Aloha! And yes, I know it's been a while, but a) this is longer than normal, and b) I've been updating other things/writing whole new stories in that time, so deal with it. Plus I think you will all like this one a lot. :)
Now, there are a few things I want to say: Regarding Fitzwilliam. Yes, I am aware that he was kinda OOC/out of time frame. Well... You see, he basically doesn't appear in the movie, and I haven't read the book in the while, and now due to fanfics/my own imagination, I've built up this playful personality for him. I dunno. Anne too, a little. I just... write him that way. ~Shrug~
Also, I would like to dedicate this chapter to Nimph, who has brainstormed plot with me and given me awesome reviews and will build me a temple on a mountain someday. Not to mention, I'm betaing her P&P fic - which you should ALL check out. Seriously. It's awesome. Shameless fic-reccing here. It's ID#:4633446
Last but not least, yes, the letter in this chapter IS based off the one in the book - I found an online version and edited it to make it work for Elizabeth, but some of the lines are virtually the same.
Anonymous Reviews:
Lucy: Thank you! And here you are. :)
anushca: Thank you! Glad you do... And yeah, I like the suspense. ;) Of course she is...
The wanna b: Thanks! Aw, don't cry...
EXD-BXE: Aw, thank you. And yeah, Darcy's incredibly sweet. :)
sophie: Eek. I'm gonna hate saying this, but sorry... no can do. She will accept him of course, but not just yet. Maybe he HAS been through enough; that doesn't mean I won't put him through more! ;) Glad to hear you liked it, and yeah. Can sympathize. :)
Just as Darcy was in the process of opening the envelope, the door banged open, without even the courtesy of a knock. On instinct, the man slid the paper under the bedcovers; and moments later, he was all too glad he had, for the unannounced visitor turned out to be the prestigious Lady Catherine de Bourgh, who would surely have taken it upon herself to read her nephew's letter – and then to soundly berate him for ever proposing to the lady in question. Darcy's headache had only just faded, and he certainly wasn't eager for another one. Still, he couldn't help but he annoyed at his aunt, impatient as he was to read what he had, until only moments ago, held in his hands.
Colonel Fitzwilliam, too, was quite frustrated by his aunt's timely arrival, for he had been very eager to, if not actually know what the letter contained – for he was growing more and more certain that Darcy would never tell him – then at least observe his cousin's reactions and be able to speculate. However, it seemed that was not to be. Fitzwilliam leaned back in his chair, looking annoyed.
Lady Catherine, upon observing that her favored nephew was wide awake and, indeed, glaring at her, instantly began to scold Fitzwilliam for not informing her sooner that he was awake, and likewise at Darcy for daring to become ill in the first place. Her tirade was quite long, and soon the cousins, as was their wont in such situations, drifted off into their thoughts, occasionally exchanging glances of commiseration.
Darcy was, of course, considering the letter that now lay next to his thigh, well out of sight under the bedcovers. Of course it was welcome, any correspondence from Elizabeth was welcome – but what could it contain? And why on earth had she not just waited to speak to him in person next visit to Rosings? Or was she truly so disgusted by him that she could no longer bear to be in his presence? – but if she were that horrified, what could the letter hold? More testimonies of her hatred? No, Darcy was sure that, however much she might hate him, she was not cruel. But it was equally – or more – unlikely to be a profession of love; she had made that much abundantly clear.
Darcy was well aware of the cyclic directions his thoughts were taking, but he could not stop himself from wondering; and he knew, until he could read that letter, he would keep wondering.
He must read that letter!
Darcy was torn from his musings by a long pause; realizing that he had been asked a question, he cleared his throat and looked at his aunt with worried eyes. He had completely dazed off, so much so that he couldn't even remember what she had last said; and this was saying something, as Darcy had been in the position to train himself, since childhood, to listen to his aunt and respond to her satisfaction, without paying much attention to the conversation. But now, he was completely lost. He glanced at his cousin desperately, and, with a small incline of the head, Fitzwilliam indicated that he should agree.
Quickly turning his eyes to his aunt again, Darcy nodded briefly. "Yes, Aunt Catherine, I – er – quite agree."
The Lady eyed him suspiciously for a long moment before deciding that he had, in fact, been paying attention to her, and said, "Well, then. I shall fetch her directly."
Immediately upon her exiting the room, Darcy turned desperately to Fitzwilliam. "Just what did I agree to?"
Fitzwilliam smirked at him. "Nothing much, just to allow Anne to continue nursing you back to health. And we both know that to refuse that honor would be a dangerous undertaking, indeed."
Momentarily distracted from his thoughts about the letter, Darcy frowned. "But I thought that Aunt Catherine was opposed to the whole thing?"
Fitzwilliam rolled his eyes. "Of course she was; but now she's declaring it the best idea she's ever had. You know how she is. But enough of that – open that letter!"
However, Darcy only shook his head.
"Why ever not?" Fitzwilliam cried, his own anxiety to learn more about what was going on taking him over.
Darcy glanced at the door, and spoke haltingly, determined not to give away the events that had passed; though Fitzwilliam knew of his affection for Elizabeth, he was (hopefully) quite unaware of her displeasure with Darcy, and certainly knew nothing of Darcy's failed proposal – and Darcy hoped to keep it that way. "Past events," he said, "have led me to believe that I am going to want both privacy and time to peruse this particular letter; and I cannot foresee receiving either anytime soon."
Darcy sat back, quite pleased with his phrasing, and amused himself watching Fitzwilliam try to puzzle out what his words might mean. He could practically see the questions running through the other man's mind: what past events? Was Darcy implying that there had been previous letters, in saying 'this particular letter'? So there really was a secret correspondence? But he'd looked shocked at receiving a letter earlier…
Unfortunately for Fitzwilliam, his questions were not to be answered, for before he could ask one out loud – or even decide if he wished to; Darcy's rage was something to be feared – the door was opened once again and Darcy's prediction was proven true.
There was certainly not going to be any peace in this room for quite some time.
-xxx-
There truly was no appropriate word for how Elizabeth felt upon seeing her home again. Joy didn't seem to quite convey the ecstasy in her heart – and yet, at the same time, she felt a deep desolation, brought about by – as near as she could figure – the fact that nothing had changed.
Indeed, nothing had – her mother was the same as ever, as were her younger sisters, though they paid her more attention for an hour or so until the glamours of her travel wore off. Her father, on the other hand, merely gave her a long hug and sincerely thanked her for her return before retreating to his study – and somehow, whereas otherwise it might have comforted her, Elizabeth was ashamed by this. She had undergone such a momentous change in her view of the world, and yet the things she saw had not changed. Only her perception of them had; and it had certainly not changed for the better.
Almost every word out of Mrs. Bennet's mouth now made Elizabeth cringe, imagining how poor Darcy would feel, hearing such things. Kitty, Lydia, and even Mary's behaviour likewise embarrassed her, to the point that, as soon as she managed to secure some free time in her room to unpack her things, (she had told Hill she was perfectly fine doing it on her own) Elizabeth sank down on her bed and wept into her hands.
Unconsciously, she had believed that things would be different upon her return; and now, the unchangedness of everything had awoken her to the possibility that nothing would change. Elizabeth didn't think she could bear it, if Darcy read her letter and still thought no better of her – but now, having arrived in her home, it seemed more and more likely.
She wasn't quite sure why it mattered so much to her; but Elizabeth was now desperate to, once more, be (at least in Darcy's eyes) all those lovely words he had whispered to her on beginning his second proposal.
The second proposal… It seemed as though that second proposal had completely wiped away the first one; for now, thinking of his arrogant words, Elizabeth could not even summon up more than a slight disappointment. Indeed, she was finding it hard to conjure up any bad feelings toward Darcy at all, perhaps even to the extent of having good thoughts instead – and that was a slippery slope indeed to be standing near.
Elizabeth had come to the conclusion that it was impossible for her to feel halfway about the man, for nothing she did seemed to stop the traitorous thoughts of his kiss. When she had hated him, she had hated him fully, with little reason but with great satisfaction, and now she feared the tides had turned the other way, and she might soon find herself loving him – loving him with great reason, surely, but never with satisfaction, as Darcy must hate her now.
Yes, Elizabeth could not seem to hope for anything more than contempt from the man, no matter her letter; she was resolved upon this fact before even a single sleepless night had passed in her childhood bed. Her only hope now was to nip this attraction in the bud. Elizabeth knew that at the moment, all she felt was guilt and admiration for the man he'd turned out to be, but her feelings were quite capable of progressing rapidly from there, despite what she had said in her letter.
Her only recourse now was to forget about him, just as Jane had with Bingley. Although of course, it would be easier for her, seeing as she did not love the man in question already.
Elizabeth did not let herself think about how Jane had been so uncharacteristically quiet and melancholy since, even in her letters.
Elizabeth finally drifted off to sleep, very late the night of her return, her heart heavy with resolve. She would avoid all conversation of the man and not dwell on him in her thoughts, and he would be nothing but a memory before a month had passed, certainly.
But even she could not control her dreams.
-xxx-
Finally, Darcy thought eagerly. Alone at last!
He had been in quest of such a situation the whole day long, but it was difficult, as he was on bed-rest (the doctor's orders) and therefore incapable of leaving his visitors behind. He could always just ask for privacy – but he had tried that, and it only resulted in Lady Catherine scolding him all the more to hurry his healing, even as she summoned servant after servant to attend to him. Anne calmly turned them all away, saying they were unneeded, but Lady Catherine was the one person who neither she nor Darcy could successfully get rid of – and she was the one determined to stay.
Finally, she had left for dinner, leaving Anne (who had complained of a headache just strong enough to keep her from eating the public meal, but slight enough for her to continue to watch her cousin) with Darcy. And now, he might finally get his chance!
But first, he needed to ask Anne to leave the room. Which meant he would have to tell her about the letter, especially if he wanted her to stall anyone trying to enter – which he certainly did, as Darcy didn't think he could bear being halted halfway through such a correspondence.
Darcy didn't particularly wish to inform his cousin – either of his cousins – of his failed proposal, but at the very least, he would have to offer up the information that he cared deeply about the woman who had written the letter, and Darcy thought he could do that; after all, he'd already foolishly admitted it to Fitzwilliam.
But the problem was his cousin's feelings. Darcy had no wish to hurt Anne by asking her, to her face, to aid him with another woman! He would not have worried about this normally, as he had always been under the impression that she wished to marry him exactly as much as he hoped to wed her; that was, not at all. However, Anne's concern and care throughout his illness worried him, as much as he appreciated it. He desperately hoped that she had not developed any romantic affection towards him, as he knew that he would never marry her.
So Darcy was confused as to how to approach the subject; and yet, he could not let that stop him, for he wanted to waste no more precious time – he wanted to read that letter!
He cleared his throat, and began. "Cousin Anne, I would like to ask you a question."
Across the room, Anne raised her head from her book and raised her eyebrows quizzically. "What is it, Will?"
In the past, his childhood nickname had always been a reassurance to hear from Anne's lips, for it meant that she still thought of him as just her cousin, her playmate before she became too sickly to play outside much – and not a suitor. Now, too, it calmed most of Darcy's fears, and he smiled slightly as he spoke. "I was wondering if you would leave the room, and give me some privacy for a while? Forgive my rudeness," he added quickly.
"Of course not; but why do you want me gone? Have I done something?" Anne inquired nervously, and this time Darcy could not restrain a fond smile. In so many ways she reminded him of Georgiana! If only she had been raised at Pemberley, away from her controlling mother, Darcy was sure that she would me much more like his sister.
"It's nothing you've done wrong… More of what you've done right," Darcy blurted out, almost instantly regretting himself.
"What do you mean, what I've do – oh," Anne's face lit up with understanding, and almost instantly, she shook her head. "Of course not!"
With those firm three words, Anne answered Darcy's silent question, and he relaxed almost instantly. She continued: "Of course I cared for you, Will! You are my favorite cousin after all, and I am very familiar with what makes the ill feel better. You think I would not want to ease your pain?"
Relief made Darcy a bit more open than usual, and he remarked, "Favorite cousin? Fitzwilliam will be devastated," in a voice that sounded clearly of affectionate teasing.
Anne just sighed and shook her head, smiling, not bothering to rise to the bait. "But I ask again, what is it that prompts this need for privacy?"
Darcy's face grew closed off once more, but it was easy for Anne to see the pain in it. "You may have heard from Fitzwilliam already, that I – I… admired our guest, Miss Bennet," Darcy spoke hesitantly, obviously hiding something. "Well, I have received a letter from her. That I would like to read. Alone." He finished in brisk, clipped sentences, and averted his gaze from his cousin's.
However, it was easy for Anne – both very familiar with Darcy's nature, and a practiced study of human behaviour – to guess the meaning behind his words. For Darcy to even admit that he admired a woman was high praise indeed, and the blush that tinted his cheeks when he said so led her to believe that it was much more than admiration that he felt. Not to mention, is he was receiving letters from the lady in question, there must be some sort of arrangement.
Heart swelling with hope that she might soon see her reclusive cousin happy – and somewhat selfishly awaiting the day that her mother's matrimonial hopes for her were dashed – Anne smiled and consented to leave the room, saying that she would try to give him privacy as long as possible.
Darcy thanked her and watched her go, gently closing the door behind her. He was incredibly glad that he had not needed to tell her the whole story; his failed proposal(s) were far too painful for him to contemplate at the moment, let alone speak of. Indeed, had it not been for this letter, Darcy was quite sure that he would be wallowing in sorrow right now. As it was, however…
Darcy pulled the letter from under his pillow, where he had hidden it earlier in the day, and stared long and hard at it, eyes devouring the words written on the front: To Mr. Darcy.
He especially liked the way she wrote her D, with an elegant curve, and the line slightly overlapping itself in a curl… How wonderful it would be, to see her signing letters by that name, her elegant script spelling out Elizabeth Darcy.
Darcy caught himself in his daydreams and forcibly shook them out of his head. She hated him! She had refused him! He must get that into his head!
Darcy gently traced the letters with his hand before abruptly turning the envelope over, and unfolding it to withdraw the papers within. However, his hand paused in the act of reaching inside, and somehow, he couldn't force himself to make it pull out the several papers he felt there.
What was wrong with him? All day he had agonized over what might be in this letter, eagerly awaited the moment when he might read it, plotted until he could – and now he couldn't bring himself to unfold it! Why?
Darcy knew, however. He was afraid, understandably afraid, of what Elizabeth Bennet might say to him. Her previous words had already haunted his dreams and Darcy knew that had it not been for his illness, he would be long gone by now, home to Pemberley to distract himself from his sorrow, to heal. Darcy knew that he would not truly recover for some time, if ever – and he could feel the sorrow building up in him even now, the depressing cry of she hates me!
God, the last man! What words to torture with! How the idea haunted him with its implications, the hatred necessary to aim such barbed words at another and let fly! Darcy could not bear it. Surely whatever he read could not make his pain worse – and mayhap it would do the opposite. He could but try.
Thus resolved, and moving quickly before his courage failed him, Darcy withdrew his hand from the envelope and unfolded the papers. The letter read as thus:
Be not alarmed, Sir, on receiving this letter, by the apprehension of its containing any repetition of those sentiments, or renewal of those rebukes, which were last night so painful for you, beyond what I deem absolutely necessary. I write without any intention of paining you, or myself, by dwelling on such pains, but I feel that this must be spoken of and been done with, for the happiness of both, so that it may then be forgotten; and the effort of writing this would be wasted if you would not take the time to peruse it, and had my character not required it to be written and read. You must, therefore, pardon the freedom with which I demand your attention; your feelings, I know, will bestow it unwillingly now, but I demand it of your justice.
Three offenses of very different natures, and of varying degrees of magnitude, I laid at your feet last night. The first being that you willfully detached Mr. Bingley from my sister, even knowing of her and his regard for the other; the second that, even despite various claims, and in defiance of both honour and humanity, you ruined the immediate prosperity and destroyed the prospects of Mr. Wickham. The third and final of my accusations towards you was perhaps less plainly spoken, but I am shamefully aware of how clear I made it throughout the course of our conversation – that your character was flawed in many ways and I could neither respect nor ever marry you.
Before I say any more, Mr. Darcy, I must apologize profusely for the severity of my words and the vitriolic way which they were spoken, which I, now calmed, can not believe were deserved. Also, if, in the explanation of them and of my current feelings, I am under the necessity of relating more offensive words, I can only say how sorry I am. But it must be done, and further apology would do us neither any good, so I shall begin.
First, I feel it necessary to address the topic of Mr. Wickham, on whose behalf I hated you quite viciously – of this topic, I have so much to say, but the words are choked in my throat and my fingers cannot wield my pen long enough to express them all. The most I can say is how truly wrong I now realize I was. Of what he spoke of you, I will not weight you; all I will say is that you were quite correct of the gist of it and my heart quickly grew sympathetic to his apparent plight. –You may not be able to forgive me for such foolishness as I displayed, and my only defense can be that despite my age and clever words, I have not known any truly bad men (or very many men at all), and was, in my own way, quite innocent of their ways. I am also ashamed to admit that the man's charm and handsomeness won me over with the rest of Hertfordshire, whereas your reserved looks and your first comment about me that I overheard (both which I shall address later) prejudiced me to believe the worst of you quite eagerly, when I would have questioned it in any other. Still, this is no excuse, and I do not expect you to forgive me with just it to aid my case.
I shall end the discussion of such events now with a statement that may be painful for you to read, as it reminds you of such unpleasant events as you felt compelled to inform me of last night. I feel it necessary to explain what brought about such a sudden change in my feelings towards Mr. Wickham, whom I'm now convinced is quite the villain. Simply put, Sir, I cannot imagine you to ever be able to make up such horrible things, especially in relation to your sister, who – it was plain in your face when you spoke of her – is very dear to your heart. Not to mention, even without any previous knowledge of his slanders, your account matched up with his; it was but the complete version of an unfinished painting, and the landscape much darker than I had presumed. Indeed, it was this account of yours that, upon reflection, began to change my opinion of you, and led me to examine all of my feelings for you in depth –but I shall come to that later. Here I must simply add how brave your sister must be, and how horribly it must have hurt to know that your rival had struck again and turned so many against you, (for Mr. Wickham's accusations, admittedly in little detail, spread all through the town of Hertfordshire) and for that too I am sorry.
I will turn, then, to my third accusation: that of your character. Reading this part of the letter is sure to insult you, but I feel it necessary to address at length how I felt about you, so as to properly explain how differently I feel now. –When I first saw you, I have to admit no immediate dislike, although I confess that my propensity to seek out and amuse myself with human fault did call to attention your pride –it did not occur until you made that remark about my looks to Mr. Bingley, the subject of which I'm sure you did not mean to hear you, but who most certainly did, and was, I must admit, very offended. I decided upon the spot to dislike you, and as time passed it only became easier for me. Your obvious disdain, your brooding silence whenever in company, and your heavy stare, which felt disapproving to me, thought it may have been meant differently, all helped me along; and Mr. Wickham's false account of your misdeeds was only the proof I felt I needed. Since then, I have steadfastly hated you, never once wavering, and my (perhaps badly-timed) discovery of what you did to my sister, which occurred at most an hour before your proposal, drove me over the edge. –Pardon my bluntness, Sir, and be reassured that I do not feel so now.
Since you left me at my dear friend's doorstep last night, my thoughts have been in such a turmoil that I can hardly hear anything else; but upon forcing myself to sit down and think logically through my feelings for you, for once attempting to prove that you were not horrid, I discovered a shocking fact: I have no basis to hate you. –You see, many of my objections against your behaviour were well-founded – you, Sir, were unrepentantly rude this summer in Hertfordshire and I will not deny that or excuse you from it – but they still did not give me any true basis to hate you so. Once I had dismissed the resentment on behalf of Mr. Wickham, I found that most my remaining feelings were founded solely on my own pride, insulted by your remark; and that is hardly the way to judge the whole of a man's character. Therefore I felt it was the least I could do to excuse your pride, for mine was obviously not inconsiderable either. Your rudeness I realized I had also misjudged when, in my efforts to excuse you, I remembered a statement you made not long ago. Though I still believe that you ought to practice such a useful skill as conversing with strangers, I can not hate you on that basis. Nor can I on your feelings towards my family. I love them dearly and hate to admit their fault; but in this instance I must concede the truth of your argument. Thus all my objections to you fell, one by one, before logic. However much I enjoyed disliking you, I can do so no longer.
However, I have not yet addressed the issue of my sister. I do not resent you for your actions, Mr. Darcy, nor do I hate you for them; but I am afraid that I can never find it in my heart to look on you with anything more kind inside me as long as this goes uncorrected, no matter how badly I myself have wronged you. You have destroyed the happiness of my dearest sister and your own closest friend – this must be rectified. Sir, I beg of you: go to Mr. Bingley and tell him the truth, as you said you would last night. If he does not go to Jane then so be it, but do not take the decision to go after love away from him. I shall not tell Jane, for I could not bear it if she knew and grew yet more miserable when he never returned. It all rests on you, Mr. Darcy. I truly do believe that I could like you if I tried, once I no longer saw my weeping sister every time I looked into your eyes.
You may possibly wonder why all this was not told you last night. But I was not then in control of myself enough to know how I felt, much less what I ought to tell you. I leave early tomorrow for Hertfordshire – I feel that I must, as to stay here any longer would cause us both unnecessary pain. I shall endeavour to find some way to pass this letter along to your hands before I go.
I can only add, as you did last night, God bless you.
Elizabeth Bennet