The One That Got Away

Will, Longbourn, November 1812

I often think of the last time we spoke. How might my life have changed from its present course? If I had accepted you, I would have become engaged to a man who I held in no regard but would have been respected in society. Given current circumstances, that is far better than I can boast some seven months later.

After I left Kent, my youngest sister was invited to go to Brighton. Whilst there, she made the decision to elope with Mr. George Wickham. I was away from home at the time visiting the Lakes with my aunt and uncle. By the time news arrived, there was no trail, no tracing her. Lydia has not been seen or heard from since. Naturally, our family's ruination became the gossip of local society. Suddenly my family was the talk of drawing rooms and gambling tables.

When Mr. Jeremy Cole—The Blacksmith—asked for my hand. I could not deny him so. They say the third time is the key, in this case, I pray it is. I scarcely know the man, yet tomorrow, I must leave the comfort of my family's home and cleave unto my husband.

Here I sit, on the eve of my wedding, penning a letter which will never be read, save by myself. In memory of the most significant letter in my life. I could not tell you how many times I have read your beautiful, yet painful words. What truth you told. I should never had trusted that cad Wickham, I should have listened to your vague words of caution during our one dance together.

Next week marks one year since the Netherfield Ball. Life was far simpler then. Or perhaps, life is as it always was, but my knowing more of it, increased my dislike of it. We are taught to love our neighbors, yet in a time of crisis, we judge, mock, condone and shun them. I know not how many of my neighbors who I have known all my life will be in attendance unless to gossip of the downfall of one of the prominent families.

I had not the intention of penning such morose thoughts to paper, yet I suppose writing to you, Will—to an imagined version of you—seems to be enlightening.

Be happy Will and know there is an insignificant maiden in an insignificant county thinking of you.

-Lizzy

Lizzy, Rosings Park, January 1814

On the eve of my wedding, I find myself at the same place where our paths forever diverged. On the morn, I will wed my cousin, by your cousin and I cannot help but feel the emptiness which consumes me.

In the early fall, when we first met, my arrogance and pride overtook my person, but your impertinence and spirit showed me my humanity. We argued and debated, but you made me feel what no one else could. You made me hope for the future. By the time of the Netherfield Ball, I was completely and irrevocably lost to you.

When I saw you at Rosings, walking about the park, I envisioned bringing you here in the future and bringing you to Pemberley. I walked by the parsonage today, your cousin and his wife seem content, they brought forth a child this year, you probably did not know that. They christened her Eleanor Beth Collins. Her very presence reminds me of you and how you are forever lost to me. It seems that Mrs. Collins hoped to name her daughter after you, but her husband would not hear of naming her after a blacksmith's wife whose family's very respectability was tarnished. Forgive me, it pains me to write of such things, but those are the words of your cousin.

Had my actions been different, perhaps you might've seen the kinder side of my person, but I needed your corrections, oh how I needed your set downs! Oh, how I still need you, but it is not to be.

I was angry beyond comprehension at hearing what Wickham did to your sister. Had I known sooner, I would not have hesitated to help. Certainly, you must know that my dearest. When I heard that your family was ruined by your sister's mistakes, my heart broke. I wished to help, but by that time you were forced to marry the next man to ask for your hand, the local blacksmith.

Had I come sooner, perhaps I could have changed your opinion of me, and in time we could have been happy. But we shall never know, will we? I hope you have found happiness, I pray that your husband treats you with every charity that is in his ability, for you deserve the world. Unfortunately, my mistakes have limited your choices in life, and I am forever grieved at the thought. Be happy my Lizzy, I think of you often.

-Will

Will, Meryton, June 1815

My son was born this week, his father is overjoyed. Mr. Cole shows me every kindness that he can, and indeed I should be grateful after what Lydia did to our family. But I cannot help but wish to have seen you once more, to see for myself if you despised me after what I said last to you. My heart longs to see your crystal-colored eyes full of trust and devotion, but fate played an impossible hand; I ran out of luck.

Rumors of your marriage to Anne De Bourgh have made their way to Meryton, I pray that you are content with that match. I once thought the pair of you deserved each other, but that was when I did not know the man behind the mask. Oh, what a fool I was then, to dismiss the attentions of the only man I could ever love! I deserve to be unhappy.

Looking into my son Peter's eyes, I imagine a different life. One where we may have married, and I see your features in our children. Do not misunderstand me, I love Peter and would never wish to give up my son. But what if?! What if things had turned out differently? Would we have seen each other again? Could Lydia have been saved and not become a worker at a brothel? Could Jane and Mr. Bingley have reunited? I fear that I have been asking myself many questions of late.

When it all becomes too much, I close my eyes and imagine your hand holding mine as we roam the English countryside. I have never seen your lands but was told of their vastness. Perhaps we could have been blissfully happy with each other as opposed to sleeping opposite one with whom we are indifferent.

Regardless, be happy Will and know that somewhere, there is an insignificant blacksmith's wife thinking of you.

-Lizzy

Lizzy, Pemberley, October 1816

Anne has brought forth an heir, but at the cost of her own life. She struggled for many hours, but eventually her spirit released from her mortal body. I doubted she would survive childbirth, but she insisted that Pemberley—and Rosings—needed a "Darcy" and not a younger "Bingley" son.

Georgiana and Charles married some time ago. Years ago, I wished for such a union, but I now see that it is just a reminder of the misery George Wickham brought about in our lives. He dotes on her, but not in the way he used to dote on your sister. I hope she has found her own happiness.

Pemberley mourns. It keenly reminds me of both my parent's deaths. While awake, I am full of guilt and grief of my many mistakes, but in dreams, I am filled with memories of you. I know it to be wrong, for it to be impossible, after all Anne just passed, but my mind sided with my heart—or at least it has whilst I sleep.

When I wake in this empty bed, I cannot help but picture you beside me. Your unruly hair cascading around your form with the early morning glow surrounding you as if a halo from the heavens. Of daughters returning from walks with mud on their hems. But this can never be. I am now resigned to live with this picturesque version of you, while I remain a widower. Be happy my Lizzy, I never cease thinking of you.

-Will

Will, Meryton, November 26, 1831

Twenty years. I can scarce believe that twenty years ago I walked into Netherfield and danced with you for the first and final time. My father passed this year and Mr. and Mrs. Collins have taken up residence at Longbourn, it is good I suppose, for there will once more be visitors there as the stench of the ruined family has finally worn off. I have heard of your Anne's passing and am sorry for it, my Jeremy too has passed on.

Jeremy was installing new horseshoes for the new tenants of Netherfield. When the horse kicked him to the face, he died three weeks later from infection. Peter took over his father's trade as he had been training and slowly taking over his father's business.

Mary and Kitty took positions up as companions, it took some time after the scandal to bring it about, but I believe they eventually found joy in their situations in life.

Jane has done well for herself making a life for her and her family. She has become the infamous designer, by her name, that many of the ton wear. What irony that must be for Mr. Bingley's wife, whoever she may be, that she wears a dress designed by a woman he seriously courted all those years ago. When life was simple and my judgement lasting. When my mother flailed about "her poor nerves!" and my life was consumed by you. I am afraid to tell you Will, but that Elizabeth has long since passed. Instead of impertinence and candor, one may now find a quieter woman who lost her husband of nearly two decades, though she never grew to love. My heart was decided long ago and was immovable once it took root.

Moments before penning this letter I read your words one final time. I long ago put them to memory, but I longed for the feeling of the worn edges, the tear marks and the grace and dignity of your elegant hand. I have determined that this reading will be its final. But now at last, it is time to put away childish notions. I can never again hope for an all-consuming love like the one which I felt for you. I cannot destroy these letters which I wrote you, but I cannot look upon them anymore. This perfected, angelic version of you which has consumed my thoughts far too long will no longer take precedence. I am determined to write this being no more.

For the rest of my life, I vow to aid my son in whatever capacity he requires. With the passing of my mother shortly after hearing news of Lydia's demise over four years passed, I received my share of 1,250 pounds. While not much compared to what you are accustomed to, combined with savings throughout the course of my life, I was able to invest in the railways. I have already seen a return. In time, I can give my son Peter the life he should have had.

All I can say is Be happy Will and know there is an insignificant blacksmith's mother who once thought of you.

-Lizzy

My dearest Elizabeth,

Pemberley, April 1865

I write to your memory one last time. I lay on my deathbed surrounded by my family and loved ones. Of my own loin, I bore my son, five grandchildren and 2 great-grandchildren. I feel their overwhelming love, and I feel yours too.

I never told them of you, for fear of bringing up sad memories as well as the good ones. I did not want them to think that I never loved them. My Henry was very concerned that I never married again, but I had no reason to marry for fortune or connections and I had an heir. I needed to preserve the rest of my love to your memory and so I have done. My memory is not as good as it once was, but at the age of eighty-two, can you blame me? I can scarcely believe the last time I physically gazed upon your eyes was fifty-four years ago. It feels so much more recent, and perhaps in a way it is as I see their colorful hues whenever my mind drifts off to peaceful slumber.

As I lay on the bed that I have imagined you in more times than I can count, I pray that I will join you soon. I know you left this mortal world nine years ago, but I still think of you. Perhaps, not as much as I used to. Before my ill health overtook me, I ventured a journey and visited your grave. The action brought on a whole list of questions to myself that I hadn't thought in quite some time.

If I had come to Hertfordshire after our spouses were gone, would you have accepted me? Did my letter that I gave you at Rosings make you think better of me? These questions make me hope, but then I consider we would both be very much ostracized by the rest of society. Your condition in life, which mattereth not to me, would have come to light and Henry and his children would bear the effects of it as well as the both of us as society dictates. Had you still been a gentleman's daughter, there would have been talk which would have died down in time. But as the widow to a country blacksmith, you would have been censured and ridiculed for circumstances out of your control. But even my selfish desire for you, would never dare force you to endure this.

Even after your rise to success and wealth with the railways, I never approached you again, though I had several men check up on you from to time to time to ensure of your welfare. Why did I not seek you out when we were both freed from the bonds of matrimony? There were several reasons of which, the most significant being that of fear. In my memory of you, my dearest, I exaggerated the good and minimized where we were incompatible. Did you change? I know not. And I never will in the last days which remain of my life.

I used to think that love could conquer everything, but the more I have thought on the matter, I have decided the world is far more unfair than forgiving. The loss of you in my life, which could have been avoided, left a gaping hole, one which I sought to remedy, but this world in which we live prevented such a reunion. Nevertheless, I pray I shall join you, and while you might have been the one who got away from me, I will be the one to reunite us after all.

-Will

Henry William Darcy spent the early days of mourning clearing out the rest of his father's study. The daily operations had long-since passed been on, but some of his personal items remained. His father gave him the responsibility of acting as master of Pemberley for some time. His eldest, was in turn master of Rosings Park.

While sorting through the lose odds and ends in his drawer, he uncovered a hidden drawer. Gently opening the release, he found a stack of correspondence to an investigator and dozens of letters addressed to a "Lizzy". Hesitant to open his father's letters, Henry began by opening the correspondence.

As he read through the correspondence for nearly an hour, the new head of the Darcy family was shocked. His father had kept tabs on an Elizabeth Cole—née Bennet who he met in Hertfordshire over half a century ago, until her death at the age of five and sixty to pneumonia. He clearly loved her, but fate had conspired against them.

Additionally, he noted the same investigator tracked down a whore named "Lydia". His father it seemed, bestowed some money on the girl. While Henry knew his father was lonely, he never had ever seen evidence of his father acquiring a mistress or patronizing a brothel.

When his curiosity got the better of him, he opened the first letter. His mind was racing with the sentiments of his father, and he continued. Hours later, as he completed the letter that was addressed days before he departed this world, heavy tears cascaded down his face.

His father chose to protect the family, rather than face the censure of the world to be with the one who his heart longed. The pain which overwhelmed him pressed upon him; it weighed him down. Why hadn't his father told him of her? He could have done something. But what? It was too late.

Eventually, he came to understand that while his father could not save Lydia Bennet from Wickham, he could have her from herself. By settling money on her person, she would have a way to escape the life she made for herself, should she wish to.

After contemplating for days, an idea came upon him, and he purchased a ticket for the southbound train to St. Albans. When he arrived, Henry hired a coach to deliver him to the last known address as stated by the investigator. Soon enough, the coach arrived at a large house, though not ostentatious. It was surrounded by a large wood and to the side of the house there lay a meadow full of wildflowers.

When he placed his hand upon the knocker, he hesitated, but like his father taught him, "Let your courage rise with every attempt to intimidate you." Henry knocked.

The door opened, he revealed his card and was directed to the side of the house where the meadow of wildflowers lay. Sitting upon a stone bench, he found the aging gentleman who he prayed would hold the answers of his father's past.

"Mr. Cole" Mr. Darcy began, "I am Mr. Henry Darcy and believe our parents once knew each other." He held out his hand.

Pressing on, Henry continued, "I am under the impression that your mother was Elizabeth Cole, formerly Bennet."

Mr. Cole's gaze hardened before speaking, "What about her?"

"I understand that she was born to Thomas and Frances Bennet of Longbourn. Is this correct?"

The former blacksmith sighed, "Indeed she was, but rarely spoke of or conversed with them. Why are you so concerned of my mother who passed a decade ago?"

"Forgive me, the circumstances that brought me here are of a peculiar kind. My own father has recently passed, and I understand that he loved your mother all his life. I was hoping to give you my condolences on her passing, though I know it has been years since the event. I have only recently come into this understanding."

The man froze as if years of understanding hit him. "Was your father's name 'Will or William'?" The man asked.

"Fitzwilliam Darcy of Pemberley. Do you know something about this?"

Mr. Cole started to nod, then turned to return to the house. "Wait here." The man spoke softly.

After a few minutes, he returned with a pile of missives addressed to "Will."

"My mother bought this house after saving her whole life for me. Her inheritance upon her mother's death was combined with any extra funds she saved throughout the course of my life. She personally saw to my education, though our resources were limited. I was a gentleman's grandson, she believed I should have a basic education." Peter paused, looking upon the flowers which surrounded them, he smiled.

"She never stopped to think of herself. Even after she purchased this house, she saw to the needs of our neighbors personally, that is when she got caught in the rain which eventually led to her death." A stray tear ran down his severe face.

"This was her favorite part of the house and why she bought it. When she was looking for a better home for us, she toured many properties until this one. The owner declared that the 'weeds' would be removed before anyone moved in. My mother, the woman who loved unobstructed nature as she did made him an offer immediately. The only stipulation, that they left the wildflowers as they were." Peter smiled as the memory of his mother's capacity to see beauty in all filled him with sweet joy.

"When the current owner asked her why, she declared that all living things should be freely go as they please, free from the constraints of others. My mother could have done well as the wife of a gentleman, but instead married my father. She never loved him, but she loved me. I will always be grateful of the sacrifices she made for me. The first time I read through these letters, I learned that she could have lived a life with one who loved her, but she did not regret her choice as it brought me into her life."

Henry looked to the pile of missives in between them on the bench and asked, "May I?"

After receiving an affirmative response, he opened the first letter. After an hour and a half of reading them aloud to Cole, the pair were in tears. They continued reading of both great life events and trivial matters. It seemed "Lizzy" wrote to "Will" when she needed to think through the troubles of her life and vice versa.

Looking to man who he felt a strong connection with, Henry spoke, "Mr. Cole, I have a similar collection of missives addressed to 'Lizzy' in Derbyshire. Would you mind terribly if I took these—or copies of these—with me? While their owners were separated for far longer than they should have, these letters should be together. You will be welcome to come to Pemberley at any time to view them."

After a moment of reflection, Peter spoke through tear-filled eyes, "If what you say is true, if your father was the one who she wrote to, how can I deny her the peace of their letters which united their affections to be joined as they could have been? The memories of both our parents deserve to be cherished. It is what mama would have wanted."

EPILOGUE:

That day in Hertfordshire brought about much change in both gentlemen. They each found a new person who could relate to the emotions the other was facing. Henry offered for Peter to live at Pemberley, but Peter kindly refused the offer on account of his remembering his mother's legacy at the house she had provided him amidst her sacrifices for his welfare. When he chose to visit his newfound friend, he chose to live in one of the long-forgotten cabins on the property to better remember his humble upbringing.

The two gentlemen from wildly differing backgrounds became the closest of friends as either of them had ever known. While in residence, Peter was often invited to dinners at Pemberley and became an uncle of sorts to the younger Darcys.

Upon his deathbed, Mr. Thomas Bennet grew to regret many decisions of his life, though scarcely took action. When he asked to see "His Lizzy" he was denied on account of her no longe harboring warm feelings for the man. In his will, he bestowed his personal library to Elizabeth, but she gave it to her sisters instead.

The Bennet sisters each lived out their lives in differing states of contentment with the life they chose or had forced upon them. Jane and her loving husband lived out their days among the wealthier of the tradesman class. After realizing the hypocrisy of the world, Jane ceased thinking as good of it as she once did, she claimed her naivety had worn off.

Mary and Kitty each moved around with those they were companions for and eventually they both found kind gentlemen who cared for them enough to take them as they were, with little to nothing to their names.

It took many years for change in Lydia to occur. After spending nearly a decade and a half in brothels with a cease in communication from her family, she contracted the French Disease and died of its effects within a year of it's diagnosis. She realized that she made the bed that she now lay in, but that if she had taken a word of caution from her sister's she might have had a very different future. Unable to work further, she began renting a small apartment from funds which she received some time ago from an anonymous source and took in women who shared a similar fate to her own. She died at the age of one and thirty.

Charles and Georgiana Bingley lived out their lives in peaceful companionship. They raised two sons who went on to be great men. Charles longed for the love he once knew, while she regretted her actions with Wickham. For years, she believed her actions, and her brother's need to protect her reputation cost him the love of his life. In time, she learned to accept the history of her past and the actions of others and cease pondering what could have been.

Lizzy and Will's letters were framed, preserved, and placed among the Darcy Family Archives to remind future generations that true love never dies. Duty and circumstances may come between two people, but if it is a love rooted in longstanding devotion, their hearts will forever be intertwined.

Author's Note: This is a story which I wrote about a year ago with minor edits here and there. I was thinking about it today and changed some things, I am aware this is kinda depressing, but there are some hopeful undertones. I know I've been radio silent for some time, but I have been a part of two plays this semester and dealing with personal, medical problems, a car accident, as well as family problems. I can't commit to much of anything time wise right now, I'm sorry, but I write as an emotional release.

What am I comfortable sharing? I am proud to say that the physical, undiagnosed medical problems are not the result of anything neurologically. Being able to say that truly is a blessing as there was a time six moths ago when we thought I could have had M.S. luckily, that is not the case. As I close this one-shot out, I would happily hear your thoughts on this…as depressing as it may be. Be kind, smile, and tell someone that you love them, you never know it might be the last time you have the opportunity to do so. Love y'all,

—Camille