Page 17

17th December 1812, Tuesday

Darcy was in the breakfast room of Winthal manor when the post was delivered.

The Earl sat at the head of the long table, his wife on the other end.

Georgiana sat on Aunt Elenor’s left while Darcy sat on the Earl’s right.

It was a ridiculously formal seating arrangement for such a small and informal party of four relations but Darcy was glad for it when Simmons, the Matlock’s housekeeper presented him with his correspondence of the day-

It was one letter.

The address written in a delicate feminine hand.

The letter’s seal depicted the Bennet’s family crest set in a burnt rose tinted wax that seemed to be Elizabeth’s signature colour.

Darcy’s heart beat faster.

Earl Matlock was not a nosy fellow.

At breakfast, for the majority of the time his face was hidden behind either a newspaper or his own correspondence and when it was not, he was too busy eating to pay much attention to anyone else.

The same could not be said for his wife, however.

Darcy quickly stuffed the letter inside the pocket of his tailcoat, and continued to eat,

“Who wrote to you, nephew?” Aunt Elenor asked from the other side of the table.

As always, she did not miss a thing .

“Elenor, leave the boy alone.” The Earl sighed resignedly, his face still behind his newspaper, “He’s a man full grown. He does not need to tell you about every letter of business he receives.”

Lady Matlock frowned at the newspaper that was her husband but ignored him, giving Darcy a look that expected an answer.

Darcy pretended to not see it.

What the earl said was not wrong.

He was eight and twenty.

He was the master of his own estate and was guardian to his sixteen year old sister.

He answered to no one but himself and God.

Well, Darcy thought to himself, trying to curb a smile, perhaps now, also Elizabeth.

He quickly finished the rest of his coffee, forgoed the lemon marmalade and fresh bread rolls the Winthal cook was so famous for and excused himself to his rooms to attend to his correspondence.

The seal was released and the letter was opened even before he had shut the door behind him and like a besotted fool, Darcy veritably tossed himself onto the chaise situated across the fireplace in his sitting room and began to read.

It was a novel experience- reading a letter written to him by a woman not his relation.

Elizabeth Bennet wrote much like she talked- with a lightness and liveliness in her manner that nobody could find anything but charming.

Even through written words, she teased him and Darcy found himself smiling as if he could hear those words in her soft lilting voice and bantering tone.

He gave Lady Catherine and her parson only a moment of thought before concluding he was in too good of a mood to care much for either of them or their disappointed hopes.

He had noticed very early in their acquaintance that Elizabeth, unlike the majority of the ladies he was acquainted with, did not wear the more common floral scents of roses or lavenders.

Instead, her skin smelled sweet and warm and powdery- like irises and vanilla.

She must make it herself because he had never smelled something similar in any of the perfumeries he had visited with his sister in London.

Her letter too, once Darcy brought it closer to him, smelled like her perfume, and only because he was alone and pining, did he allow himself to sniff the parchment.

The thought that she might have used some of her fragrance to scent her letter made him almost giddy and he missed her more than he already was.

Love letters, Darcy decided, were delightfully distracting things.

Quickly, Darcy stood up, and walked over to the writing desk situated in front of the window.

Mending his quill and pulling out a fresh sheet of paper, he sat down to write his reply.

─── ※ ·?· ※ ───

Colonel Fitzwilliam slept a lot.

A concerning amount in fact, but the doctor from Town had mollified his relations by explaining that it was just his battered soldier’s body finally taking its time to rest and heal.

When Darcy came to check on him after his afternoon ride around the estate, the colonel was just waking up, his valet, a rather tall fellow very aptly named ‘Gully’ had just poured him his morning tea and departed through the dressing room with a quiet bow when he saw Darcy enter,

Richard took one look at his cousin, raised a brow and said in that unused, croaky state of morning voice, “You’re happy.” Then, he narrowed his eyes, suddenly suspicious, “Why are you so happy?”

Darcy figured as the person closest to him in the world (after Elizabeth, of course), Richard deserved to be the first one to know, “You must congratulate me cousin, I am to be married. ”

Richard blinked, “In the span of a day and a half, where the hell did you find a woman to meet and propose to while at Winthal?” Then, only half teasing, he waggled his eyebrows, “Is it that new blonde chambermaid? Ellen is a favourite of Carlson’s. He will not be happy.”

Darcy gave his cousin a disgusted look, then shook his head, used to ignoring the Fitzwilliam sibling’s crude tongues, “Not at Winthall. I met Elizabeth in Hertfordshire. Her father owns the estate next to Bingley’s. I proposed to her before leaving for Matlock.”

Richard looked at him, stunned for a moment when he realised Darcy was not joking, “You’re in earnest? You’re to be married? Does mother know?”

Dracy shrugged, “She knew I was in the process of courting the lady, but no, she does not know I have proposed. There did not seem a right time to bring it up, what with you languishing in your bed like a maiden suffering a swoon.” He teased with a mocking grin,

Richard glared, grabbed the pillow beside him and hurled it at his cousin, only for Darcy to duck out of the way with a laugh.

“By God, you are an arse when you are in a good mood.” Richard grumbled, but his own mouth was twitching up in a smile, “Tell me, what has you so happy? You are almost as giddy as a schoolgirl. Did you have a naughty dream about your lady, Darcy?” He gave Darcy a lascivious smile, “Has The Monk finally been conquered?”

( The Monk was an unfortunate moniker that Darcy had gained at Cambridge by not capitulating to the more repugnant vices his fellow students had dabbled in- consisting mainly of barmaids and harlots but sometimes also rich, willing widows and less willing chambermaids.

Darcy has abstained from all of it because he had had no desire to contract unfortunate french diseases or accidentally siring progeny he could not claim.

It had made him a bit of an anomaly amongst his peers.

He had a fair suspicion the sobriquet was first started by Wickham, but he had not cared enough to investigate.

As far as monikers went, his was not nearly as bad as others he had heard.

Besides, he was not inexperienced, per se, most in his circles were not, but he also was not a lothario, and ever since he had taken up his duty as Pemberley’s master, he had had no time for anything other than being a master.

)

Darcy rolled his eyes but did not deign to answer.

Richard was not completely wrong anyway.

Darcy’s dreams haven’t been quite honourable in nature for a while now.

If one really tried, they could perhaps trace it all back to the night of the gathering at Lucas Lodge, but considering how things stood now, Darcy reconciled his previous shameful guilt by thinking that he , more than anyone else in the world, had a right to those dreams now.

“I received a letter this morning.” He responded instead, pulling it out of his breast pocket.

The feminine seal and writing was all Richard needed to know, and though he was all curiosity, he drew the line at reading another man’s love letter.

“Ah, so it is your sweetheart’s pretty words that have got you looking all starry-eyed.” Gully once again entered with a breakfast tray, just then, placing it on Richard’s lap, and then departed again just as quietly, “Come.” Richard invited him, gesturing to the chair sitting next to his bed, “Sit. Tell your Uncle Richie everything about this lovely Miss Elizabeth of yours. Is she pretty?”

Darcy rolled his eyes, but accepted, taking a seat as Richard started in on his eggs.

Darcy might act put out by his cousin’s teasing, but he could see behind everything that Richard was happy and more than a little intrigued by the woman Darcy had deigned to fall in love with and truthfully, having had no one yet to completely confide in in his journey to gain the hand of his fair maiden, Darcy was bursting at the seams to talk to someone.

And so it was, the two cousins who might as well have been brothers, spent most of their afternoon hours discussing a country miss from Hertfordshire, and they both had a jolly good time doing it .

21th December 1812, Saturday

Elizabeth was at the breakfast table with her family when the day’s correspondence arrived.

Like everyday for the past three days, though she knew no reply would come so soon all the way from Derbyshire even if it had been posted express, she straightened in her seat, eyes on the correspondence Mr Hill presented to her father on a silver tray.

Mr Bennet, also like the past three days, languidly flipped through the stack, but unlike before, he paused in the middle of the pursuit at the sight of an unfamiliar hand.

“Lizzy.” Mr Bennet called, and Elizabeth almost jumped from her seat when he held out the letter for her, “This, I believe, is for you from your Mr Darcy.”

“Oh Mr Bennet, do give it here!” Mrs Bennet cried, already stretching and reaching for the letter, “I must know what my darling son-in-law has to say! Oh, he is such a rich, handsome man! So amiable! So charming!”

Mr Bennet gave his wife a sharp look, retracting the letter away from her, “The letter is addressed to Elizabeth and so shall be read by Elizabeth. If she wishes to share its contents with you, or a portion of it, then she may do so by her own will.” Mrs Bennet pouted and sat back down, but did not argue, and Elizabeth, thankful for her father’s rare severity, quickly took the letter and went out into the gardens despite the cold, lest one of her sisters demand they want to read it too.

Mr Darcy had a very fine hand.

Broad strokes, neat lines, and even spacing.

The handwriting was, just like the gentleman himself in Elizabeth’s rather biased opinion, handsome and noble and perfect.

My dear Elizabeth ,

Am I to be Mr Darcy again?

I shall confess to some disappointment from having been addressed so by you in your letter when your adieu at our parting has sustained me so far largely due to its informality.

My given name, which has always felt too heavy and pretentious, sounded very well in your charming voice and I hope the distance that separates us now will not affect the intimacy we had managed to create in the time of our, as you said, rather slight acquaintance.

Richard is well.

He sleeps a good deal and his hand, though also outwardly healed, frustrates him because he cannot move it much, but in spirits, at least, he is much recovered.

My aunt too, now that she has her son under her roof, abed and on the mend, has let go of most of her anxiety, and often I find her humming to herself while attending to her correspondence or engaging in other pursuits.

I hope you had a pleasant time at the dinner your mother organised.

You must not worry about my reaction to your relations anymore.

I am aware I have been very disdainful and proud towards them during our early interactions and have therefore not made myself very amicable.

I can only be sorry for it now and wish I had the opportunity to make amends before I had to take my leave.

You can be rest assured that in the future, I intend to be everything that is courteous and respectful to your family and friends, not only because my honour as a gentleman demands it, but also because they are dear to you, and you are dear to me and so I shall endeavour to do everything in my power to make you happy.

Indeed, if I was a better man, I would’ve tried to start making amends the night of the Gouldings party.

But I knew I only had a few hours before I would have to leave you again, and from the very beginning of our acquaintance, I have had a very difficult time trying to pay attention to anything but you when you are in the room.

Some, I suppose, might consider this another shortcoming, but it is one, I confess, I am not too eager to rectify.

As for whatever was said to you about Lady Catherine- pray, do not concern yourself with it.

The only betrothal between Anne and I is the one inside my aunt’s head, and cannot affect either of us in any way.

Ever since my father passed away, Lady Catherine has convinced herself that it was the dear wish of both her and my mother that I marry her daughter and reunite her estate, Rosings Park, with Pemberley.

Even if I were inclined to follow my mothers ‘wishes’ (I add quotations because I do not quite believe she truly held any such desire.

My mother has always been an advocate for affection in marriage), I would not be able to offer for Anne, for she is sickly, uninformed, and ill-tempered.

Not only would she be an unfit wife for any gentleman, too weak to be able to sire heirs, but she would also be an unfit mistress of any estate.

As for your sisters, I am honoured to have them as my champions, though I do not think I quite deserve their approbation.

I have been very reserved with them, as has been my attitude towards any single lady of marriageable age.

But then again, you are to be my wife, and so my good qualities are in your protection and you are to exaggerate them as much as possible.

I wish I had had more time with them too, for I think, on quite a few occasions of my calling to Longbourn when you weren’t present, I found a quiet, kindred spirit in your sister, Mary.

What do you think, darling?

Should we invite her to come to Pemberley with us after our wedding trip?

I think your sister will enjoy sharing a music master with Georgiana, and if not, then Pemberley’s library also has quite a large collection of religious texts for her to peruse to her heart’s content.

Perhaps you will think me a besotted fool for answering your question thusly, but I confess that from the very first moment I looked at you, (not at the assembly, for the room was dark and crowded and humid and I was in a monstrous mood and could therefore, find nothing to my liking; but later at Lucas Lodge) when you played the pianoforte and sang like a siren, and then subsequently refused to dance with me, it was your eyes that captured my attention.

I have always favoured green (if you think me disingenuous in this, you have to only see how I have furnished my chambers my study at both my Town house and at Pemberley to believe me) and yet, yours are the prettiest green I have ever seen.

I could study them for hours, for days.

How they switch from bright to placid, from sharp to satirical to soft to affectionate.

But of course, if you insist I not compliment your eyes by favouring their colouring, I would have no choice but to obey and instead say that I favour red.

‘Tis the same colour as that necklace that you always wear on your neck. The pendant nestles in that dip between your clavicles, and I find myself more envious of that one piece of rock than I have been of anything else in the world.

Now that I have answered your question, you must answer one of mine,

Where would you like to go for your wedding trip, my love? Would you prefer the ocean or the mountains? Perhaps we should make plans for Rome or Verona? I have noticed you favour the Italian in both literature and music and so I am quite certain you will like the country too.

Always your servant,

Fitzwilliam Darcy .