Chapter Twenty-One: Betwixt and Between
March 16, 2017
It is a truth universally acknowledged that a young woman with nothing left to lose has disproportionate courage in severing the final ties to her security in want of meaning. Sophie Devon was such a one; and the act that cemented this well known philosophy was her decision to hand in her notice to the job that had secured a tidy sum of savings. The fact that the majority of this money was earned by the original Sophie Devon troubled her only minutely during the infancy of her planning. It was unlikely that that Sophie would return with admonishments for any monetary losses. The truth was that for too long she (she being the current inhabitant of Sophie Devon) had erred on the side of caution for the past three months by restricting her time and pleasures to the experiences known to her predecessor.
While the work to be found in the HR department had been exciting upon first discovery, the novelty had worn away to a briny shine as splotched and pock-marked stains are want to cover a once silver dish. Simply put, if this was to be her life now it was not what she wanted to do.
What it was that she did want to do . . . well, that had yet to be discovered.
Though, she knew, for her state of mind if nothing else, that she had to start at the beginning. That tidy sum, which had appeared astronomical at first before its current worth was understood, no longer remained intact. After much deliberation, arguments, negotiations, and long conversations, Sophie Devon was now the somewhat skeptical, yet equally proud, owner of a house.
Admittedly it was a small house – very small. With a single bedroom and a kitchen that must have been designed with the Little Folk in mind it was far from anything she'd come to be accustomed to. The flat with Jules, though smaller when compared by measurements, felt somehow larger. Of course it was filled with life and so deceived the eye into perceiving as big a space to accommodate the vivacity of the individuals within.
It was with Jules that many of those arguments had been shared with. She couldn't understand the sudden desire of Sophie's to uproot her life in order to move to some obscure location on the outskirts of the town of Hatfield in Hertfordshire; let alone to buy a house that was in possession of more patchwork than the patchwork doll herself. It was due to this debilitated state of affairs that Sophie had managed to acquire a piece of property at all. The going rate of even a small flat to rent would ultimately be beyond her savings. It was also fortunate that the land her house sat on was the property of an older couple who seemed as pleased to have somebody inhabiting the dinky old place and turn the eyesore into something presentable. Not for the first time Sophie doubted her skills. But what she lacked in knowledge she more than made up for with enthusiasm. It was a project that would occupy her thoughts and body and she welcomed it.
Despite the pleasant unfurling of events surrounding her recent purchase, Sophie couldn't help feeling that small butterfly of unease that had flared up in her stomach when she had failed to locate Longbourn, or even her former village of Meryton, on the map. That fluttering returned in those quiet moments when disturbing thoughts had a knack for slipping past one's guard to plague the mind with troublesome thoughts.
It was a month since that session with Phillipa. A month since she learned the truth. It had taken only that month for Sophie's life to change once again, though, by her hand. Of one thing she had always been certain, even dating back to her prior life - she had never assumed great happiness for herself. That privilege was always to go to Jane as her beauty and her kindness recommended her to such a fate. Yet, the awareness of that disparity made the realization none the easier to acclimatize to. She had presumed her course in life to follow the path of a spinster's. The unhappiness that arose from being separated from her family by the finicky highway of time had never crossed her mind as a plausible reason for the solemnity she had anticipated.
Her copy of Pride & Prejudice rose to the status of her bible; its pages filled with prophetic knowledge that she hoped at least half of came to pass. The mysterious Mr. Bingley (let alone his friend) appeared to gain the approval of her alter-ego, and to that she had to hold. If Jane found her happiness, than she could not but be happy for her. As to the matter of her youngest sister and that officer . . . – while it possessed a somewhat decent ending, the final pages of the book left much to be desired.
'Her affection lasted only a little longer than his.'
Lydia, that foolish girl! It would be like her to bring about her own disappointment.
Still, Sophie had to assume that perhaps all matters were not so fixed as they appeared in the black and white print. A part of her was still there. She knew this without knowing how she knew this. Or rather, without understanding the mechanics of such things. The version of herself that had inhabited this life previously knew of the Bennets – granted as fictional characters – but it gave Sophie hope that perhaps the switch had occurred for reasons greater than first thought. It was some comfort to know that there was undoubtedly a person there watching over Lydia with an eye tuned for exactly the behaviour that needed staunching.
"I see you've finished painting the hall. I won't ask how you managed to get that on you, though."
Sophie turned from her crouched position, hauling at a stubborn piece of . . . something under the kitchen sink to look up at Dan. He stood over her with one of his crooked half-smiles, nodding his chin at her general person.
"What?" she asked, releasing the something and patting herself down as she looked to see if any paint had transferred.
"Your neck. The back of it," he informed her.
Sure enough, when she reached behind her, her fingers came away with a light blue residue. She rubbed her fingers meditatively for a second trying to think back to when that could've happened.
"Never mind that," Dan said, reaching for her hand. "I've brought lunch. It looks like you've earned it."
Once the general display of arched eyebrows had finished their acrobatic feats at Sophie's declaration of change, it was Dan alone who had leapt aboard in support of her decisions. There had been some suspicion over the choice of her location, but once Dan had seen the property for himself – in all its rundown glory – the largest smile had broadened his face, and Sophie felt an unfamiliar flutter in her heart that was in no way a close relation to the flutterings of her stomach. It was his time and car that ferried her back and forth from the city (she neither had a car, nor knew how to operate one – in truth, she was always a little frightened when entering a moving machine) as she progressively emptied her room at the flat and filled the one in her home. She had thought to part with some of the things, though, the guilt of discarding items that may have unknown meaning or sentiment stopped her each time. Therefore, she wound up bringing it all to her house on the outskirts of Hatfield (the only recognizable town in her home county) where it cluttered up the space in a cozy sort of way. Her old room was to become Henry's, Jules' now steady beau. It had its practical reasons – namely, Jules wouldn't have been able to afford the rent on her own – but Sophie was not deceived. After reading her predecessor's diary the mysteries existent between a man and a woman of this age left little to be imagined. Most of the entries of an intimate nature featured Dan as the hero, which, sitting on the tiled floor of her dinky kitchen as she was, coaxed a rather tell-tale blush as she accepted his hand and offer of lunch.
London, February 2, 1813
"You aren't drunk," Bingley's voice sprang sudden life to the room better equipped for the whisper of turning pages. His statement, rather petulantly given, was swallowed by the space as if the study itself was offended at having its sanctum disturbed. Nevertheless, the sole occupant heard his friend's unorthodox greeting, and responded in kind.
"Did you expect me to be?" Darcy questioned, looking up. He was seated behind his desk, and were he of any smaller stature, would have been swallowed himself by the sheer quantity of opened volumes littered around his person.
"You might have had the decency to be suffering from an alcoholically induced headache. I came all the way from Netherfield to check on you," Bingley replied, walking into the room and casting a wary glance over the teetering collection of books. "A bit of light reading?" He queried sarcastically.
"It's nothing," Darcy said quickly. He rose from his chair and offered his guest a drink. The liquid hum of brandy filling the crystal glasses sufficed as intermission ere the two men broached any subject of substance, for which Darcy knew there would be. Why else would Charles leave the pretty company of the eldest Miss Bennet to 'check' on him – whatever that meant. He suddenly felt agitated and wished this impending interview a speedy end. Alas, his mind was too full of the philosopher's words of Kant and Swedenborg to avail him in direct communication with another – living – human being.
"You are missed," Bingley said, accepting his drink, "in Meryton. It was a marvelous day - Mrs. Collins' wedding. I even managed to convince Miss Elizabeth I intend to steal their cook, Hill, from them. You would have appreciated her arguments against the ambition."
Darcy managed a tight smile for his friend's benefit before hiding any further emotion behind a large gulp of brandy. Thoughts of the second Miss Bennet were never far from his immediate thoughts, though, hearing her pronounced in the consciousness of another solidified her reality. Since the months of his removal from Hertfordshire Miss Elizabeth Bennet had resembled more and more that spectre, haunting his dreams and never giving him a moments peace as he scoured as many texts likely to provide insight into renewed life or parallel planes of existence.
"I am happy for the couple. I assume they have left for Kent already," Darcy said, engaging in that form of automatic courtesy which required minimal effort. They both of them settled in the twin chairs facing Darcy's desk.
"I believe they left just after the wedding breakfast. Mr. Collins' duty to your aunt is admirable," Bingley said in a straight tone, while his eyes gave way to the humour he meant to convey. Unfortunately Darcy was ill-equipped for the nuances of banter and missed the point entirely. His gaze remained fixed on an obscure point as he responded: "And given my aunt's reception to such duty it is unlikely that Mr. Collins will run dry of it any time soon; especially now that he has a wife to make an example of."
"I daresay," Bingley absently agreed, watching his friend, as he raised his drink to his lips. "You have yet to tell me what all this is about," he continued after a moment's lull, gesturing at the crowded desk.
"I was unaware that you had expected an explanation," Darcy said, putting his empty glass down.
"Well, seeing as I took the time and energy to come up to London to inquire as to why you had stopped responding to my letters – as well as your cousin's, the colonel – fearing all the while that you had run afoul of some ignoble scheme, and put your trust into some alleyway villain, only to remember that you, Mr. Darcy, would never permit a trap to fall about yourself, which then, of course, led to more fantastical notions of your state of being, until finally I could bear the suspense no longer and decided to discover for myself why, precisely, you have been ignoring all your correspondence. And now, as I enter your home, not a sniff of snuff, not a scent of tobacco smoke, and hardly the suffocating taste of alcohol in the air I'd almost been expecting. Rather, I find you totally sober and entombed by the works of Newton, Kant, and Kepler as if you were a naughty schoolboy assigned his class' work for misbehaving."
Bingley's pitch rose only slightly in the deliverance of his speech; it was his comportment, Darcy noticed, which was pointed and expectant. This unwelcome brand of interrogation, despite its fuel originating from concern, fouled Darcy's already confused state. Though, not wishing to vex his friend, who, by rights, had reason to be alarmed, Darcy organized his thoughts into a mimicry of composure.
"Forgive me my silence. My intention was not to alarm you. Though, I must admit my attention has been absorbed somewhat of late. I fear my measure of the passing of time has been insufficient in sustaining good relations between London and Hertfordshire."
"The society of philosophers has that tendency," Bingley remarked, smiling. Darcy returned the gesture, if a little grudgingly.
What had begun as a quest for answers had morphed into a being of independent thought, intent on consuming its prey by means of madness. Hours spent alone in his London townhouse – he would not allow this search to extend to the halls of Pemberly and thus pollute Georgiana – bent over books that offered a plethora of theories, beliefs, proven facts, etc., had amounted to a purge of rational thinking. Suddenly, Darcy had felt himself inadequate to engage in a world cloaked in mysterious that demanded suspension of belief. Until he could understand it he would not expose himself to it. These feelings experienced amplification due to the fact that its epicentre was the one woman who had turned his head so soundly that, even now, his regard for her was not totally depressed, despite his initial protestations against his attachment.
How many were the nights that she visited him; her cold lips a quick fire to his own? How many were the times that he would reach for her in sleep, only to wake and find his duvet the recipient of his embraces? The memory of her kiss – that shocking action – was a presence just hovering over his mouth, always. Her declaration of love, a caress whispered to the shell of his ear. The torment of wishing to separate the woman he ultimately could not deny loving from the inexplicable thing she was drove him to his present isolation.
The few letters exchanged between himself and Bingley had been a pretense repugnant to him. The false good humour he assumed for his friend's benefit had drained him while taking him away from pursuits more conducive to his current curiosity. The same regard was given to Fitzwilliam. He would read their letters, but found the energy lacking when contemplating replies. The intention was not good enough, and soon even the thought of picking up his quill had been supplanted by his narrow-minded research.
There was one person who had not been excluded from some of his thoughts, however. They - already possessing an inclination towards the spiritual – had been applied to by Darcy, who, without revealing the true nature of his inquiries, managed to check his rational mind enough in order to be receptacle of this source. Some notions he dismissed out of hand, quite unable to help himself. Though, there were those that struck him with a force, almost possessing a physical quality in the strength that the words evoked, stirring up his memory and imagination. These letters he kept close and perused often when he felt their authenticity to surpass some of the published thinkers.
Whether it was luck or good management on the part of Mrs. Reynolds, his estate in the north had needed his attention only a handful of times during his self-imposed shut-in; and only once was his actual presence required. To Georgiana, he had exhausted all his energy to be the brother she knew; he did not want to plague her thoughts with worry over him. How painful it had been to smile and laugh at her jokes that he barely heard; to applaud her performances and respond to conversation that took every ounce of focus to attend to.
Yet, at length, returned to his London townhouse and with only his own company, it soon became evident to him that the true exhaustion came from maintaining his inflexible will. The days bore down on him with voices of scholars, inventors, scientists, mystics and philosophers – most long passed from this world – while the nights were the province of memories, echoed as dreams.
'Oh quit your self-pity,' she had said. 'You are not alone in the feeling of having everything once familiar wear the guise of a question mark,' she had pressed.
Slowly, Darcy had felt his resolve succumbing to new thoughts, thoughts accompanied by the acknowledgment to certain truths he could not refute. Namely, what he had seen that night, what he had felt, and ultimately her claim of sincerity.
'You have known both Elizabeth Bennet and Sophie Devon, for I am both, and neither has the temperament for manipulation.'
Almost traitorously his heart had begun beating for her again in that moment out on that frosty morning; wisps of hair fluttering about her face while her chest, exposed by an askew shawl, rose and fell with the contained energy of her anger towards him. However, his heart rebelled in a quiet way, so as not to prompt retaliation from his still frothing mind. Even now, in the fullness of day, he could not bring himself to realize the language of that organ without a curled lip. How could he condone feelings for such a one when he could not begin to understand her? How was it that the secrets of spiritualism were paling in comparison to his suppressed curiosity of the secrets of her lips? Why was he not furious at the liberties taken?
With an absorbed mind Darcy realized he was pressing his fingers to his lips, feeling the curve of the small smile he had shown Bingley. He realized further that he had drifted off into his own thoughts in the middle of their talking. Setting his hand back down, he straightened in his chair and recalled the strain of their chatter. Something to do with philosophers and their demand of your attention.
"Yes, and while they are fond of serenading us with their wisdom they are not good company should you wish to argue a point of theirs," Darcy remarked with some feeling.
"Have you many arguments you would put to them?" Charles queried, fortunately unaware of his friend's momentary lapse.
"Not as many as I'd once thought. Had I the chance of summoning them in the flesh it would be to pose further questions that I feel they left unanswered."
"And what if they had not the answers?" Bingley posed.
"Then I would call them charlatans and abuse their reputations for leading wonderers astray without hopes of tempering curiosity."
"It sounds to me that you do not need them in the flesh to berate them so."
"No, perhaps not. Though it would be far more enjoyable than scoffing at the air," Darcy revealed.
"Are these volumes all from your library?" Bingley questioned after a moment.
"Most. I did have to purchase a few," Darcy answered, giving a cursory glance at the higgledy-piggledy piles scattered over his desk. He frowned, as if just noticing the mess he had created around himself.
"It is an impressive collection," Bingley admitted, seemingly oblivious to the disorganization, "and whether the answers were yielding or not, I do hope the philosophers are willing to share you with the rest of us soon."
Darcy flicked his eyes over to Charles. Abruptly, he stood and poured himself another drink. Taking a sip, he answered unkindly, "despite their fixed arguments they have more reason to relinquish my company than I do theirs."
His tone bore the weight of his struggles, and a pang of guilt wormed its way to his chest at his friend's chastised expression.
"Of course," Bingley said. A forced smile did not become his handsome features. He rose from his chair, setting his glass down. "I do hope you'll forgive my intrusion, Darcy. You know my motives, and now that they've been appeased I shall leave you without further interruption."
"Don't be ridiculous man! Look, I am not myself as you can no doubt see. I have had a trying time, and half of what I say must be excused as utter nonsense. I know not half the time what passes my lips, but I've learnt to pay no heed to it. You caught me unawares – which, of course, is no excuse, but I beg you give me leave to use it as such for my behaviour just now was unpardonable."
"Think nothing of it," Charles forgave easily. "I should not have barged my way in. I fear I may have upset the order of your staff in charging past your butler."
"His lacking presence is rather curious. But please – sit," Darcy motioned. He resumed his own chair, bringing the decanter with him to top Charles' glass.
"I have been remiss in not asking after your sisters. I trust you left them in good health."
"The best of health, though they will never admit to it," Charles said. He enjoyed a mouthful of brandy before continuing. "I'm actually out of their favour at present. They wished to join me, but I insisted on solitude. Mr. Hurst has that happy privilege of contending with their tempers."
"How the fates have smiled down on him," Darcy remarked.
For the next half hour he reprised the role he'd assumed when visiting Pemberly. However, the demands were not as extreme as he'd remembered. It made him wonder if he felt easier in Bingley's company than his sister's, or if it was a sign to himself that he was growing tired of his isolation. Their conversation was kept light; out of necessity on Darcy's part, while out of courtesy on Charles'. The few brushes against more compelling matters – such as his sudden return to London and ultimate silence – were met by closed doors and generous retreats. Darcy was grateful in those moments for his friend's aptitude in gauging solid ground.
Elizabeth Bennet was not brought up again.
So long as their talk dealt in the realm of inconsequential niceties Darcy felt able to meet those expectations. Though, not indefinitely. That topic, normally distasteful to him, drew from only a limited supply of patience from him now. The good friend that Charles was knew when that point had been reached and executed his final retreat for that day charitably.
When Darcy was once again in the company of ghosts of his own making, he let his head fall back and sighed.
It was good to see Charles, he decided. His initiative in seeking him out made Darcy aware of how keenly he missed his friend and the society that had haloed him like good spirits. Not for the first time did he question the wisdom of remaining aloof to the pulse of life beyond his doors. Yet the moment consideration tickled his fancy an iron-fisted thought clamped down on any such notions. Why, he wondered, standing suddenly and pacing the room, could he not grant himself that freedom of escaping from his own torn ramblings? What held him fixed so to the superficial sanctuary of his study?
Of course he knew. How could he not after weeks and weeks verging into months of introspection?
It was her.
The minute he shook off this wild goose-chase of a search, he knew, it would be her door his feet found the quickest route to. The temptation to direct his carriage to Longbourn when he had had business at Pemberly had pulled like a taught string; the pain increasing with each mile that carried him further away. Whether he meant to embrace her or berate her, even he could not be certain. He knew that his hands itched to hold her; to pull her close or leave his finger-prints on her soft flesh as the reproach he felt for having his heart stolen so cruelly.
'I have never lied to you – and I never will.' Her last words before she branded him irrevocably.
"No, I suppose you have not," Darcy spoke quietly, touching his fingertips to his lips once more. "But the unfairness of the situation, madam, may very easily be balanced between us."
There was little back and forth in the matter – Jane was going to London. When the inevitability of that situation made itself clear to my dear sister her efforts towards patience was redirected to courses more conducive towards her own happiness. It was, perhaps, the first time mamma and I were in total harmony with each other – a refreshing change of pace. Her unshakable backing smoothed any wrinkles Jane might have found in our laying the framework of this second visit to London in only over a couple of months.
Mrs. Treggels, as warm and welcoming a hostess as she was, had seen the last of us for a while. It was to our Aunt and Uncle Gardener that a letter was sent inquiring over the possibility of Jane and myself coming to see them. A general excuse of the time being near Easter was given as a nice gloss, while the true context could easily be deciphered with squinted eyes and a canted head.
However, there was a delay in correspondence that set back our traveling time and which gave opportunity for correspondence from another branch of our family to reach us at Longbourn. Mrs. Collins wrote from her finely polished perch at Hunsford in a manner reminiscent of one at liberty of the use of many grand words without fully understanding the nuances of each of their meanings; her tone conveyed veiled barbs that she no doubt thought hidden in the compliments she paid to her own management of housekeeping, thinking this to outbalance her contempt. The letter went on a great deal with little variation in expression or experience. If she had seen fit to end her missive at only a quarter of its length the recipients would not have suffered from any lack of knowledge. It was only at the end, indeed, in the very last two sentences that an invitation was granted to mamma, Jane and myself to come see her at the beginning of March. This offer was decorated so heavily with false platitudes that I felt certain that it was our sister's way of masking her reticence in dooming herself once more to be seen only in comparison to her more beautiful elder sister – especially in a world that was now her own. Lady Catherine's scrutinizing gaze would not miss the disparity in features and, matched with her forthright tongue, its evidence would likely be a reminder to Mary for the rest of her life.
What quickly became clear was a redirection of priorities. Excuses for Jane would be made with the fudging of certain dates to appease the Collins' delicate pride. As for myself, there was no reason for me not to join mamma and would be seen as a slight if I were to forego this first visit to the in-laws. As disagreeable as it was to Jane and me, the timing was not with us.
While my faith in her own resolve was strong, I feared the machinations of Mr. Darcy. His temper was fierce - as I was only too well aware, having been informed of it by Miss Austen when I was eleven years old – and provoked as it was, may commit more lasting harm than initially anticipated. While there may exist genuine doubts of his perception of Jane's affection for his friend, his current animus towards me was likely the fueling power in his wish to sever any ties between our once combined societies. What further pronounced this theory was the fact that for the past two months the gentleman had not the accessibility of witnessing the development of his friend's relationship with my sister. I would like to think that had he deigned to expose himself and endure the awkwardness of a renewal of our own acquaintance so that he might see his friend well and in love, he would have given his blessing. That fate was not mine to know, but ere Mr. Darcy persuaded it in his favour, I meant to persuade him.
It did not occur to me until only after I had posted the letter addressed to Mr. Darcy that I was mimicking his alter-ego's actions in attempting to cool tempers and smooth what misunderstandings had arisen. I had even directed him to burn it when he had completed his use of it. I felt it better that the words on that page should be read by none other than the author and the intended recipient. I concealed the existence of the letter even from Jane. It was something personal between me and him; we both the makers of our own unhappiness. I did feel slightly vindicated, however, that had I decided to share with him my true story from the beginning he would not have suffered my presence long enough to discover whether he loved me or not. Therefore, I was still angry at him when first sitting down to write the letter and, in consequence, the tone reflected that sentiment. Alas, before I could change my mind, I sanded the papers, folded the pages, sealed it carefully with hot wax, and posted it by the messenger who came regular to our door. With the transfer of hands taking charge of the letter, I sought to draw symmetry in my mind by turning my focus to a new project during the interim of Jane's leave-taking and my own journeying with mamma to Hunsford.
Neither Kitty nor Lydia could be induced to join us in place of Jane to visit our sister, and while a Bennet girl remained under the roof of Longbourn father would not think of quitting it when only Mrs. Phillips could be summoned to employ her eyes in the noble art of parental detection.
It was probably for the best that they had as much an aversion to Hunsford as Hunsford appeared to have for them. I foresaw only forced mingling of that youngest branch of our household with our cousin's – and father, that supporting oak, 'sheltering' his young from unpleasantness; a perfect shield to protect himself as much as his reluctant daughters. And may that sheltering extend to the sharks still circling close to home - that was my prayer.
Mr. Wickham was a presence more felt than seen as of late. His reception from Mr. Bennet at Mary's wedding had granted a reprieve of his attentions, though, mention of him could not be totally excluded when Kitty and Lydia insisted on venturing into town and visiting their officers. Try as I might, my energy had not the capacity to be split triply and give equal regard to all my worries. I would accompany those giggling girls as often as I could, though I sensed they committed their real mischief when my presence was absent. I convinced myself that it was enough that father had already shown some strength of character against the villain. He was aware of my concerns and already an unwilling witness to Lydia's fool-hardy exploits; he would therefore stretch his parental skills prematurely when they actually had the potency of being effectual.
Still, that left only me and mamma alone in a carriage, and then the only company to each other as the outsiders upon arriving at the parsonage. As pleased as she presently was with Mary, I doubted greatly that mother and child had much shared sympathy and would sooner than not find comfort in sitting at a distance rather than artificially confining themselves to each other's company. Of course mamma would always find some level of competition in Mr. Collins; their matches would resume of who could draw the most air out of a room with their incessant chatter. Nevertheless, it was not passing my notice my growing affection for Mrs. Bennet. While it could never equal the love I had for the mother who birthed me, mamma was proving to be that perfect blend of surrogate mother, in-home entertainment, quasi-friend, and all the while oblivious to the laughter she occasionally extracted from me. That being said, she still proved that a little went a long way.
We needed a third as a buffer. And I could think of none other than that person whose presence would simultaneously align and contradict with the current flow of narrative.
Charlotte Lucas was perhaps as confused by my invitation as Mary had been by my inquiry into the possibility of replacing Jane with my friend. However, both were amenable to the idea and eventually came to similar conclusions that my offer stemmed from a fear of being locked in a carriage for hours with mamma. As mentioned, this fear was not entirely unfounded, though it was not my sole reason.
The lines of the story regarding Mr. Collins were irrevocable now. Yet, if this was to be the only time Charlotte walked the grounds around Hunsford and passed the single lane separating the parsonage from Rosings Park, than I felt she should have that one chance. There was no harm in it; none knew of the significance but myself. It was silly of me, but I felt I owed it to her. If not for my interruption of existence, she would now be married with the comfort and security that her nature yearned for. She had said herself that she was not a romantic sort, so perhaps this outcome was a disservice to her.
Yet as invested as I was in her eventual happiness I knew deep down that my ploy to bring Charlotte to Hunsford was merely a plaster to cover up the festering wound existing between Mr. Darcy and myself; my attempts to right a story determined to divulge at seemingly random points. It was perhaps unfair to her, though I was grateful as she would prove a lovely mediator once mamma and I began disagreeing on whether Mary was still considered a bride or not.
It would be three days until we reached Kent.
A/N: I first have to say that this chapter fought me tooth and nail. The concept of it had seemed so simple to me at first, but as I progressed and continued to tweak, change, and sometimes do away with entire passages I realized how the simple ideas sometimes take the most work. Overall I feel it conveyed what I wanted it to. Mr. Darcy's section was the first thing written and what took the most time executing. Pinning him was important to me. I remembered that he said at one point in the novel - around the time of his first proposal and letter - that he abhorred facades. I felt that I could use this as a substantial grounding for his current wrath towards Lizzy. To his eyes she was wearing a mask while presenting a version of herself comfortable with concealing a large truth.
I would love to hear your thoughts on his inner turmoil and the lengths he went to to try and make sense of things. Was it over the top or believable for someone of his temperament?
Charlotte's part in this story has been mostly dormant so far, but I've been looking forward to reaching this point in the story. I know it's only really a tease of her at the end, but she will definitely be in the next chapter. The ideas I have circling her have been in my head since beginning this story so it is gratifying to finally be coming to the point where I will get to flesh out my ideas into ordered sentences and paragraphs.
Thank you to all who are reviewing. I always love hearing from you guys.
To liysil: Thank you very much. I appreciate your constant support with new updates.
To craftscute09: Love the kind words and I'll gladly accept the hearts ;)
To Colleen S: Thank you again for the lovely compliments!
To Pp: I'm glad you're excited. I hope you will be again for this one. I know it's been a month since I last updated. As to why Wickham hasn't been ostracized yet: it would be an awkward thing for Lizzy to announce her knowledge in a forthright manner to her family. If she used too much detail, questions would arise as to how she came by this information. And yet if she used too little she would likely be ignored. In her way she has shared what she has felt comfortable in revealing with Mr. Bennet and as we saw at Mary's wedding, he followed through on her advice.
To Ecwb: Sorry, I didn't update soon:( But I did update!
To LMFG: Here be Mr. Darcy's head. Hope ya enjoyed! ;)
I give no promises to when the next chapter will be posted. I will do my best to get it out as soon as I am able. Just know that I do try to work on it everyday.
'Till next time.