Page 54 of The Mercy of Chance
A pril 15, 1811
Dearest Elizabeth,
The spring planting commands my presence, although my thoughts remain fixed at Longbourn.
I find myself mentally composing observations to share with you throughout my days - from the particular challenges of drainage in the north field (which I suspect might interest your practical mind) to the way the morning light strikes Pemberley’s windows (which reminds me, with painful sweetness, of how the sun caught in your hair that afternoon by the stream).
In truth, I find the sun’s brilliance a poor substitute for the memory of you.
Your most devoted,
FD
April 18, 1811
Dear Mr Darcy,
How formal you remain in closing, despite such tender sentiments preceding it! I shall not tease you over much about it, however, as your observations about drainage have quite captured my attention.
We faced similar challenges in Longbourn’s east field two years past.
Might I suggest…
I find myself rather disturbed by how frequently your voice intrudes upon my thoughts, offering dry observations about my daily activities.
The other morning, whilst reviewing the household accounts, I distinctly heard you murmur something about efficient organisation.
Most unsettling, sir, to have one’s mind so thoroughly invaded.
I fear you have taken up tenancy in my thoughts, sir, without first applying through proper channels.
Your own Elizabeth
(Do note my own closing’s relative informality - you may consider it a challenge)
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April 22, 1811
My beloved Elizabeth,
Your suggestions regarding the drainage issue prove remarkably sound.
I confess some amusement at implementing improvements to Pemberley under your distant direction.
Although perhaps I should not be surprised - you have been improving me from afar since our first meeting.
Speaking of improvements, I accept your challenge regarding closings, although I maintain that some degree of formality provides a necessary restraint to expression.
Particularly when one’s feelings run so very deep that their full acknowledgement might overwhelm the page entirely.
You have been improving me from afar since our first encounter—though your more recent influence leaves me increasingly unfit for society’s usual standards of reserve.
Yours, with carefully measured devotion,
Fitzwilliam
April 25, 1811
My dearest Fitzwilliam,
How cleverly you navigate between propriety and passion! Although I wonder if you realise how your reliable restraint serves only to heighten the effect of your words.
When you speak of feelings overwhelming the page, my mind cannot resist wandering to less… restrained expressions of sentiment.
But perhaps we should return to safer topics.
The lambing season progresses well here, although I find myself unexpectedly missing your incisive questions about our methods.
One can only discuss breeding lines with one’s sisters for so long before longing for more challenging discourse.
The ewe who shares my name shows far less restraint than I.
Were she capable of speech, I fear she would be scolding me for blushing over field reports.
Yours, with decidedly improper thoughts about agricultural discussions,
E
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April 30, 1811
My dearest Elizabeth,
The spring sowing proceeds apace, however my thoughts turn frequently to a particular bloom of Hertfordshire that has taken root in rather more personal soil.
Your suggestions regarding crop rotation have proved invaluable - although I wonder if you realise how your practical wisdom about allowing fields adequate time to develop their full potential might apply to other matters entirely.
The steward remarked today upon my increased attention to detail in estate matters.
I did not enlighten him that my newfound diligence stems from imagining your keen eyes reviewing each decision.
One particularly vexing matter of tenant negotiations was resolved by simply asking myself what observation you might make about the situation, complete with that arch look you employ to such devastating effect—equal parts amusement and judgement, which no steward could survive unscathed.
Yours, with thoughts that stray persistently from agriculture, struggling valiantly to think pure thoughts of clover and fencing,
Fitzwilliam
Fitzwilliam
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May 3, 1811
Dearest Fitzwilliam,
How delightfully you blur the lines between estate management and courtship! I find myself equally afflicted - this morning I caught myself explaining to Lydia that whilst immediate gratification in breeding programmes might be tempting, the rewards of patience and careful cultivation often yield far superior results.
The knowing look our shepherd gave me suggests I may have revealed more than intended about matters entirely unrelated to sheep.
I begin to fear the sheep believe me to be composing poetry in their honour, given the dreamy manner in which I now drift through their pastures.
I must take issue with your assessment of the north field drainage - not for its technical merit, which I find sound, but for how thoroughly your detailed descriptions of water flow have dampened certain other thoughts that propriety suggests I ought not entertain.
Your increasingly impatient student of agricultural patience,
Elizabeth
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May 7, 1811
My beloved Elizabeth,
Your letter regarding the lambing figures arrived today, and I marvel at how you manage to make animal husbandry sound simultaneously completely proper and utterly scandalous.
I had to read your paragraph about selective breeding three times before I could focus on its actual content rather than its… broader implications.
Georgiana asked me at dinner why I smiled so at the mention of sheep.
I believe I maintained my composure admirably whilst explaining that I simply took satisfaction in good estate management.
She appeared unconvinced, although whether by my explanation or my attempt at nonchalance, I cannot say.
Yours, with thoughts that would shock the sheep,
Fitzwilliam
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May 10, 1811
Dearest heart,
I write this from the oak grove where we first spoke of estate matters - do you recall? I walked here quite without intention, although I cannot regret the detour.
The spring air holds such promise, does it not? Although perhaps that is merely my own anticipation colouring the breeze.
Jane suggested today that my newfound interest in comparing Longbourn’s ledgers with Pemberley’s might have motivations beyond mere academic curiosity.
I assured her that nothing could be more natural than studying the precise figures of a neighbouring estate.
Her quiet smile suggested my choice of words might have betrayed me.
Nothing could be more innocent than calculating depreciation rates whilst imagining your handwriting in the margins.
Yours, with entirely proper thoughts about estate comparison,
Elizabeth
P.S.
The sheep send their regards, although they wish you would stop shocking them.
They beg you to reconsider the tone of your next treatise on selective breeding—it has left the rams unsettled.
May 13, 1811
My dearest Elizabeth,
I passed the afternoon reviewing Pemberley’s east orchard, yet I confess I remember little of it.
I was too occupied imagining how you might walk there, what remarks you would make about the apple grafting, or whether you would allow me the indulgence of choosing a tree to dedicate to your name.
Georgiana has noted that I now reread your letters before retiring each night.
She suspects I am memorising agricultural data.
Let her believe so.
If she knew the truth—that each turn of phrase from your pen is more rousing than any poem—I should never hear the end of it.
Yours, entirely undone by ink and wit,
Fitzwilliam
May 16, 1811
Dearest Fitzwilliam,
The days grow longer, yet I find my patience shorter.
Each morning, I consult the almanac as though it might speed your return by sheer force of will, and I now measure time not by meals or tasks, but by how many hours remain before I may justly expect your next letter.
Even the sheep begin to grow suspicious of my frequent visits to the post.
All is in readiness here—Longbourn, the gardens, my sisters (who cannot seem to cease speculating about wedding clothes, menus, and the precise shade of blush my cheeks acquire when your name is mentioned).
Only one thing remains out of place, and that, sir, is you.
The orchard is in bloom.
I wandered there this morning and thought how well it shall suit our first walk as husband and wife.
I am even prepared to overlook your preference for early starts, should you promise to share your coffee and offer commentary on my planting schemes with the same gravity you reserve for parliamentary debate.
Hurry home, my love.
You are awaited not only with affection, but with considerable impatience—and more than a few plans that propriety prevents me from outlining here.
Yours, already and always,
Elizabeth
“My word,”
Mary said, noting another letter’s arrival.
“Poor Mr Darcy’s courier deserves extra compensation for attending to the demands of your correspondence.”
“I am sure I do not know what you mean,”
Elizabeth replied evenly, although her hands trembled as she broke the seal.
“We are discussing estate matters.”
“Of course,”
Mary agreed, dry as dust.
“I often blush when reading about crop rotation myself.”