Elizabeth was already waiting in the garden upon Darcy and Bingley's arrival after breakfast. After they dismounted, Darcy left Bingley to enter the house and made to join her where she paced by the garden wall. She slowed as he came nearer and squaring her shoulders as he approached, he had barely bent into a bow before she began, "There is something I must say before I lose my courage, and I beg you will attend to me with an open mind and understanding of my perspective." Darcy could not have been more perplexed by her manner and tone. She looked so very solemn in a way that did not quite fit her character, though there were the small tell-tale signs he had come to learn about her - the tightness of her brow betraying distress, not of anger but of apprehension; the stillness of her clasped hands in front of her which spoke of her determination rather than the wringing he had seen in the past when she was seriously uncomfortable. He could not help feeling some semblance of concern and he tried to rationalize some reason that could have brought on this attitude. His silence was her invitation.
"I will meet you before God as your equal in only a few days' time, therefore I feel I must speak on a subject I have been apprehensive to broach, but I can no longer delay bringing it forward. I do not wish to upset or offend you, at least I hope you will not be too displeased with what I have to say." Here, she took a long breath before continuing. "I have not destroyed the letter you gave me in Kent. I know you would not have insisted I do so if it did not truly distress you, but..." Darcy felt as if his blood had suddenly gone cold. That wretched, reprehensible letter. He had thought it gone and forgotten. He had thought that when they discussed it, when they came to their understanding, that it was the last he ever would have heard or thought of it. That she should mention it now, that she had been keeping it in her possession all this time...
"I have a - an attachment to it. I know you would say that it is a shameful representation of your character or your temperament, but you must know what it meant to me - what it means to me now." Her gaze had become an earnest plea, an entreaty to listen and hear the importance of why she had disregarded his request, but he was struggling with the overwhelming sense of embarrassment and the dull pounding of his pulse in his ears. An attachment to the damned thing? The singular example of how repulsive he had been and how he had presented himself in the most ungentleman like manner? It was utterly incomprehensible and he warred within himself, combating anger, embarrassment, shame, regret... He struggled to master himself, to keep the pressure of his throat from swelling and making him ill. The memory of her clear disdain, the look of absolute, unadulterated hatred on her face when she thoroughly rejected him and held back none of her reproofs - it was too much. How could she not think of those feelings she harbored then when she kept that letter? How was she not reminded of why she had not wanted him, chose him, and heed those sentiments with renewed contempt?
She clearly saw the turmoil in his look, for she continued, "I know what. you are thinking, Fitzwilliam, and I beg you to understand that I do not see it as you do. It showed me that I did not know myself, let alone those who's characters I thought I had so perfectly discerned. It humbled me as I had never been humbled before, rightly and deservedly, but more than that..." The barest smile crossed her lips as she looked down at her hands. "With those words, you laid yourself bare before me. You trusted me when I had given you no reason to forgive me or think well of me after you left that evening. I saw you, Fitzwilliam. Though there was bitterness, there was so much more of your heart, the strength of your character, the depth of your devotion and care to those you love, to justice, to what is right. Even then, you heard what I had said, wrong as I was. You truly listened and endeavored to understand me." She again met his eye, and the affection in her gaze was so vivid, it washed over him, soothing the pain that was overwhelming him. "I do not necessarily consider myself to be particularly sentimental, but... well, it is the first letter you wrote to me, and though perhaps it is a rather perverse thought, I consider it in some way to be a sort of love letter." Darcy nearly scoffed in disbelief at that, able to reach past anger for some sense of incredulous sarcasm.
"Elizabeth, I can learn to understand your every sentiment but the last. A love letter?" She laughed at his tone as some of the tension left her shoulders and she moved forward to take his balled fists in her hands, smoothing her thumbs over the backs of his palms.
"I said it was perverse, but yes. In a way, it was. And I will conclude by begging you to retract your request so that I might keep it. You know not how many times I have traced every word knowing you penned them." Despite his discomfort, he knew she would ask it of him as soon as she had begun. Equally, he knew he would not, could not deny her. If it truly meant that much to her, he would not press for his selfish wishes, much as he would like to. For several minutes, she watched him earnestly as he battled the part of him that begged to retaliate. Despite her explanation that did have some legitimacy, particularly in the case of sentimentality, it had been a difficulty in the last six months to accept that he had written and placed it in her hands at all. Now, he was expected to allow it to remain intact and in her possession.
"You truly wish to keep it?"
She nodded assuredly. "I do." No, he could not understand it at that moment, but he could see her logic, see himself learn to understand her wishes. He sighed deeply, heavily. Shaking his head, he replied, "I will respect your wishes, but in this moment I cannot say I am sensible to it. I will learn to understand; there is reason in your sentiments." She lifted his hands and fervently pressed her lips to them.
"Thank you, Fitzwilliam."
As they moved to walk back to the house, his mind was already at work. It would be absolutely insupportable for that letter to be the only one of his in her possession, and one that was an abysmal excuse for a 'love letter'. She could keep it as she liked, but he would be damned if that was the only impression she had of his affection written in words. All would be settled by the time she and her family came to Netherfield that evening to dine.
Mr. Darcy stood at the hearth in Netherfield's drawing room watching his sister perform at the pianoforte and Elizabeth next to her, turning the pages. He had so looked forawrd to seeing them together again. They were as companionable as they were at Pemberley in the summer, more so now that they had the opportunity to be more intimately in each other's company. He often saw them with their heads bent together, apart from others in the room, or joined with the eldest Miss Bennet. Their easy smiles and quiet laughter were the sure signs of two young ladies fast becoming friends, soon to be sisters, and nothing gave him more joy than to see them getting on the way they were. Georgiana, in both letters Darcy had recieved since the engagement, had expressed her dearest wish to become more acquainted with his fiancé, for she had so enjoyed Elizabeth's company at Pemberley and was determined to think her the most amiable, the most agreeable woman of her acquaintance.
Georgiana was wonderfully at ease with Elizabeth, which Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst noticed pointedly. She was not so with them, or at least not in the same way. Darcy could almost hear their judgements, their gazes so direct and narrowed on Elizabeth - perhaps Miss Bingley more than Mrs. Hurst. Though ever watchful as she was of his person, Miss Bingley had subdued (only fractionally) in her attentions to Mr. Darcy since they had all been at Pemberley. At least she did not hover near him as she had done in the past, though she did continue to strut and prove herself to move with that air she so declared was necessary in an accomplished woman. There was a different look of calculation in her eyes when she spoke to him. He could see she chose her words more carefully in his company. And thank heaven for it, Darcy had thought to himself. Perhaps, she took notice to her petty behavior.
The music's final cadence rang through the air followed by everyone's applause for Georgiana's graceful performance. Darcy crossed the room to join the ladies at the pianoforte. As he approached, Georgiana was saying with a smile, "It will be wonderful to have a partner to practice with."
"I shall do my best," Elizabeth replied with the hint of a smirk, "but I cannot promise I will be able to keep up."
"Nonsense, you play very well, Elizabeth."
"That you do," Darcy agreed. Elizabeth met his eye with a warning and no small amount of amusement.
"Well, then I daresay you are both hopelessly blinded by prejudice," Elizabeth sighed with mock exasperation, then looking to Georgiana; "but should you ask it of me, I shall be happy to oblige. Besides, I would benefit from your instruction." Georgiana smiled bashfully and took the music from the stand.
"Will you not play for us now?" She asked. Elizabeth feigned a sigh of indignation, Georgiana laughed, and the reply was given that if it was what Georgiana truly wished, then it would be done. Elizabeth rose to look through the music sheets after Georgiana had excused herself to join Miss Bennet, who beckoned her to take the empty seat where she sat by Mr. Bingley and Mrs. Gardiner. Darcy moved to Elizabeth's side, peering over her shoulder to watch her sift through the selections.
"You know not how pleased I am to see you both together," he said just above a whisper. She smiled as she replied, "I shall be gratified to have the privilege of calling her my sister. She is everything a girl of her age ought to be, and I can see she will get over that shyness in her. She only needs encouragement."
"She will have you as a perfect example." Elizabeth could not help the sardonic chuckle that passed her lips.
"A perfect example, you say? You truly are blinded with bias."
"What is bias when it is based in truth? My example is too serious, Richard's is easy but in that forward way of his. You are exactly who she should look to." Elizabeth nodded, if only to appease him rather than agree with him.
"Perhaps you should choose what I should play," she said as a diversion from the subject, continuing to rifle through sheets. Darcy knew exactly what he wished her to sing and stopped her hand when she came across a familiar title. She laughed as he pulled it from the pile, looking up at him knowingly. "A choice that suits the occasion; well done, sir. I might go as far as to say this selection shall nettle our admirers tolerably well for our entertainment, or at least my own." Darcy followed her gaze to where Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst sat together away from all others. He gave her a conspiratorial smile as he took his place to turn the pages and she played with all the spirit that was her own.
Deh vieni, non tardar, o gioia bella, vieni ove amore per goder t'appella finche non splende in ciel notturna face finche l'aria e ancor bruna, e il mondo tace.
Qui mormora il ruscel, qui scherza l'aura che col dolce sussurro il cor restaura, qui ridono i fioretti e l'erba e fresca ai piaceri d'amor qui tutto adesca.
Vieni, ben mio, tra queste piante ascose. Vieni, vieni! Ti vo' la fronte incoronar di rose.
The whole of the party - besides Miss Bingley and Mr. and Mrs. Hurst, of course - was so reluctant for the evening to end that they all lingered in the hall as the Bennets and the Gardiners prepared to return to Longbourn. Farewells were said half-heartedly before conversation again struck and the whole process of goodbyes was repeated at least thrice over. When they all finally crossed the threshold and the Longbourn party made to step up to their carriages, Darcy gently took Elizabeth quietly aside and reached into the breast pocket of his waistcoat.
"What is this?" Elizabeth smiled with no small hint of eager curiosity. She took the proffered letter; upon it was her name written in even, elegant hand.
"You as good as told me that you wished for a love letter," he replied.
"Did I, Mr. Darcy?" She looked down at the letter in her hands, smoothed over her name with a gentle finger before she looked up again, the torches flickering in her eyes. "Am I to consider this to be your first to me? Is this an attempt to change my mind about the other?"
"No, I would not think to attempt challenging that stubbornness of yours -" another one of those disarming smiles and he placed a finger under chin for the briefest moment, stealing what intimacy he could "- but yes, this is the one to be considered the first." He leaned forward, his lips close to her ear as he added in a whisper, "Read it tonight, Elizabeth, and think of me. I will think of you. I always do." She shivered as she let out a rough exhale, and when he pulled away, all she could do was nod her promise that she would. As he led her to the carrriage and handed her in, he thought of her in the hideaway of her chamber, clad only in a nightgown and hair pleated, his letter in her hands and blush covering every inch of her beautiful soft skin.
Netherfield Park, Oct. 30, 1812
My Darling Elizabeth,
You have asked me this morning to rescind my request that you destroy the letter I gave to you in Kent. On this I shall comply, however I shall not forget - as you said - the perverse idea that it should be considered a sort of letter of affection or love. Those offensive scraps, though pivotal in our beginning to understand one another, should not have been my first letter to you. My object is to present to you now the letter that should have instead been put into your hands with the sentiments that I should have related with more eloquence. If I succeed as I wish to, you will forget that letter, though I know you will not reconsider it's remaining intact. See only these words, Elizabeth, and know that this is what I have always and will always feel in my heart.
Dearest, loveliest Elizabeth. You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you. After all that had kept us apart, after months of torment believing I should never have the right to look upon you again, I find myself in disbelief - even now - knowing that in only five days' time, I shall have the pleasure and profound honor to call you Mrs. Elizabeth Darcy. I have found in you my equal in intelligence, but my superior in character, compassion, and generosity; for who could forgive and accept a man who has been as much a fool as I have? Reticent and prideful as I am, I have not done enough to deserve you - nay, I could never do enough to deserve you, but that is not to say that I shall not endeavor to do all that I can to make you happy. Your happiness is mine. I dream of your smiles, your eyes gentle and warm when you look upon me in that loving way that is only yours. To hold you, to touch you, inspires within me something more than any words can justify. You once said that poetry had the efficiency of driving away love of slight inclination, that it and all else could nourish only what is already strong and healthy. I thought it diverting then, but I see now the legitimacy of your opinion. If I had attempted or thought to write before of the vibrancy of your expressions or the perfection with which your lips pronounce each word you speak, you would not have stirred. But now, though I am no poet, there is nothing to keep me from attempting words to describe my feelings and what you are to me.
I have often likened you to the Sun in my imaginings - a star that burns so bright as to captivate me in your power. With the force of your soul, mine remains steady in orbit around you. Have you not guided me? Have you not corrected my path and pointed me in the direction of what I have always searched for, wished for? Where there is sun, there is life. My life is yours and has been - whether I was conscious of it or not - since you first crossed my path. Fate is a peculiar thing; I had never given it much merit or truly had a strong opinion of the phenomenon, but being with you has given me reason to consider it. I had not planned to come to Hertfordshire with Bingley last autumn, yet I found myself one year ago at an assembly and setting my eyes upon you for the first time. At Easter, I travelled into Kent expecting to be displeased for some weeks in the company of my aunt with only my cousin to give me reprieve, but I arrived to learn that Mrs. Collins, née Lucas, had as a guest her dearest friend by the name of Elizabeth Bennet visiting from Hertfordshire. I rode home ahead of Georgiana in July under the pretense of settling business with my steward to allow myself time to clear my head, to finally put away once and for all the grief I held, but there you were. You stood on the lawn of Pemberley where I had imagined you to be countless times, so very beautiful. Nothing had seemed more right. I could never forget you, especially when you looked at me as you never had before.
Do you remember when you first put your hand in mine? Your delicate, gloved hand pressed my fingers when I led you to our first dance at Netherfield - it is burned in my memory. At Pemberley, the first touch of your skin as I took your hand to place on my arm as I led you from the drawing room to escort you to your uncle and aunt's carriage. Nigh on a month ago, your first utterance that you love me 'ardently in return', and just over a fortnight since, that blessed first moment when your lips pressed against mine. I remember it all, Elizabeth. Every moment, every second with you, regardless of what either of our sentiments were, is cherished in the deepest parts of my heart. That very heart is yours and only yours; everything I am, all that I have, all that I ever will be - yours. Though we shall not recite them until Wednesday in church, I have inwardly sworn my vows to you the moment you accepted me. With my mortal body and eternal soul, I do worship you, and it is with the greatest exultation that I shall do so for the rest of my life.
I can see your carriage approaching from the window, so I must conclude for now with only this:
I love you, Elizabeth. More than I could have ever thought a person capable, I love you.
Eternally yours,
Fitzwilliam Darcy