*** how shocking Mr. Darcy! truly feedback on the letter is appreciated :) ***
The afternoon passed pleasantly, though the men bid adieu not long after Mr. Darcy and Elizabeth finished their private walk as neither wished to formally visit on a Sunday. As Elizabeth planned to go above stairs, her father beckoned to her and she humored him in his study.
Involuntarily, her eyes rose to the set of four slender volumes on the top shelf, grinning like a cat that had caught the mouse, as her letter from her own Valmont sat awaiting in her pocket. No wonder the epistolary novels were so exciting to read, living one in real life sent an absolute rush of blood to her head!
"What did you discuss in your private conversation with Mr. Darcy?" Mr. Bennet asked, pressing his fingertips together as he considered his favorite daughter before him.
She shrugged. "Oh this and that, he apologized for reacting poorly to see me in distress," she simplified.
"To see you in distress! He shall act the fool and offend one and all?" Mr. Bennet howled in a jolly disposition at such antics. "And how shall he weather taking you to a ballroom in London? If you are angered or insulted there, will he toss a tantrum at an earl or a duke?"
Elizabeth took a deep breath and refused to be baited. "I'm certain his uncle, an earl, has seen Mr. Darcy lose his temper before. But I believe once he and I are married, he will likely grow more accustomed to surviving my company," she said, poking harmless fun at herself before he could.
"Did he give you a letter?"
"Father."
"You were never one to lie, Lizzy, pray do not start now. I can see the outline of the crease in your gown," he motioned toward the protruding corner on her left side.
Elizabeth froze. Her father extended his hand. Obediently, she reached into her pocket and handed over the private missive, immediately wishing she had turned around and tossed it into the fire. Mr. Bennet broke the seal, opened the letter, and after the briefest of glances, handed it back to her.
"Papa?"
"The man is smart, I'll give him that. He has enough sense to write to you in French."
"You do not wish to read it?" Elizabeth asked, confused that her father demanded the letter, looked inside, but then returned it.
"Heavens no! What quiet sighs of love Monsieur Darcy pens to his peu d'amour is of no consequence to me. I only wished to make sure there was no sharing of the private letter with Kitty or Mary."
Elizabeth squinted at her father, unclear exactly who this new man was that suddenly worried over the propriety of any of his daughters.
"Oh, and do make sure you hide it better. I should like them to continue to believe I confiscated the letter."
"Father!"
Mr. Bennet pursed his lips at his daughter's censure. "An old man can learn from his mistakes, my child. He can learn from his mistakes."
Finally dismissed from the mortifying interview, but grateful her father had not sought a deeper reading of the letter meant only for her, Elizabeth stood in a quandary. If she went above stairs, her sisters would know she possessed the letter to read. And there was at least an hour or more until supper, a thought that brought an inspired idea! Adjusting her gown so the contents of her pocket became less conspicuous, Elizabeth Bennet tucked down to a place she had not needed since she was a young child: the larder.
The kitchens bustled with activity as the hour before Sunday supper gave nearly every Bennett servant something to do. Mrs. Hill spied Elizabeth walking amongst the work tables and raised an eyebrow at the young woman who ordinarily only used the kitchens as her morning departure point for her rambles.
"Miss Lizzy?" Mrs. Hill inquired as Elizabeth offered her a sheepish grin.
"I need a few moments to myself?" she asked, instead of demanded, unlike some ladies believed they always must lord over those beneath them. Sadly, some of the younger Bennet sisters revealed their lack of confidence in the way they spoke to Hill, Betsy, and the other maids and footmen. Elizabeth's unassuming ways, and respect for the men and women, made living at Longbourn pleasanter than other households where the help held no loyalty to the master or mistress. The second Bennet daughter owned the respect of almost all who worked below stairs.
"I'm afraid the larder won't provide you much relief at this hour, but you may use my office," Mrs. Hill offered. Elizabeth nodded, offering her thanks.
"How is young Ralph? Fully recovered I hope?" she asked, accepting a proffered bowl of sugared plums from a young kitchen maid Elizabeth had gifted a pair of walking shoes earlier in the year. They shared a girlish mischief while Cook had her back turned.
Mrs. Hill continued her quieter discussion with one of the footmen, pointing to the young lad in question finishing his supper in the corner. Elizabeth waved at the young man indicated, who sat up straighter as a more senior footman told him to hurry up with his dawdling.
The bowl of plums tucked under her arm, Elizabeth turned the door handle to the small closet that was Mrs. Hill's private office. She lit the candle and then locked the door behind her, knowing she was as safe as she could be in a household where her mother held all of the keys. Placing a round, gooey morsel into her mouth, Elizabeth grimaced at the overpowering sweetness as she retrieved her clandestine letter.
Her eyes swiftly scanned the missive, catching certain French phrases that would have immediately clued her father that the letter was very personal in nature. Her cheeks burned with embarrassment as she felt thankful he did not give a more careful reading, but felt mortified all the same that he was aware of the general contents. She also lamented that she had not thought to borrow the same dictionary she had used to translate the other books in French her father owned, the ones he was aware she had read. Still, Mr. Darcy wrote in the conversational style, and so Elizabeth understood the gist.
After a very thorough section complementing her many attributes, that included not only her bosom, but also the tautness of her calves he explained:
... and so my love, many nights I lay in great anticipation of when we might retire together as husband and wife. An anticipation I endured even as early as our nights together here at Netherfield Park, which I'm afraid to confess were very undesirable for both the agitated state in which they placed my body, and my mind's prejudices against our union. How ironic that the very house in which I first became aware of the threat my affections for you shall be our first home as husband and wife? Does such intelligence disappoint you? I can only hope the feelings I have expressed in this letter aid in soothing away any lingering pain my first proposal created by insult. Your letter asked how I endured the months of unrequited love, a love I was never sure would be returned after Kent.
The poets pen long lines about the suffering and prickling of love lost. I can confess turning to Shakespeare, I've memorized number 87. I had believed, erroneously, that I had your regard, your affection, through being a man anxious for the smallest indication. I was utterly foolish to read into small sighs and looks from you that I mistook for ardor, but were actually disdain.
Nevertheless, I did find salvation. And like the poet, in sleep I became your king, your lover, your confidante. In sleep, I dreamt of laughter, your laughter, all around as we tumbled in the verdant fields of Pemberley, where I dearly pray for the day I hear your lips whisper three simple words.
Before I slumber, which even Bingley has noted I am keen to retire earlier than not, I lay awake, and all of the visions of my dreams pass in my mind's eye, raising a yearning that connects between my body and soul. My hand becomes yours, and I close my eyes desperately wishing it to be true. Where you might find privacy, I would urge you the same, allow your thoughts to think of my love for you and envision my hands instead of your own. The release is fleeting, I'm afraid, and before our understanding, I suffered the hollow echo of my wishes and dreams to be untrue. Now, I accept the bittersweet conclusion that these methods of satisfaction are no longer false lovers of manual persuasion, merely the torturous jailers of Father Time.
My dearest, know that I ache for your company, and treasure the moments we are together now, even if we are restricted in our adventures together by the rules of society. I understand now my ancestors, men of centuries ago, meeting a woman so beautiful and bewitching that they bellowed proudly of winning her affections. Crying and howling, threatening any other man that came near her. There is a primal emotion that I experience when we are near, an unsatisfied desire to protect and keep you from all harm that may approach. It is that deep-seated, perhaps possessory instinct, that I constantly fight to keep in check. The natural course of things for a man and woman in our condition is to leave others behind, cleave to one another. And yet, through the trappings of civilization we are denied access to our true natures. I hope you agree with me that we hasten to the married state.
Your Most Devoted,
F. Darcy
"Lizzy? Lizzy!"
The call of her name startled Elizabeth out of her daydreams of Mr. Darcy and she hastily folded the letter again to hide in her pocket. The housekeeper's office door opened and Elizabeth snatched the bowl of sweets protectively against her chest.
"There you are, goodness child, sneaking sweets before dinner? That is so unlike you!" Mrs. Bennet took the bowl away, scowling. Truthfully, it had usually been Lydia or Kitty sneaking down into the kitchen to find food between meals.
Elizabeth looked down, appropriately ashamed to lead her mother to believe the sugared plums were her only transgression.
"Sorry, Mama."
"You'll regret your figure come your wedding day if you start this up," she scolded. Then she sighed, and took pity on her daughter, thrusting the bowl back. "Oh, take them upstairs and share them with your sisters. Nothing can be gained from eating alone in sorrow."
Elizabeth blew out the candle and accepted the bowl, picking another plum to pop into her mouth. She slid by Mrs. Bennet, not daring to ask why her mother was looking for her, and meekly walked through the kitchen, back to the stairs leading up to the dining room.
As she entered the parlor, she found her three sisters anxiously awaiting supper, and Kitty's eyes widened in surprise as she spied the sweets in Elizabeth's hands.
"Plums!"
Elizabeth placed the bowl on the table and suddenly felt slightly underdressed for dinner.
"Are the gentlemen joining us?" she asked Jane, who was wearing a different frock than before.
She shook her head. "I had hoped . . .but,"
"But Mr. Bingley sent a note that they are indisposed! And now Jane is sad!" Kitty said, and offered the bowl to Mary and Jane, who she had just teased.
"Kitty, it is not proper for them to dine out on a Sunday," Jane explained, forlorn.
Elizabeth snorted, thinking of the letter from Mr. Darcy that had other objections to the polite rules of society. A familiar warmth began to spread through her body, and she felt she might blush. Turning away, she announced she would make ready for supper as well, at least clean up and refresh her attire.
As she took the stairs by twos for the exercise, her mind raced to the end of his letter encouraging her to use her hands as his. She laughed out loud at the poor man's ignorance. Just wait until he learned she had solved that particular problem long ago!