Disclaimer: I don't own any of these characters, except for the one who have not appeared in the books. If they were mine to play with, I wouldn't be here writing fiction from my own fantasy, they would already be doing what I want. We all credit Pride & Prejudice and all its characters, plots and wisdom included to be the work and property of Jane Austen.

Author's note: After reading all the wonderful fan fiction on I happily decided to try my hand at one…even though I know I have this inability to write fanfiction –

Yes, so this is my first story, please comment and hopefully enjoy P

Plot Summary: Story begins in the days of Mr. and Mrs. Bennet. I basically put Mr. Bennet into some love entanglements. Trust me, the lady that this chapter is focused on will become an important part of the AU side.

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"Sarah Gardiner engaged to Mr. Bennet? I beg of you, pray do not jest with me in this matter, it is simply too cruel!" Honora Samuels gazed imploringly at the young lady before her. She was grasping on tiny shreds of hope that this news was indeed a joke.

"I am really sorry Honora." It tore Anne Fitzwilliam's heart to see her childhood friend in such a state of turmoil. Anne's heart reached out in sympathy as she silently promised herself to restore the charming and gracious Honora Samuels, reduced to the sobbing figure before her.

In the past few months, Anne had watched her friend slowly decline into this state. This Mr. Bennet had come to town, recently inheriting an estate in Derbyshire. Honora had caught the fancy of this newcomer from the start, and watched with joy at her friend's blossoming romance. Honora had been entertaining the idea of a proposal and society as a whole was also expecting the happy union to take place. Then this happened. Mr. Bennet went and proposed to Sarah Gardiner, the town was immediately shocked and puzzled when it was announced on the church notice board this morning.

Anne was silently and comfortingly stroking the arm of the still sobbing Honora. "He is a fool Honora, a fool. If Sarah Gardiner, is in his eyes, held in higher esteem than you my dear, he is most definitely the greatest fool on the face on the earth!" Anne bristled in anger at the thought of holding Sarah over Honora. Why the only advantage that little chit has is her beauty! Honora has all the virtues of a model wife: kindly, gracious, charming, talented…the only thing she lacks is more beauty. How shallow men are! Tis known that beauty is only skin deep – he will tire of Sarah soon, mark my words.

Time flew by; deaths and births, funerals and weddings. Honora and Anne soon followed the path to matrimony. The newly wed Mrs. Wilcox and Mrs. Darcy soon tearfully bid each other farewell at their parting, promising to write often.

Anne had the fortune to wed the illustrious Mr. Darcy: wealthy, handsome and was highly connected. Their wedding was one of splendor and wealth, society congratulating her on capturing he who was considered one of England's most eligible bachelors.

It was a different story with Honora, newly Mrs. Richard Wilcox. Having never gotten over her past love, she had lost the fervor and the passion of her love. Her marriage was a figurative one; husband and wife led separate lives, interacting only out of necessity. Her only consolation and joy was the continuous correspondence to Mrs. Darcy since both their marriages.

"Ma'am, the mail," murmured Gibson the butler who had just appeared at Honora's elbow. She slowly unfurled from her favourite overstuffed armchair and took the letters from the outstretched silver salver on which it was placed on.

"Thank you, Gibson," she said as she nodded her head in dismissal. Honora watched the butler back exit the room and smiled when he knowingly shut the door of the library quietly after him.

Turning to her attention to her mail, she found several invitations to various balls, parties and soirees, none which she found the slightest excitement over. At the last letter, her whole demeanor brightened as she read her name written in the familiar handwriting.

Honora,

How are you my dear? I am so terribly sorry for not writing earlier. Mr. Darcy refused to allow me any activity during my confinement that would make me exert myself, not that I think that our correspondence is hard work. That is what my wonderful news is, I now have a son: Fitzwilliam Darcy. My little boy is the splitting image of his father, Mr. Darcy is so pleased. Please write back soon for I am anxious to hear from you after this long term of silence.

Your friend,

Anne Darcy

Honora stared at that letter. Anne has a son. The news had rendered her speechless and undoubtedly saddened at her own situation. She had longed for a child, but had not yet been blessed with one in the past years of matrimony. The subject had never been brought up, her thinking that Mr. Wilcox would object and add to the ever-increasing level of tension.

A tear slowly made its way down Honora's cheek. The crackling flames danced in her glazed eyes, as she stared and remembered her pleasant childhood wistfully. The noise of a stopping carriage suddenly brought Honora out of her daze. She shook her head slightly as if to clear her thoughts, she then stood and walked to the door. Drawing a ragged breath to steady herself, Honora stepped out into the front foyer to face the tension that accompanied with the presence of her husband.

It was not Mr. Wilcox who had just entered the house, but a tired looking and snow laden figure removing his hat, scarf and gloves. Honora stood in the shadows and watched Gibson approach the stranger and talk in low voices. After an envelope exchanged hands, the man bid farewell and the butler bowed and opened the door.

"Who was that, Gibson?" Honora asked as she stepped out of the shadows and approached the butler.

"That was a mail carrier ma'am. This is the express post he has delivered for you ma'am," Gibson replied, holding out the envelope.

Honora took it and stared at it. The slightly damp paper mesmerized her until the butler cleared his throat softly and asked if anything was the matter. She shook her head and returned to the library.

With every step to the armchair she had occupied merely minutes before, her mind churned with thoughts. Who could be sending an express post, to me instead of Mr. Wilcox? She stood beside the chair, hands trembling, and slowly opened the envelope. Inside was a single sheet of paper.

Mr. Lewis Johnson

London, England

Mrs. Wilcox,

I am saddened to inform you that I am the carrier of terrible news. There is no other way to put it, Mr. Richard Wilcox is dead. He was stabbed through the heart in a London street brawl last evening and died instantly. I, his lawyer, have carried out his wishes listed in his will.

Mrs. Wilcox, as the last remaining member of the Wilcox family, Mr. Wilcox has left you an annual income of 3000 pounds additional to the 2000 you receive regularly from your own family as decreed in you marriage settlement. The house and estate is yours, and left up to you to run the estate farms.

My heart goes out to you in sympathy Mrs. Wilcox. I can only add - may God bless you through this time of sadness.

Sincerely,

Lewis Johnson

Johnson & Associates Firm

To any passerby who could have managed to look through the un-curtained windows of the Wilcox house, it was a charming scene: a well figured lady of accountable wealth and taste in dress, enjoying the crackling of the flames before her, longing for her husband from whom she had just received a letter from.

This picture of longing would be, to that hypothetical passerby, shattered in a very abrupt manner. A high-pitched, feminine shriek cut through the night, breaking the peaceful silence of the night.

Gibson the butler was the first to come running into the library. "Are you alright ma'am?" he asked, quickly approaching her side.

Honora slowly gathered herself, supported by the arm of the armchair; she looked up and gazed at the staff who were still continuing to run in, obviously frightened and concerned. "I apologize," she began, "but I must inform you that a serious event has occurred." Murmurs and whispers broke out between the ranks of servants, obviously sharing their hypotheses and thoughts on the matter.

"Silence!"

The chatter died away almost immediately and all attention was back on the mistress of the house. Honora's face was now a ghastly white, the burst of adrenaline that had brought on the earlier shriek now having left her. "What I must tell you all is…," she began again, drawing deep ragged breaths, "…Mr. Wilcox is dead –"

Total silence descended on the room, in which one could have heard a pin drop. And in the stillness of the winter night, Mrs. Honora Wilcox, now a widow, collapsed.

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Thank you ALL for reading my miserable first attempt at a story.

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