Copyright 2021 Elizabeth Frerichs

Mrs. Darcy lay curled on her side in her bed. Her husband of one week was languidly tracing lacy patterns on her back, attempting to wake her up. Elizabeth, however, was loath to show any sign of her consciousness lest her husband stop his ministrations. William had shown a predilection for physical affection over the past week, and given the amount of time he spent touching her, she was surprised that he had gotten through their engagement without constantly breaking the bounds of propriety.

For the past week, they had stayed at Darcy House with the knocker off, and thus far, they had slept in William's bed. The first two nights that had been an accident, but they had both found that they enjoyed the closeness so much that they had continued sleeping in the same bed ever since, regardless of how scandalous some might find it. They had been talking in her room until quite late the night before and, after some persuasion on her part, they had spent the night in her bed.

"Mrs. Darcy," her husband called softly. "You sound quite awake, you know."

Elizabeth only smiled into her pillow in reply.

William curled a lock of her hair around his fingers before gently rubbing her neck. It tickled, and Elizabeth giggled before quashing her laugh and roughening her breathing into an approximation of sleep.

"Elizabeth," he said.

Elizabeth only groaned into her pillow.

His hand stopped its movement, and she turned to face him. "I was enjoying that, you know."

"So was I. But I would rather see your eyes."

She raised an eyebrow. "Oh, really?"

William studied her. "You are so breathtakingly beautiful."

Elizabeth laughed, trying in vain to suppress a blush at his adoring gaze. "And you are so thoroughly besotted, my good sir."

"If that means that I am utterly bewitched"—he brought her hand to his lips—"and wholeheartedly in love with"—he kissed her cheek—"my enchanting wife,"—he claimed her lips—"then yes, I am thoroughly besotted."

Awe filled Elizabeth that this good, kind, tender man had chosen to marry her despite the impediments between them, even overcoming his own pride. "Good, because so am I," she said, before matching his kiss shyly.

One kiss led to another, and it was nearly twenty minutes later before their conversation resumed.

"You truly are beautiful," William said, one finger tracing her features as they lay facing each other.

Elizabeth stared at him.

William held her gaze. "I am going to remind you every day until you forget your mother's prior complaints—and my own initial foolishness—and believe me."

Elizabeth's attention shifted to his chin. She was still uncomfortable with his regular compliments about her appearance. "Are you attempting to cater to my vanity? I believe you will give me quite a swollen head if you do that."

"Not at all. I am merely trying to convince you of the truth. Even your mother said that you were a radiant bride."

"I believe my mother's joy at gaining two such wonderful sons-in-law quite took her wits. I heard her telling my father how very radiant all her daughters were that morning."

William's fingertip settled on her lips, mapping them gently. "She may not see what I see, but I see 'a rose beyond compare.'"

Elizabeth smiled. How William had remained unmarried was a mystery.

Well, no, given his previous pride and rudeness, she could not imagine him having the loving relationship they currently enjoyed with anyone. Once more gratitude swelled in her breast for the miracle that had brought them together and set them on the path toward true reformation.

"What are you thinking, Mrs. Darcy?"

"What do you think would have happened if the Letter had not come to us?"

William frowned. "I hope that we would have ended up together, regardless."

"But she rejected him," Elizabeth said sadly. The Elizabeth Bennet of the Letter had given up on the greatest treasure of her life.

"You do not know that events would have unfolded the way they did in the Letter."

Elizabeth raised one eyebrow. "We have already discussed how accurate the Letter is."

"But that does not mean it would have continued to be accurate."

Elizabeth sat up. "You do not believe events would have unfolded as they did in the Letter without the presence of the Letter itself?"

Darcy sat up as well. "I do not believe we can make that extrapolation."

"But the Letter was perfectly accurate until events diverged because the Letter itself had changed things," she argued.

"You may be right, my love. Perhaps it is only that I do not wish to believe those events would have come to pass." He imagined how desolate the other Darcy must have felt to write such a letter, for him to be rejected and so misunderstood, to have the woman he loved take Wickham's side . . . .

Elizabeth smoothed his eyebrows. "You were looking distraught."

"I was contemplating how painful things would have been for the Letter-writer if events truly had unfolded as the Letter suggested."

"Perhaps something occurred after the Letter was written; I hope that they wound up together—though I cannot imagine how all the changes that occurred in my family could happen without the Letter."

Darcy nodded. "I have wondered over these past few months if the Letter-writer ever experienced the character growth that came out of my conversations with you, Georgiana, Fitzwilliam, and Bingley." He frowned again. "Come to think of it, I wonder what sort of people Bingley and Georgiana would be without the Letter."

"Because Charles took control of his own life and Georgiana put to rest the events with Mr. Wickham during her conversations with Lydia?"

"Yes." He twined his fingers in hers. "I wonder if the Letter changed more than we are even aware of. The conversations I have had with my aunt and uncle . . . the conversations with Fitzwilliam and Bingley . . . Bingley's conversations with his sisters—there are many things that are different now than they would have been without the Letter."

"Mr. Wickham's fate is certainly different." Elizabeth shuddered. "At least he would have had no reason to pursue Lydia without the Letter since I would never have spoken to the townspeople."

"And I would not have hobbled him if I had not had that conversation with you."

Elizabeth looked thoughtful. "Do you believe the Letter really was Providence?"

"I cannot see how it could have been otherwise."

"It is so odd. One thinks of Providence as being much less—tangible. A nudge here and there rather than a physical thing dropped into one's life."

Darcy frowned. "I wonder if Providence is not more tangible than we realise—perhaps it is our perspective that is flawed."

"Oh?"

"If I could have attributed any other meaning to the Letter than Providence, I would have." He hesitated, trying to order his muddled thoughts. "Perhaps there are other times when Providence is tangible, but my belief that it is not prevents me from recognising the truth of events."

Elizabeth caressed his hand for several moments before replying. "You may be correct. For example, my need to measure Longbourn's field for the drains led to several conversations between us, as well as a conversation that led to one of the tenants deciding to make similar changes. At the time, I was—I was hurt and angry that my father had not provided that information, had in fact locked it in his desk and taken the key with him to Cambridge. It felt like a betrayal from my father, but more than that, it felt like a betrayal from Providence."

Darcy scooted closer, wishing that his wife did not have to endure such difficulties with her father.

"If, however, Providence was tangibly interacting in my life, pushing us together in ways that I did not see at the time, it was not a betrayal."

"It was still a betrayal on your father's part."

Elizabeth nodded, her gaze fixed on their entwined fingers. "It was. But perhaps Providence used that betrayal to intervene in a tangible way."

"I suppose it is pointless to speculate on precisely when Providence is intervening as we do not have all the information."

Elizabeth smiled up at him. "Perhaps. But then again, it may be like so many of the things we have learned in the past few months."

Darcy attempted to raise one eyebrow in question.

Elizabeth giggled at his facial contortions and smoothed his eyebrow back down. "I mean that perhaps the point is not the answer itself, but rather how seeking the answer changes us. If we are more open to seeing Providence, if we place fewer expectations on how Providence will or will not behave, and remain vigilant for those moments when we glimpse it at work—will that not make us better people regardless of what we observe?"

Darcy remained silent, mulling over his wife's words.

"Jane believes that Providence sent the Letter—in fact, she had no difficulty in believing Providence would behave in such a tangible way. We have never discussed the workings of Providence, but I wonder what she has experienced that made her so willing to consider the idea."

"You could ask her next week," Darcy offered. "Pemberley is large enough that obtaining privacy is less difficult."

"Than at Longbourn?" Elizabeth asked dryly.

Darcy nodded. "I would be interested to hear Bingley's views on Providence as well. He too accepted that the Letter was humanly unaccountable with remarkable ease." He frowned. "I wonder if my uncle will ask about it again."

"Your uncle?"

"I told him about the Letter when I was explaining why I wished to speak to Mrs. Younge."

"Ah."

Darcy studied his wife. "You seem less than pleased."

"No, I am—" She took a deep breath. "I did not tell anyone about the Letter save for Jane because I doubted that anyone would believe me. You had a different experience, so it is reasonable that you told others about the Letter. It just—it feels like something intensely personal to share. I have not even told my other sisters."

Darcy squeezed her hand. "It is. Had I been aware of its nature earlier, I do not think I would have shared the Letter either. As it is, Bingley, Fitzwilliam, Georgiana, and my uncle are all aware of it and Bingley and Fitzwilliam have read it." He smiled, recalling how determined Fitzwilliam had been that Darcy's conclusions were faulty. "I am glad, however, because they pointed out how unlikely it was for you to have written the Letter."

Elizabeth straightened. "Then it is a good thing that they read it. I only hope that they will be content to leave it unexplained."

"I believe they will," Darcy replied after a moment's consideration. "Thank heavens the only people who are aware of the Letter are those who will not question our sanity."

A smile played around Elizabeth's lips. "Can you imagine trying to explain a letter from a future that did not occur—or occurred elsewhere?—to anyone else? I am glad that it came, but I do not believe I will share it with anyone else."

Darcy nodded fervently, visions of trying to defend either of their sanities flitting through his mind. "Though I believe you could safely tell your sisters if you wished to do so."

"I—is it terrible of me that I wish to keep it private?"

"Not at all."

"I love my sisters and they have grown so much, but . . . the Letter is too precious to be questioned or mocked."

That was it exactly, Darcy realised. As usual, his wife had put her finger on the problem. The Letter was precious. It had changed them, had changed their families, had brought them together—it should be shielded from inquisitive or unfriendly gazes. "I agree."

"I do not think we should tell my parents," Elizabeth said sadly.

Darcy pulled her into a hug. Although things had changed between Elizabeth and her parents, the wounds were by no means healed. Nor was he ready to trust either of Elizabeth's parents with her well-being. He fully intended to ensure she was not left alone with either of them for long at Pemberley this summer.

"They would not understand."

"Not yet anyway," Darcy said. "They have begun to change. Perhaps someday they will be the sort of people in whom you can safely confide."

"Perhaps."

Elizabeth suppressed a sigh thinking of her parents. Her father's words after the wedding had filled her heart with sunshine—until doubts as to whether her leaving had prompted his confession and whether he might not retract it sometime soon had intruded. She was so glad that her sisters had grown enough that even should their father regress, they would all stay the course they had begun anyway.

The Letter had certainly fulfilled its purpose if it had been sent to change everything for those mentioned in its pages. Struck by the urge to reread it, she pulled her hand free and stood.

"Where are you going?" her husband complained.

Elizabeth smiled at him. "You, Mr. Darcy, are worse than a fretful child. I am just getting the Letter."

William's eyebrows shot up. "You brought it?"

"Where else would it be?" Elizabeth asked with bewilderment. "I certainly do not wish the information about Georgiana to be left lying about."

"I had not really thought about it. I assumed that it was somewhere safe, but I did not realise it was here."

"I keep it in my writing case," she said, rifling through that box and emerging triumphant.

Elizabeth plopped back onto the bed, sitting before her husband. As she handed the Letter to him, her fingers began to tingle. The moment William touched the Letter, the tingling intensified.

A startled look crossed his face. "Do you feel this?"

She nodded, wide-eyed, her thoughts a jumble.

The Letter hung there between them for a moment before it began to glow a soft white. As the glow intensified, Elizabeth closed her eyes and then she could see a flash from behind her eyelids and her hand was empty.

Her eyes popped open, and she stared dumbly at their outstretched hands, a residual tingling singing through her.

William looked just as wide-eyed as she felt, and, if she had not already been sitting down, she thought she might have fainted for the first time in her life.

"William, what—what was that?"

William shook his head dumbly.

Elizabeth wiggled her fingers, staring at them as though they no longer quite belonged to her.

"I believe—" William began hoarsely. He cleared his throat. "I believe that was Providence at work in a very tangible way."

Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy dragged a hand across his face, trying to ignore his stinging eyes as he sat in his room at Rosings. The effect was from the lack of sleep, not the tears that had been threatening for hours and hours now, he told himself.

Miss Elizabeth Bennet had rejected him.

The woman had so bewitched him that he had wanted to give her everything countless women had begged of him in vain. So besotted was he that he was willing to give her even his name, despite the myriad of difficulties and disappointments that would bring . . . despite the fact that he would be breaking the cardinal rules of the society in which he moved . . . more importantly, he would be facing censure from his dearest relatives, Lord and Lady Matlock.

Miss Elizabeth Bennet had rejected him.

Her tirade about how unworthy he was ran through his mind over and over again, an undercurrent of thought that threatened to drag him under, no matter how hard he tried to remain afloat. Darcy put his hands over his ears in a vain attempt to silence her voice and think clearly.

He had to finish this copy of his letter. He could not bear for her to go forward, thinking so poorly of him. More than that, she needed to know what a threat Wickham was. Darcy had tried to tell her last autumn, and she had refused to listen. Knowing now how much she had despised him, it was logical that she had not taken his word.

Did she love Wickham? She clearly believed whatever Canterbury Tale he had spun her.

Miss Elizabeth Bennet had rejected him.

What a bitter pill her vigorous defence of his worst enemy had been.

Darcy wearily focused on the page in front of him, scrawling his signature across his final copy. There remained only to seal it, and then . . . then he would take it to her and walk out of her life forever. As he folded the sheets, he wished more than anything that the letter could somehow transform reality. If only he could rewrite the events of the past months, changing how oblivious he had been, shaking the truth into Elizabeth before she ever met Wickham—perhaps even before she met him and Bingley.

How many things might have been different if she had not been poisoned by Wickham's lies! Even things he could not fathom now. Most of all, Elizabeth might not have rejected Darcy. But no, he was the last man in the world whom she would marry due to his "pride and selfish disdain for the feelings of others." His heart ached as though a knight were squeezing it between mailed fingers.

Miss Elizabeth Bennet had rejected him.

Clearly, they had not understood each other even from the first. This letter was a small bid to create understanding between them. A part of him scoffed at his determination to convince her of the truth—she would be unlikely to change her opinion of him.

The words danced before his eyes as though suddenly made of candle flame. With a sigh, he stood, stretching and trying to convince his body to remain functional, despite the late hour. He would only have time for an hour or two of sleep if he was going to meet Miss Elizabeth on her morning walk.

How could he have so completely misunderstood her? She had told him that she would be alone in the mornings, implying that it was a convenient time for them to meet. They had spoken little on their walks, but he had believed his intentions to be clear.

Yet she had rejected him.

Restlessly, Darcy began clearing off his desk—anything to distract himself from the grief that gnawed at his soul, a wolf only barely held at bay by the stern duty of defending his name. He stacked the sheets of the draft versions of his letter and folded them with forced precision where they sat next to his completed copy. A moment's thought convinced him it would be better to burn those. He did not wish a curious servant to find them—better that no one ever know of his folly, of his pain.

Darcy grabbed the stack without looking. The number of cross-outs and blots stood as mute testimony to his struggle on this endless night. The letter might as well have been written in his blood, considering how painful the writing had been, and he had no desire to remind himself of that truth. Once the draft was burned and the final letter handed to Miss Elizabeth, nothing would link them.

He hesitated for a moment, the pages outstretched toward the fire, wishing that things had been different, begging Heaven for a different outcome, and then he threw them in. Rather than watch the symbol of his anguish devoured by flames, he turned back to his writing case only to discover that he had burned the clean copy. With a cry of anguish, he flew back to the fire, but nothing was there—not even blackened pages could be seen among the ashes. He rubbed his weary eyes and blinked at the fire.

Behind him, his finished copy appeared once more on his writing case, blurring from one well-worn and well-loved into something just as crisp as that which he had thrown into the flames.

For a moment, Darcy stood in front of the fire, appalled at the amount of effort that would now be required to recopy his letter. Then, the necessity of defending his name and protecting Elizabeth renewed its call, and he returned to his writing case. His letter, however, was sitting just as it had been before he had picked it up.

Darcy scrubbed a hand across his face. Clearly, he was even more tired than he had realised. Hopefully, he could obtain enough rest in the remaining scant hours that he could endure the pain of giving Miss Elizabeth Bennet the truth and then tearing her from his heart, if such a thing was even possible.

With that resolution, he sealed the letter.

Perhaps the truth would change something for the better.

A/N: Thank you so much for sticking with me through this whole monster of a story! You guys are amazing, and I can't tell you what all the encouragement and comments and suggestions have meant to me. Likewise with my betas, Arendelle, Dawn, Roberta, Roxey, and Sara who all helped make this story what it is today :) And if you amazing readers have any other feedback about the story, I'd love to hear it!

Per the norm, this story is in many ways my attempt to come to grips with the lessons I've been learning as well as to share the hard-won lessons I've already incorporated into my life. Writing this book, I learned and relearned that relationship growth only works if both people cover their half of the distance, that one person can spark a revolution but is incapable of bringing it to fruition, that what is inside a person is what leads to beneficial circumstances, that without Providence we all remain trapped in the lies we tell ourselves—whether that comes in the form of a letter from the future or a comment from a friend or a story we read—that we're all presented with opportunities to grow and change, and that these will be wasted opportunities if we don't grab hold of them with both hands and do the painful, glorious work of transformation.

Through the Lens of a Letter is about a lot of things, but primarily it's about character growth and how even the most stubborn people can choose to change (I can't tell you how hard it was to bring Lydia, and Mr. & Mrs. Bennet around!). Change is messy though, and it doesn't fit into nice, neat, little boxes. And it's not linear—no matter how much we might wish that it would be. There is no such thing as a "happy ending," because in many ways there are no endings, just beginnings of new seasons in life. In fanfiction, we get the benefit of being able to imagine what things might look like at some other major juncture of our favourite characters' lives or to reimagine their story.

I don't know if the characters in Through the lens of a Letter will always have a family reunion at Pemberley every summer—though I like to think that they have grown sufficiently so as to hold fast to each other. I also like to think that the changes to Longbourn will result in enough savings that Mrs. Bennet (and any of her unmarried daughters) will not be forced to hang upon anyone's sleeve (or perhaps that Mr. & Mrs. Bennet will have a son—what a fun idea!). I do not know what building something new with Mr. Bennet and the rest of his family will look like, though I do hope that he has grown enough that he will summarily deal with any relapses; it seems likely given his new habit of leaving his library to speak to his family. And of course Darcy and Elizabeth and Bingley and Jane will have ups and downs, times where they are more in love than ever and times when their union feels like a mistake. They will hurt each other and have to forgive and move on. It's my hope that Lydia will process through the pain Wickham inflicted and decide for herself whether she wants to get married—that the experience will become a true boon—that Mary and Kitty and Georgiana will grow and thrive and, of course, find wonderful husbands or love their lives as single women, but that would require following their stories forward.

I considered long and hard whether to write an "in broad strokes, here's what our characters' lives looked like" sort of epilogue; however, in the end, I've decided that wrapping this story up with a nice, neat bow like that would negate the essence of what the story is about.

The only guarantee of a fulfilling life is to keep growing and changing, to keep doing the necessary internal work so that good circumstances can flow out of your good character (of course, with the help of Providence). The Bennets, the Darcys, and the Bingleys have all begun that necessary work, so they are, as much as one can guarantee it, guaranteed to have happy beginnings as long as they hold true to the lessons they have learned.