally capture him.”
Elizabeth tilted her head slightly, the corners of her mouth curving into a measured smile.
She turned her gaze to me, her expression serene yet alight with mischief.
“Is that so? How strange—I do not recall him speaking of either lady with much enthusiasm. I believe he danced with each of them just once at his aunt’s urging.
.. and afterwards declared their conversation left much to be desired.
Did you not say something to that effect, Fitzwilliam? ”
I schooled my features into neutrality, although the effort it took not to laugh was considerable. The lady’s expression faltered, her lips parted in silent disbelief as Elizabeth calmly turned back to her tea.
Still attempting to recover, the woman sidled closer to me, as if to renew her efforts by trying to encourage me to ask her to dance. I was preparing to politely decline, but Elizabeth spoke again before I had the chance.
“Shall we find my sister, Fitzwilliam? She mentioned wishing to speak with Lord Stratton about his roses,” Elizabeth asked.
“With pleasure, my love,” I replied, offering my arm. As we stepped away, I cast a glance over my shoulder and saw the woman glowering into her untouched punch.
Elizabeth leant in, her voice a whisper that tickled my ear while her words had me falling more deeply in love with her.
“That was immensely satisfying, dearest. She clearly meant to unsettle me, but to accuse you of being a social butterfly?” She gave a soft laugh.
“Even if I had not seen firsthand how uncomfortable you are at such gatherings, your aunt has regaled me with story after story of your distaste for society events and how often she had to drag you to parties herself.”
“I believe she hoped to embarrass us both,” I replied, “although I will admit she chose a rather poor tactic.”
“A much better one would have been to accuse you of insulting me,” Elizabeth said with a smirk. “You know how quick I am to take offense.”
“But she would not know that. She used the only weapons in her arsenal—innuendo and the hope of undermining your confidence.”
“If you had been more like Mr. Bingley, I might have doubted you,” she teased. “But as you are very much not, her words fell rather flat.”
“You, my dearest,” I said, lifting her hand to my lips, “are the only woman with whom I have ever had the misfortune—by which I mean the very greatest fortune—to fall most hopelessly in love. ”
Her smile lingered long after, and I knew then that the evening had been, in every way, a success.
During our months in London, we attended countless events—many of which I still disliked, even with Elizabeth at my side. Yet I found myself missing Georgiana, just as it was plain Elizabeth missed her sisters.
In our private moments, I took delight in seeing Elizabeth’s eyes brighten as she shared some witty remark from Kitty, a thoughtful reflection from Mary, or a surprisingly perceptive comment from Lydia, all conveyed in their letters.
She often recounted the substance of their literary debates, carried on so eagerly through the post. I was quietly amused—and greatly impressed—by the seriousness with which the sisters defended their opinions on characters and plots, discoursing with a fervour more often reserved for weightier matters.
That they readily included Georgiana in their exchanges warmed my heart, and that she not only responded but distinguished herself in such spirited debates filled me with quiet pride.
When at last we returned to Pemberley, I was gratified to see how well our sisters were progressing—not only under Mrs. Annesley’s careful guidance, but also the bonds of friendship that had formed amongst them.
Georgiana, once so painfully shy, was steadily blossoming into the young woman I had long hoped she might become.
Her voice, once scarcely audible, now carried a gentle confidence; her laughter was light and unforced; and she no longer shrank from the notice of others.
More often than not, she even initiated conversation with her companions.
I knew this new assurance would be tested as Elizabeth began to entertain more frequently at Pemberley, but I no longer feared that Georgiana’s reserve would render her too shy for society.
Rather, I perceived in her a quiet strength that would endure even under scrutiny .
To the surprise of both Elizabeth and myself, Lydia—who, by my wife’s account, had just a year ago been wholly consumed with frivolity—seemed to flourish in Georgiana’s company.
The wild impulsiveness that had once defined her was gradually tempered by a dawning self-awareness.
Day by day her rough edges softened, whether through shared lessons, long walks in Pemberley’s gardens, or the hours she and Georgiana spent together at the pianoforte.
I could scarcely reconcile this composed young lady with the boisterous girl I had first encountered at Longbourn.
Elizabeth was equally astonished and quietly proud of her youngest sister’s progress.
That Lydia now played with skill and grace—having scarcely touched a key before leaving Longbourn—was a continual marvel to us both.
Kitty and Mary, too, thrived under Mrs. Annesley’s guidance and the steady stream of affectionate letters they received from Jane and Elizabeth while we were in London.
Pemberley had proved a place of refuge and quiet growth for them both.
Their correspondence with their sisters remained frequent and lively, filled with humour, often straying into earnest reflection, but always marked by the unmistakable warmth of sisterly devotion.
I could not help but smile whenever the post arrived bearing their familiar hands.
Mrs. Annesley’s influence, at once firm and kind, had clearly drawn forth the best in them all.
As the summer advanced, Lydia’s growing maturity became more apparent, her playful spirit tempered by the example of her elder sisters and Georgiana’s gentle encouragement.
For all the trials of the past year, these quieter months at Pemberley—days filled with conversation, laughter, and steady growth—seemed to herald a season of renewal.
One evening, some months after our return, Elizabeth and I sat in the drawing room before dinner.
I glanced down to find her smiling softly as she observed our sisters’ easy companionship, and in that moment I felt a profound peace.
This harmony, this warmth, was all I had once longed for when I first dreamed of bringing a wife home to Pemberley.
It seemed to me that my mother herself had had a hand in securing it, for I doubted I would have fallen in love with Elizabeth so swiftly without her unseen influence.
Now, watching Elizabeth in the home that had always been mine, I knew it had truly become ours.
I felt my mother’s blessing upon my choice of wife, and I knew she would rejoice in the new life Elizabeth and her sisters had breathed into the estate she had so dearly loved.
Later that evening, as we walked through the gardens at sunset, Elizabeth rested her head upon my shoulder and said softly, “I do not think I shall ever tire of this view.”
“Nor I,” I replied, though my eyes were not on the hills, but upon her.