Page 28 of The Cat Who Loved Mr. Darcy (Pride and Prejudice Variation)

You say you do not ask for certainty. Neither do I.

But I begin to dream of a day when your thoughts might turn toward me not only with forbearance, or curiosity, but with something warmer.

Could I ever become—truly— someone whose name brings comfort to you?

Could I earn, not just your understanding, but your trust?

I would not dare ask it so soon, if not for the grace of your last letter.

You say I did not fall upon an indifferent heart, and you cannot know how deeply that line undid me.

There are few things I have wished for in this life more fiercely than to be welcome in your thoughts.

Now that I know I am—if only in some small measure—I find that no other ambition stirs me more.

Forgive the extravagance of these words. I am not a poet. But love teaches even the silent man to sing a little.

If I have erred in being too forward, I shall withdraw. But if I may be permitted to hope—that one day, I might come to call you more than just dearest Miss Bennet—then I shall count myself the most fortunate of men.

Until then, allow me to be,

Yours, with more affection than pride,

Fitzwilliam Darcy

Then he folded it, sealed it, and—holding his breath—pressed his signet ring into the wax: an old habit, made meaningful tonight.

He did not need to reread it. It would do.

At last, Darcy leaned back, exhaling deeply, his gaze lifting to the darkness beyond the tall windows.

Whatever came next, he had said what he must.

And for the first time in many restless nights, Fitzwilliam Darcy allowed himself to dream again.

***

Two days after sealing his letter to Elizabeth, Mr. Darcy received another—this time bearing the handwriting of Charles Bingley.

The morning at Pemberley began in quiet domestic order. At the pianoforte, Georgiana rehearsed a country dance she hoped to perform at the Netherfield ball.

Darcy, meanwhile, sat in the library, scanning estate reports with half his mind on Hertfordshire.

When the footman brought the letter, he recognised the seal at once and broke it quickly.

Bingley’s tone was familiar and sincere, but the contents made Darcy rise from his chair before he had reached the final lines.

Netherfield, Hertfordshire

November 12th, 1811

My dear Darcy,

I recall your warning this summer—your caution regarding an old acquaintance of yours, Mr. George Wickham. I did not think then that our paths might cross, but I write now to inform you: your Wickham is here, in Meryton, in the uniform of the militia.

I encountered him once already, though briefly—he dined at Longbourn on a night I visited Miss Bennet.

I found his manner off-putting, if I may be frank.

Too smooth by half. But there is worse: gossip in town suggests he is paying attention to Miss Mary King, a young lady recently come into a fortune of ten thousand pounds, inherited from her grandfather.

She is an orphan, vulnerable, and I confess just mentioning this makes me uneasy.

I do not know the exact nature of your history with him, but your earnestness on the subject remains with me. So I consider this my duty fulfilled: I am writing you to inform you now. Whatever Wickham did to earn your caution, I trust your judgment—and something in this situation feels wrong.

The ball at Netherfield is set for the 29th, but I suggest you arrive sooner. You may wish to see this for yourself and close whatever matter you have with him. I have not mentioned a word to our acquaintances here.

Yours,

Charles Bingley”

Darcy stood motionless for a full minute, the letter still open in his hand. Then, with a coldness that surprised even him, he walked to the hearth and flung it into the fire. The flames leapt eagerly around the edges, curling the page until it blackened and fell apart.

He could not risk Georgiana reading it.

Not this one.

Not the name it mentioned.

Not again.

His mind reeled—not from surprise, but from the weight of memory.

Ramsgate. That bright, cursed summer. His sister—barely fifteen—drawn into Wickham’s net with flattering words and feigned attentions, believing herself loved.

She had been ready to elope, ready to follow him into ruin, disgrace, and despair.

And Wickham—smiling, deceitful—had vanished just before Darcy arrived.

No apology. No shame. Just a predator’s arrogance.

It had taken Georgiana months to recover. Her spirit, once open and full of music, had grown wary. Only recently had she begun to bloom again.

And now this—another girl, another inheritance, another lie dressed as affection.

Darcy was decided. He would not allow it.

Just yesterday they had shopped in Lambton for the ball. Georgiana had chosen a new gown of blue silk, smiling more than she had in weeks. But all of that must now be set aside.

He went to find her, composing his expression before stepping into the parlour.

She looked up, hopeful. “Did the post come, Fitzwilliam?”

“It did,” he said gently. “Mr. Bingley has written again. He requests I return to Netherfield sooner than planned. A matter has arisen—possibly one that may affect the ball itself.”

Her smile faltered. “So soon? And the ball—will it not happen?”

“I cannot yet say,” he replied. “But if it does not, I promise we shall find another. In December, perhaps, in Derby or even at Pemberley. It has been too long since these halls held music and dancing. It is time we changed that. I promise.”

Her disappointment was evident, but she nodded. “If you must go, I understand.”

Darcy stepped forward and kissed her brow. “You are wise beyond your years, Georgiana.”

That evening, after making the household arrangements for his sudden departure, he gave final orders to his valet and sent a messenger ahead to Netherfield. He would leave at first light.

As the stars rose above Pemberley, Darcy looked out over the familiar hills—still and quiet under the night. But in his chest, a storm had begun to gather.

Wickham had escaped once.

He would not do so again.