Note: I'm back for another shot! It's been a long ass time since I've written anything decent. This is a draft. It's rough and unbeta'd.
I've been thinking of this for weeks and I had fun writing it! All questions will be answered im future chapters!
This is a Pride and Prejudice fanfic inspired by John Fowler's The French Lieutenant's Woman. Criticism is very welcome. Light reviews are deeply appreciated too!
Meryton was a small town just north of England, about 23 miles from London and an estimated ten-mile radius of the Great North Road. The town was inhabited by simple, small folk and the gentry. Most of them were simple-minded but had great draconian and pious opinions, condemning every single soul that made them suspicious of immorality. About 5 miles from Longbourn, an almost neglected estate owned by an obsequious clergyman, was a forest, gilded by thick green trees and wild shrubbery and foliage. Due to the frequent visits by courting couples, it became a de facto lover's lane during the summer and several of the elderly generation had demanded the authorities to fence, gate, or barricade the forest to prevent amorous couples from ever frequenting the place.
But of course, those are only rumors. Could it ever rang true? Was the forest truly a sanctuary for such immoralities? Perhaps. They never really knew. But the opinion of the place remained. Some felt the place evoked Sodom and Gomorrah in them and therefore it was enough to claim the place unworthy to explore. With the reputation of the woodland established, people even avoided to look at it, fearing of being accused of having connections with it.
The history of the forest was not long and complicated. It wasn't marked by hidden headquarters of refugees during the French Revolutionary Wars nor was it a landmark recognized by someone prominent. No, it was simply the forest. There was no significant event that esteemed the place.
Some of the younger generations, however, possessed an entirely different perspective and not at all bothered by this. Although, they do believe that their utmost duty was to maintain propriety.
On 1814, a member of the peerage visited Netherfield Park, a fine estate situated a good distance from Meryton. The west view vantage point of the estate was the trees. The wife of the Earl expressed her elation for she was a lover of nature (and unaware of Meyton gossips). Not quite fatigued by London society but tired from the same and old company, the Earl decided that a vacation for a few months could ease their worn nerves.
When they arrived and caught sight of Netherfield, the Countess of Matlock eagerly climbed down the carriage. "What a fine thing to gift for Anne and Fitzwilliam! Yes, indeed. This estate shall be our gift, husband."
The Earl of Matlock shook his head to tamper down his wife's exuberance. "I think Pemberley is enough, dear wife. I do not think Fitzwilliam would be as happy as you once he discovers you give this as a wedding gift to him."
"Oh you misunderstand me, sir. I only mean to give it to them for their honeymoon. Look at how peaceful it is and it will be greatly beneficial to Anne during their stay. Imagine the long walks and the fresh air? Oh surely they'd conceive Pemberley's heir immediately."
The Earl laughed in amusement. "I pity Anne's constitution in behalf of your amusement. She is very much like her namesake though may I say, my sister was as strong as a horse until she bore her first child."
His wife merely smiled wryly. "I only hope they actually love each other."
"Oh but they do." Said the Earl.
"As cousins, husband. I wish our nephew happiness and I would approve any woman who loved and is loved by Fitzwilliam. Oh but enough of that. Have you sent the letter? Have Fitzwilliam and Anne agreed to come here on Thursday?"
The Earl did not reply, uncertain of his reply would be. He settled in escorting her wife inside and reacquainting themselves with their old servants and tenants. It was his nephew's very duty to marry Anne so that the two families would remain connected. The Fitzwilliams were not as wealthy as the Darcys but unlike the latter who were untitled, they were a family of Earls. The current head of the Fitzwilliams was the third generation to be presented the Earldom. And though Anne De Bourgh was only half Fitzwilliam, Lady Catherine was determined to marry her only daughter to the scion of the Darcys of Pemberley.
Fitzwilliam Darcy had been resigned to his fate and now thirty and deafened by the simpering mercenaries consisting of mothers and daughters in London (not far removed from Lady Catherine's motives), he knew he had no choice but to marry Anne. She was a sensible lady. Well-bred and fashionable. She was a bit sickly as a child and her health, they feared, worsened as years passed but with the help of England's greatest physicians, she was recovered and happy in her convalescence.
"How quaint." Anne muttered, poking her head out of the carriage. "Yes, I think I will like it here." She looked back at her fiancé who was too engrossed in his book. The lady huffed and sat back in her seat.
"How is it that William Blake interests you more than I, William?"
Mr. Darcy looked up at her and arched a dark brow. "Forgive me, my lady. I heard you the first time but I was too busy interpreting Blake's The Divine Image, discerning whether I misunderstood the four virtues and their purpose."
"Well then." She fixed him a cool stare. "Would you mind endeavoring me exactly how you can show Mercy and Love for me?"
"My dear," Mr. Darcy said, amused. "Why not?" She brightened up. "But do let me finish this first."
Anne could only sputter in shock, gaping at her fiancé. Knowing it would be futile to distract him out of his reading, she only stared at the environment around her and made comments about it. Meryton was lovely. She was never the city type of lady and she grew up in Rosings. An esstate fond of luscious and fertile gardens. She scanned her eyes, approving how Meryton seemed to appreciate its natural blessings. There were no beheaded trees to be seen.
"I find it rather singular of the ladies of the country to wander around unchaperoned, Will."
Fitzwilliam hummed, flicking a page. Anne continued, "There's a lady standing on top of a cliff, sir."
He lifted his brows, morbid curiosity striking him at once. "Is she about to jump to her death, Anne?"
"Not at all. She seems quite at peace. Just staring down at the land. She looks deep in thought." She turned away. Only to see Fitzwilliam staring at her. She demurred and blushed. "Do you not desire to see her, dear?"
"Perhaps we should get down and warn the poor young lady." Mr. Darcy poked his head out of the carriage and observed the young lady in the distance. The young lady's face was downcast. In her hand was her bonnet and wisps of her dark hair swayed with the breeze. Her green dress flapped around her and he was surprised to discover she was barefoot.
Fitzwilliam immediately told the chaffeur to halt. "Will, you can not possibly be fulfilling your jest! Let her be and let us continue to Netherfield."
He shook his head disapprovingly. "A gentleman is a conscientious man, Anne. I can not allow myself be only a witness to this."
"Get inside now, Darcy! This is absurd. You maybe a conscientious man but you are not foolish. This young lady might have enough sense to not actually jump to her death!" Anne hissed, stomping her foot like a petulant child. Fitzwilliam ignored her and ordered the chaffeur to deliver Anne to Netherfield at once.
"Are you in your right mind, sir? She, unchaperoned and perceived as likely mad and you, an affianced gentleman! How could you? Get back here."
"Do not react like that, Anne." He calmly replied, not used to people speaking to him like that. "I simply wish the young lady safe."
"And how about I? Do you not wish me to arrive at Netherfield safe?"
"You are in good hands." He smiled tightly. "Anne, your health will not permit you to exert yourself too much. Get inside. Now." His tone brook no argument and his fiancée huffed before stepping inside the carriage. There were two furious blushes adorning her pretty face.
"If you find her to be a lunatic belonging to a bedlam or a wood nymph inclined to lure and devour you, do not come to me as though I left you unwarned, Mr. Darcy." She closed the door and, before the man could correct her it was Sirens who devoured men, the carriage started to go. Fitzwilliam grunted and rubbed his face. Now he was to spent his evening making it up to Anne.
Tucking his book in his coat, he started his trek.
The young lady was still standing before he ventured the outcrop and Mr. Darcy wondered whether she was in her right state of mind. The green slopes of the wild mount was rich with flora and and the air cool and pleasant. When he had at once came into view and revealed himself to the woman, he found his body instantly rooted to the spot and his throat deprived him of the ability to form the very reason why he left Anne to check the young lady out.
The young woman was still staring down at the cliff, unsmiling and unmoving. She indicated no sign that she noticed him. An aura of misery and longing were about her, almost enshrouding her. Mr. Darcy was incapable to move a muscle, entranced by how still the woman was.
"My good woman, I can't see you here without being alarmed for your safety. I believe it is my d—"
Fitzwilliam suppressed a shiver as she turned her head to him. He suddenly felt that going here was a mistake and that he had offended her to deserve such a look. The woman, to begin with, was beautiful. Not classically beautiful like the fair women in London who obsessed over their willowy frames. No. Finely carved brows sat upon two lovely dark eyes to look at him — or rather through him. The length of her lashes cast a dusky shadow on her pale cheeks. But above all, he was astounded and lost by the intensity of the gaze she pierced him. He stepped back, finally realizing the impropriety of talking to a woman he wasn't acquainted with.
Darcy suddenly realized he stopped breathing, mesmerized by the woman. She spoke no words; she said nothing. Her gaze was devoid of hypocrisy, artifice, and madness. Yet it was consumed by bitter suffering. Grief over what? Her look lasted three or four seconds before she resumed to stare downwards the edge. Mr. Darcy blinked, flustered, before he bowed, stumbling on his way back.