Page 27 of The Cat Who Loved Mr. Darcy (Pride and Prejudice Variation)

“Good. And I have every intention of maintaining discipline in this regiment,” Forster thundered.

“I have tolerated more than I ought. You are not dismissed—not yet, Mr. Wickham—but understand this: from this day forward, you are under restriction. You will not attend any assemblies or social gatherings without my written approval. You will report daily to my office, and any further whisper of impropriety, no matter how minor, will result in your immediate removal from the militia under formal disgrace.”

Wickham’s voice, when it came, was low and controlled. “I understand, sir.”

“Do you?” the colonel demanded. “Because I assure you, my leniency is exhausted. One more offence, and I will not shield you. Consider yourself fortunate that Mr. King has not chosen to press charges.”

A long silence fell. Mr. Denny looked away, ashamed of the man he had once considered a friend.

At length, Wickham offered a stiff bow. “I regret that my conduct has disappointed you, Colonel. It shall not happen again.”

“For your sake,” said Colonel Forster coldly, “I hope that proves true. You may go.”

Wickham left without another word, his face a rigid mask. Outside, the grey afternoon seemed to match the chill that clung to his shoulders. He walked quickly, head down—no longer the golden officer of Meryton society, but a man freshly marked by suspicion.

Within the colonel’s quarters, Mr. Denny exhaled and shook his head. “It was bound to come to this, sir.”

Colonel Forster folded the note and placed it back inside the letter he was to send Mr. King in answer to his complaint. “I only hope it ends here,” he said grimly. “But somehow, I doubt it.”

***

The late-autumn light at Pemberley was fading into a quiet gold when Mr. Darcy withdrew from his study desk, a single letter resting on the blotter like a leaf drifting on still water.

He had read it more than once—carefully, then again, as if it might reveal something deeper with each pass.

But no—the truth had been clear from the first reading.

It was Miss Elizabeth Bennet’s second letter.

He had not known what to expect when he broke the seal.

Her first reply had been thoughtful and proper, yet reserved.

But this—this one had caught him unawares.

It was not full of sentiment, and yet he had never read a page that moved him more.

It was honest. Open. Not a confession, but a door slightly ajar.

Your letter did not fall upon an indifferent mind, and it has not left an indifferent heart behind it.

That line alone—he had stopped there, the first time, and simply stared. How long had he held his breath before reading on?

Darcy crossed to the hearth now, hands clasped behind his back.

The fire crackled softly, as if keeping him company in silence.

The study was warm, but his thoughts were elsewhere: in the green lanes of Hertfordshire, where she walked with robins singing nearby, seeking peace not from dislike of her family, but to hear her own thoughts.

She longed for stillness. He understood that, more than he could ever say.

The door opened behind him.

“Fitzwilliam?”

He turned.

At the threshold stood a young lady—tall, fair, and dressed with understated elegance.

There was a composure to her figure, but in her eyes a softness still touched by shyness.

She was Georgiana Darcy, sixteen years old, and his only sister.

Her quiet manner often gave strangers the impression of timidity, but Darcy knew better.

She was thoughtful, sensitive—and recovering.

“I hope I am not intruding,” she said gently.

“Not at all, Georgiana,” he replied at once. “Come in.”

She stepped closer, smiling as if expecting good news. Her brother caught that gleam and decided not to disappoint her.

“I meant to tell you at dinner—there’s a letter from Mr. Bingley,” she said. “There’s to be a ball at Netherfield later this month, as I told you he might. He invites us both—if you think it suitable.”

Georgiana looked slightly uncertain, unsure what to say first. But she would have accepted.

His gaze rested on her. “Would you like to go, Sister?”

Her answer did not come immediately. “I think I would,” she said at last. “If you come too. I have not danced in such a long time… half a year maybe, but it seems like an eternity.”

He heard the unspoken word Ramsgate in the space between her sentences and offered a quiet nod.

“Then we shall attend.”

Her face brightened. “Truly?”

He managed a faint smile. “Yes, truly. I think it will do you good.”

She lingered a moment longer, watching him. “You seem… thoughtful today.”

“I also received another letter.”

“From Hertfordshire?”

Darcy raised an eyebrow.

“You do not hide the direction well,” she said with a small smile. “Is it—was it a kind letter?”

He hesitated. “Yes. It was very kind.”

“Then I am truly glad,” Georgiana said simply. “I shall not disturb you further.”

After she left, he returned to the desk and laid a hand gently upon Elizabeth’s letter. It was not time to write again—not yet. The words must be chosen carefully, and nothing rushed.

But the silence within him felt changed.

Hope had entered the room—quietly, but unmistakably.

***

That evening, long after Georgiana had retired and the household had grown still, Mr. Darcy sat once more at his desk. A fresh sheet of paper lay before him—untouched, expectant—its quiet expanse more daunting than any estate ledger or legal memorandum he had ever signed.

Outside, the wind stirred faintly in the pines beyond the terrace, a low whisper against the glass.

Inside, only the gentle hiss of the fire filled the study.

His eyes lingered on the flickering shadows that danced along the edge of the hearthrug.

He could not recall when he had last felt so uncertain—or so vividly alive.

Elizabeth’s second letter lay beside him, carefully folded, its creases gently worn by more than one reading.

He touched it lightly, not needing to open it again.

Her words were gently carved into his thoughts now: the robin song, the hedgerows, her longing for stillness.

Her willingness to receive him—not with passion or promise, but with something far rarer: hope.

He had been a man of restraint all his life.

It was not his habit to plead, to reveal, or to dream aloud.

And yet, here he sat—preparing to write a third letter to a woman whom, under other circumstances, he might have dismissed as merely tolerable, and who, had he approached her boldly in the past, would have refused him without hesitation.

But it was not she who had changed—though she had grown more amiable and gracious with each meeting. No, it was he who had changed. And she had seen it. Not only seen it, but acknowledged it—with words so generous, so unexpected, that he could no longer pretend to indifference.

There had been pride in him once. There still was, perhaps. But now it served a different master.

Darcy dipped his pen, paused above the page, and drew a breath.

What was he about to say? Not a proposal—not yet. But he would go as near to it as honour would allow. He would not hide behind caution or gentlemanly ambiguity. She deserved clarity. She deserved courage.

And if she refused him—well. He would at least know he had given her the truth of his heart.

He set the nib to paper and wrote the date with an even hand.

Then he began.

Each sentence came slowly at first, as though he feared pressing too far.

But soon the words gathered momentum—bolder, warmer, full of quiet longing and a sincerity he had scarcely voiced before.

He spoke of the lanes she walked and imagined himself beside her.

He recalled her words and turned them gently back to her.

He wrote her that her letters had not merely pleased him—they had changed him.

That no day passed in which her name did not rise in his thoughts.

That he hoped, perhaps foolishly, that she might one day come to Pemberley and feel that quiet as her own.

He paused once, mid-sentence, his hand hovering as the fire cracked beside him. Then he smiled—just a little—and let the lines fall, sweeter and more daring than all the rest:

Pemberley, Derbyshire

November 15, 1811

Miss Elizabeth,

You have left me restless, and I do not say it in jest. Since your last letter reached my hands, I have carried it with me as a man might carry a charm—irrational, perhaps, yet no less real for its folly. I have read your words again and again, unable to let them rest.

Do you know what it is you have done?

You have answered me with kindness. With truth.

You have shared not only your reflections, but some part of your solitude, and I—who have walked alone for so long—find that I can no longer be content to remain entirely silent.

Your words stirred something quiet and abiding, a sense of nearness that no miles may undo.

Forgive me if I become too bold, but there are things that will be said, and must be said, before silence takes root again. I would not presume upon the smallest favour—only that you will read this as I write it: not just with confidence, but with hope.

There is a place at Pemberley—a small copse beyond the lake, where the air is scented of pine and the deer come to drink.

It is not beautiful in any grand way, but I have often stood there and thought of what it might become if shared.

Since your last letter, I realize I can no longer walk there without imagining your presence beside me—your voice making sense of the birdsong, your eyes observing what mine would miss.

You once spoke of longing for stillness.

I think—I hope—Pemberley holds the kind you mean.

A quiet that does not stifle but listens.

A stillness that gives one leave to be known, not hidden.