Summary: While at Netherfield, before the assembly, Mr. Darcy discovers a letter young Elizabeth wrote years earlier to her future husband.

*Revised October 2020*

The Letter

Chapter 1

One must do what one must to avoid Miss Bingley for as long as possible. In the drawing room of Netherfield Park, Mr. Darcy was sitting at the writing desk by the window, his letter to Georgiana finished yet keeping up the appearance of being occupied. It was a wonder that he had been able to finish in a timely fashion; Miss Bingley was playing the pianoforte and entertaining them with her singing. Her tone was probably a better fit for a tavern near London's docks. Not that he was implying anything regarding Miss Bingley, but sailors who had spent months at sea were most likely the only ones who could hear anything lovely in her voice.

At that moment, another high note soared through the space ... or rather, soured the space. One of these days a window would crack, Darcy was sure of it. The large feather in her headpiece shook along with her head as she held the note. That same feather had tickled Mr. Hurst's nose during dinner, sending him into a sneezing fit, when Miss Bingley turned to Darcy to inquire if the dinner was to his taste.

Mrs. Hurst clapped enthusiastically as the song came to an end and Mr. Hurst joined in, though more likely because he could sleep without strange bird calls waking him; the man turned first to the windows every time Miss Bingley's voice woke him. As she rose from the pianoforte's seat, Miss Bingley once again told them the story of how much the schoolmistress had loved her voice. The poor woman must have had a hearing problem but did not want it to become known.

Miss Bingley was not subtle about her aspirations for the future, and again, she tried to turn Darcy's attention toward herself. "Music affects the spirit. Do you agree, Mr. Darcy?"

He suppressed a sigh and looked at her. She had a small smile on her face, and he was not sure whether she was trying to be alluring or trying to prevent wrinkles. "Yes, I find it very soothing when Georgiana plays," he answered.

While Charles Bingley, one of his dearest friends and his host at Netherfield, covered his laugh with a cough, Miss Bingley's expression tightened before a broader smile made its appearance. "And how is dear Georgiana faring? Do send her my regards. She is such a sweet girl."

"Yes, she is." With that, Darcy returned his focus to the letter in front of him. It had only been a few days since their arrival at Netherfield, and the following night they would be attending the assembly. As much as Darcy was not looking forward to the event, it also might be a welcome relief from Miss Bingley and her need to fill the room with her presence. There was rarely a moment of quiet, of peace. Miss Bingley, at least, liked her own voice.

Darcy studied the carvings on the desk as he stretched his time there. From experience, he knew that the moment he sat down on the armchair with his book, Miss Bingley would do her best to draw him into a conversation. And on that note, he noticed she had moved his book again—he had left it on the table next to the armchair, and she had moved it to the table next to the sofa where she sat. The first time it had happened, she made a comment about how the maids must have moved it when they dusted the room earlier. Darcy did not have an ounce of belief in that explanation.

As he continued to study the carvings, Darcy suddenly noticed something—each of the flower heads on the front of the desk appeared one with the wood, except the middle one had a groove around the circle in the middle. Curious, Darcy pushed it but nothing happened. He pushed a little harder and suddenly the button went into the desk. His ears caught a soft sound as a thin drawer in the center of the desk popped outward. Above the middle drawer, it had previously appeared as part of the structure.

Unexpected, but a pleasant diversion, he surmised.

Darcy was about to call Bingley over when he noticed the corner of a page peeking out. He pulled the thin drawer out a little further and slid the page from its hiding place of who knew how many years. Unfolding the paper, he discovered it was a letter. It was dated 1804.

Dear future husband. ...

Darcy folded the letter. Even if the people were long gone, he did not want to read the letter that a young woman had written to her betrothed. Still, something about the handwriting pulled at him, so he decided to only read the first part. He told himself the letter would not have been left there if it had been important.

You do not know me yet. ...

Darcy's eyebrows rose slightly—that was certainly unforeseen.

Society would say that it is a breach of propriety to write to a man unconnected to me. However, by the time you will be reading this letter, you will be connected to me, rendering the point moot, does it not?

Darcy could feel he was about to smile. The woman's clever mind was evident. Though curious about the rest of the contents, he decided to wait to read the rest until after he retired for the evening. Laughing in Miss Bingley's company would only be seen as encouragement and that would not do. Until then, the letter found a new hiding place inside his coat. He closed the drawer without a word and the little button popped out again.

Later that evening, as he sat in a comfortable chair in front of a fire in his room, Darcy held the sheet towards the light.

Dear future husband,

You do not know met yet. Society would say that it is a breach of propriety to write to a man unconnected to me. However, by the time you will be reading this letter, you will be connected to me, rendering the point moot, does it not?

The events that took place recently caused me to realize that you need to be prepared. Allow me to explain myself. My name is Elizabeth Bennet, and my mother is Frances Bennet. If you knew her and our circumstances, no further explanation would be needed. Nor this letter, in fact. Recently, my mother had her hopes dashed as she was sure my sweet sister, Jane, was soon to be matched. That event did not come to pass, and the respite provided from Mamma's nerves by my friend Ginny has been a blessing. Ginny is Miss Morris from Netherfield Park, and I immensely enjoy the walk to Netherfield from Longbourn. For the moment, however, I have been staying here as she recovers from a terrible cold. This letter, though, is about my family and not about wonderful friendships.

To start with, please do not run when you hear Lydia, my youngest sister. She is five years younger than I, and it seems as though she came screaming into the world and has never ceased to be heard. As I write to you, I am three and ten. Besides Jane, Lydia and myself, I also have two other sisters. Allow me now to tell you about the entail and why it feels as if Mamma is wishing for us to grow quickly and marry even sooner. And marry well, let that be said.

Darcy lost track of time as he read the letter. When he finished, he read it again. The young girl had painted a portrait of her family with love, with humor and with observation beyond her years. He found himself smiling. She had definitely managed to warn the reader, but she had done it with love and with vibrancy. Unexpectedly, he wished he could have met her to see if she had the same infectious joy as she came across in the letter.

He lifted the first page and stared at her signature at the bottom of the second.

One day yours, Elizabeth

He flipped back to the first page and stared at her family name: Bennet. Bingley had told him that a Mr. Thomas Bennet of Longbourn had called the day before he had arrived. Was Elizabeth still in the neighborhood? He paused as he thought her name. She may have seemed familiar to him after the letter, but the truth of the matter was that she was not. Something akin to regret passed through him as he wondered whether she was married—it was possible, even probable, for she must be twenty.

Suddenly, Darcy found himself looking forward to the assembly. Perhaps she would be there and he could meet her. He knew he had a duty to his family, but he had seen the love between his own parents. If he allowed himself to dream, perhaps he would meet Elizabeth at the assembly and she would still be unattached. Perhaps, someday, he would even get the opportunity to return the letter to her.

AN: This is my first Pride and Prejudice story, and I apologize for any errors. I'm not very familiar with the era. This idea came to me and would not let go until I wrote it. Thanks for reading!