Page 18 of The Cat Who Loved Mr. Darcy (Pride and Prejudice Variation)

That silenced them. Mrs. Bennet blinked, suspicious. “A letter? From whom?”

Elizabeth felt her cheeks warm again. “From Pemberley. Mr. Darcy wrote.”

The silence turned brittle.

Kitty was first to recover. “Mr. Darcy? Darcy—Darcy?”

“He wrote to you! Lizzy, how grand!” Lydia squealed.

Mrs. Bennet’s mouth worked soundlessly a moment before she found her voice. “Well! I never! Lizzy, why did you not say so at once? What does he want? Is he proposing? Has he invited us all to Pemberley?”

“No, Mama,” Elizabeth said, her face flushing. “He simply asks if I will permit him to write again. To continue... a correspondence.”

“Oh! A secret courtship! How romantic!” Kitty and Lydia shrieked with laughter and speculation.

Elizabeth looked pained. Jane laid a quieting hand on her sister’s arm.

Mr. Bennet rapped his knuckles once on the arm of his chair. “Enough.”

The chatter faltered.

He fixed his wife with a cool stare. “Mrs. Bennet, that is quite enough interrogation. Elizabeth owes you no defence for a letter she had every right to receive. She will answer it—or not—on her own terms.”

He turned to Elizabeth, voice softening. “If you wish, Lizzy, you may go to your room and write now. You have had enough of an audience for one day.”

“Thank you, Papa.” Elizabeth met his eyes with grateful relief. She curtseyed quickly and slipped away, letter clutched to her chest.

A tense hush remained until Mr. Bennet sniffed with exaggerated politeness. “Now. Since our first drama is resolved, perhaps you will all oblige me by explaining the real purpose of this morning’s heroic journey to Meryton.”

Mrs. Bennet coloured. “We went for bonnet trimmings—”

“There is a little bird that tells me you spent most of the time talking to officers,” Mr. Bennet spoke up crisply.

Kitty and Lydia wailed in protest.

“That’s not true—”

“It was only a little while—”

Mr. Bennet raised one brow. “Ah. I see. Not shopping then, so much as parading yourselves. For gentlemen without land or prospects, wearing borrowed red coats.”

“Papa!” Kitty gasped.

“Officers do have prospects!” Lydia said, stamping her foot.

“Indeed,” he mused. “Prospects for being transferred in six months and leaving you with nothing but gossip and disappointment. I warned you before, Mrs. Bennet: these are not suitable acquaintances. They offer no stability, no promise. If you encourage these follies, you will see nothing but grief from them.”

“Well, I think it unkind to speak so.” Mrs. Bennet huffed, indignant. “I only want them to make good connections!”

“Your notion of connections seems limited to red cloth and borrowed plumes, my dear.” Mr. Bennet settled back in his chair, voice drier than dust. “Mark me—I would rather see my daughters unwed than badly wed to men who cannot keep them.” He sighed, lifting his paper once more as if to dismiss the entire room.

“And that, my dears, is all I have to say on the matter—today.”

Lydia pouted. Kitty sulked.

Jane pressed her lips together and tried to smooth things over with gentle hushes.

***

Upstairs, Elizabeth sat at her small writing desk, the door closed behind her, her breath slowly evening out, Darcy’s letter open before her, pen in hand—and the first words of her answer taking careful, deliberate shape on the page.

The hush of her room broken only by the faint rustle of leaves at the window. Darcy’s letter lay open on her desk, its careful, formal lines oddly vulnerable on the page.

She ran her finger along the edge. ‘ I make no demand, only a hope.’

A rueful smile curved her mouth. ‘You hope for my reply, Mr. Darcy. I suppose you deserve one for writing such a careful, honest thing.’

She bit her lip and continued reading. ‘I wish that we might understand one another better.’ Well, that was dangerously tempting.

Elizabeth dipped her pen but hesitated. What on earth does one write in answer to that? ‘Thank you for your civility’ sounded absurdly cold. ‘I admire your honesty’ seemed too forward or silly. ‘I want to know you better too’ —she set the nib down quickly before that escaped onto the paper.

Elizabeth pressed her fingers to her temples. ‘He said he valued candour. So candour he shall have.’

She drew a breath, straightened her shoulders, and began slowly, carefully, letting the words shape themselves honestly, if not without embarrassment.

Longbourn, Hertfordshire

October 29th, 1811

Sir,

I hope you will forgive the delay in my answer. I confess I have read your letter more than once, and considered it very seriously.

You are right to say that we have known one another only a little while. I shall not pretend I am accustomed to receiving such a letter as yours. I must also confess I am not entirely at ease with how to answer it.

But I cannot find it in me to refuse you when you speak so openly. You ask to know me better, and I can see no harm in that—if we may be honest with one another in doing so.

I am grateful for your words about my family, and especially for your courtesy to my father. He does not always choose to show it, but he values kindness and sincerity more than he admits.

As for myself—I will do my best to be as frank in writing as you have been. Though I warn you I have no remarkable stories to share and no great wisdom to offer. Only what thoughts I have, which you may find as plain as they are numerous.

If you truly wish to continue this exchange, you may expect an answer when you write. I will not promise they will always be easy letters to read—but they will be honest.

I remain, sir,

Yours respectfully,

Elizabeth Bennet

She read once more what she wrote, eyes narrowing in thought as she scanned each line. ‘Good enough,’ she decided firmly. ‘No more changes. I shall not let myself rewrite it again.’

With deliberate care she folded the sheet and reached for her wax and seal. She pressed it closed with a decisive hand, letting the warm wax cool under her fingertips. ‘There,’ she thought with a small breath of relief. ‘No going back now.’

A quick glance out the window showed Mr. Bingley arriving at a cheerful trot on his grey horse, his coat bright against the duller autumn hedgerows.

Elizabeth let out a soft, determined sigh. ‘Well, there is no time to sit here congratulating myself.’

She rose briskly, smoothing her skirts, and resolved to go down at once to support Jane as best she could—and, with a rueful smile, to help head off Mama’s inevitable fluttering and intrusive questions before they could fully take aim.

With that purpose firmly in mind, she slipped from her room, letter in hand, closing the door gently behind her.

***

A week later, late at night, Elizabeth lay in bed, the chill of the November night curling against the windows, old timbers creaking gently overhead. She pulled the blankets closer, but sleep refused her entirely.

Her mind would not quiet. She thought of Jane—dear, steady Jane—who had spent part of the afternoon in the parlour with Mr. Bingley. How easily they seemed to talk now. How Bingley listened with bright-eyed delight to even Jane’s mildest remark.

Elizabeth smiled at the memory, warm for her sister’s happiness. If anyone deserved a simple, certain, and deep affection, it was Jane.

But the smile faded as she turned onto her side. The embers in the grate cast restless shadows on the wall. Her thoughts refused to stay with Jane. They slithered inexorably back to him. To her letter.

Elizabeth let out a quiet exhale, fingers tightening on the coverlet. What had she written exactly? She replayed it line by line, wincing at her own frankness.

‘You ask to know me better… I see no harm in that… honest with one another… no remarkable stories… plain thoughts… Was it too plain? Too blunt? Too forward?’

She pressed her lips together. ‘He said he valued candour.’

“Did you mean it, Mr. Darcy?” she whispered into the dark. “Or will you regret encouraging it?”

At the foot of the bed, Sophocles let out a questioning meow, tail thumping once against the quilt.

Elizabeth sighed.

“Traitor,” she murmured at the cat. “You were supposed to keep me sensible.”

He meowed again, affronted, and began cleaning one paw with great dignity.

“I know,” she muttered. “I should be sleeping. But I cannot help it.”

She turned her head to the window. The moonlight silvered the frost-dusted hedges outside.

For days she had watched that lane. Trying not to seem like she watched it. Telling herself she was only curious about the post in general.

Pretending not to care.

She swallowed, blinked hard. ‘What will he think, reading it? Will he answer? Will he think me presumptuous? Or—’

Sophocles interrupted her spiralling thoughts with another imperious cry, shifting until he was curled against her hip, purring.

Elizabeth let one hand drift over his warm, plump side.

“Very well,” she whispered to him at last. “We will wait. But you must promise not to look so smug when the letter finally comes.”

The cat purred louder.

Elizabeth managed a small, tired smile.

Outside, the wind rattled the window lightly. The lane slept in the shadows.

She closed her eyes at last. But her thoughts refused to settle, curling tight around one insistent hope: that he would write and welcome what she had dared to reply.

***

The next morning, November light was pale and uncertain, stealing across the barren fields outside Longbourn. In Elizabeth’s room it arrived in thin streaks through the curtains, laying chilly stripes over her quilt.

She stirred before the maid knocked. Sophocles was already awake, perched at the window ledge as if he meant to guard the lane himself.

Elizabeth sat up slowly, rubbing at her eyes. It is November, she reminded herself. Time slips so quickly.

And then the memory of her letter returned—unwelcome, insistent.

‘Candour. That was what you promised, Lizzy Bennet.’ She sighed and pushed back the coverlet.

Downstairs the house was already awake, though subdued with the chill. The hallway smelled of low-burning fires and newly baked bread.

In the breakfast room, Jane was standing by the window in her pale shawl, looking toward the lane with dreamy composure.

Elizabeth paused in the doorway to study her. So calm. So certain.

Mr. Bennet was at his usual place, spectacles on the bridge of his nose, newspaper half-folded. He glanced up when Elizabeth entered, one brow arching in quiet greeting.

“You look better rested,” he observed mildly.

Elizabeth arched her brow in return. “I shall thank you to stop lying so early in the day, Papa.”

Mr. Bennet made a sound suspiciously like a chuckle.

Then Jane turned from the window, her expression brightening. “Good morning, Lizzy. I was hoping you would hurry. We did not want to begin without you.”

Elizabeth crossed to her, squeezing Jane’s fingers lightly. “Well, here I am. Have you seen the post rider yet?”

Jane blushed faintly. “Not yet. Not at this hour of the day, anyway. There are plenty of reasons a post arrival might be delayed.”

Elizabeth felt something in her chest tighten at that. She smoothed her expression quickly, but not before Mr. Bennet noticed.

He cleared his throat deliberately. “Shall I guess the contents of your thoughts, Lizzy?” he asked with mock solemnity.

Elizabeth did not answer immediately, but Sophocles—who had followed her downstairs and now curled at her feet—meowed as though on cue.

She glanced down at him, shaking her head. “Traitor,” she murmured.

Mr. Bennet snorted.

Jane tried to soothe the moment with gentle optimism. “The letter will come when it can, Lizzy. It is only a few days’ difference, surely.”

Elizabeth managed a crooked smile. “I know. I am only…impatient to know what Mr. Darcy thought.”

Mr. Bennet lowered the paper a fraction, tapping it thoughtfully. “Of your letter, you mean?”

Elizabeth’s cheeks warmed. “Yes.”

He considered her with dry affection. “Well, I expect he is reading it twice as carefully as he wrote his own. Gentlemen like him always do.”

“That is not very comforting.” Elizabeth let out a small breath of laughter, shaking her head.

“Good. Comfort rarely leads to truth.” Mr. Bennet shrugged and pretended to be absorbed in his paper from yesterday.

Jane laid a gentle hand on Elizabeth’s sleeve. “It will be well, Lizzy. He would not have written at all if he did not mean to continue.”

Elizabeth held her sister’s gaze for a moment. ‘I hope so,’ she thought, but did not say aloud.

Sophocles circled her ankles, purring in steady punctuation.

Elizabeth reached down to scratch behind his ears. “You, at least, will stay loyal.”

The cat purred louder, blinking with regal satisfaction.

Outside, the wind wandered throughout the hedges, and the lane remained stubbornly empty.

Elizabeth turned back to the table, drew in a breath, and forced herself to pour tea with steady hands.

“He will write.” She repeated it silently, like a prayer, as the others resumed the quiet rituals of breakfast, waiting for the sound of hooves on the empty road.