I'm back! It's been a crazy year, as I'm sure it has been for all of you. This story is not yet finished, but I'm about 95k into it (halfway?), so I thought I'd start posting. I plan to post on Tuesdays until I finish the story and then I'll up the number of postings/week. Thus far I have never not finished a story I've started posting; you should be safe to get sucked in ;)
Thank you so much to my betas, Dawn & Sara, who have done an amazing job on this one too!
If you notice any errors, please let me know. I am not a Regency expert, so I often make language and culture errors without even realizing I've done so.
This is cross-posted on wattpad. If you find it somewhere else, please let me know because it shouldn't be there.
Copyright 2020 Elizabeth Frerichs
Elizabeth Bennet paused as she reached the top of Oakham Mount. No matter how many times she made the climb, she was always struck by the view. Her gaze roved across the trees and fields. Everything seemed brighter, more vibrant, after the rain, and the trees were just beginning to change colors. The autumn breeze caressed the curls around her glowing face as she shifted her bonnet so it hung down her back. Eyes still on the view, she walked over to her customary resting place, a large rock, and seated herself.
It had been a trying few days. The rain had kept everyone indoors, without company, and four days of listening to her sisters and mother complain of boredom and the lack of news had left her wild to get out—which was why she had decided to take a longer walk and climb Oakham Mount despite the mud. She took a few deep breaths, letting the stress of the previous days drain away. As she shifted on her rock, something crinkled by her left foot, and she glanced down. A letter lay on the ground. It was slightly muddy, but not wet, so someone must have lost it only that day. She picked it up, examining it curiously. It had been sealed with wax, but the seal had been broken.
Elizabeth scanned the area in case the owner was somewhere nearby; as usual, not a soul was in sight. There was no addressee on the envelope, so she unfolded the letter and began reading. Hopefully, she could discern to whom it belonged and return it to him or her.
The date immediately caught her eye—the letter-writer was obviously confused for it was dated April 10th, 1812, and the current date was September 19, 1811. The letter was addressed from Rosings, a place Elizabeth had never heard of, so she read on.
Be not alarmed, madam, on receiving this letter, by the apprehension of its containing any repetition of those sentiments or renewal of those offers which were last night so disgusting to you. I write without any intention of paining you, or humbling myself, by dwelling on wishes which, for the happiness of both, cannot be too soon forgotten; and the effort which the formation, and the perusal of this letter must occasion should have been spared had not my character required it to be written and read. You must, therefore, pardon the freedom with which I demand your attention; your feelings, I know, will bestow it unwillingly, but I demand it of your justice.
Sentiments and offers? Elizabeth's eyebrows shot up. This was a rather personal letter to leave lying about. Then again, the author had assured the recipient that she need not worry about a repetition of said sentiments and offers, so perhaps it would not be that personal. As there was naught in that paragraph to identify either the writer or the recipient, she continued.
Two offences of a very different nature, and by no means of equal magnitude, you last night laid to my charge. The first-mentioned was that, regardless of the sentiments of either, I had detached Mr. Bingley from your sister; and the other, that I had, in defiance of various claims, in defiance of honour and humanity, ruined the immediate prosperity and blasted the prospects of Mr. Wickham. — Willfully and wantonly to have thrown off the companion of my youth, the acknowledged favourite of my father, a young man who had scarcely any other dependence than on our patronage, and who had been brought up to expect its exertion, would be a depravity, to which the separation of two young persons, whose affection could be the growth of only a few weeks, could bear no comparison. But from the severity of that blame which was last night so liberally bestowed, respecting each circumstance, I shall hope to be in future secured, when the following account of my actions and their motives has been read. If, in the explanation of them, which is due to myself, I am under the necessity of relating feelings which may be offensive to yours, I can only say that I am sorry. The necessity must be obeyed and further apology would be absurd.
Elizabeth paused, lowering the letter to stare meditatively at the view. None of the names mentioned were familiar, but it seemed a rather private letter for a stranger to read. Should she perhaps simply burn it? Then again, by the same token, it seemed like the sort of letter one would want returned, and if she left it here in the event the owner returned for it, it might be ruined by the time they found it or discovered by someone who would spread the contents far and wide. After a moment's hesitation, she skipped to the signature—Fitzwilliam Darcy; yet another unfamiliar name. There appeared to be nothing for it but to read the whole thing and hope that the author addressed the recipient at some point.
I had not been long in Hertfordshire before I saw, in common with others, that Bingley preferred your eldest sister to any other young woman in the country. But it was not till the evening of the dance at Netherfield that I had any apprehension of his feeling a serious attachment.
"Netherfield? But no one has lived there for over a year," she murmured. She'd heard that Mr. Mather's son was looking to rent it out or perhaps to sell it, but none had made an offer. "There must be another Netherfield in some other shire—but no, he said Hertfordshire." She mentally shrugged off the coincidence and read further.
I had often seen him in love before. At that ball, while I had the honour of dancing with you, I was first made acquainted, by Sir William Lucas's accidental information—
Sir William Lucas? Was that a common name?
—that Bingley's attentions to your sister had given rise to a general expectation of their marriage. He spoke of it as a certain event, of which the time alone could be undecided. From that moment, I observed my friend's behaviour attentively; and I could then perceive that his partiality for Miss Bennet was beyond what I had ever witnessed in him.
"Miss Bennet! Good gracious! But this does not make sense at all." Her brow furrowed as she puzzled over the mystery before her. Almost without thought, her eyes flickered down the page, searching for answers.
Your sister I also watched. Her look and manners were open, cheerful, and engaging as ever, but without any symptom of peculiar regard, and I remained convinced from the evening's scrutiny, that though she received his attentions with pleasure, she did not invite them by any participation of sentiment. If you have not been mistaken here, I must have been in an error. Your superior knowledge of your sister must make the latter probable. — If it be so, if I have been misled by such error to inflict pain on her, your resentment has not been unreasonable. But I shall not scruple to assert that the serenity of your sister's countenance and air was such as might have given the most acute observer a conviction that, however amiable her temper, her heart was not likely to be easily touched. That I was desirous of believing her indifferent is certain—but I will venture to say that my investigations and decisions are not usually influenced by my hopes or fears. I did not believe her to be indifferent because I wished it; I believed it on impartial conviction, as truly as I wished it in reason.
Whoever Mr. Darcy was, he sounded as though he had come into contact with her sister Jane. Jane was, after all, the only Miss Bennet in the area, and he had specifically mentioned Hertfordshire, Netherfield, and Sir William Lucas. She stared out at the changing trees pensively. There had to be some logical, rational explanation for the letter. The only one that made any sense was that this Mr. Darcy was referring to a different Netherfield, a different Sir William Lucas, and, most of all, a different family of Bennets. Even if one took away the fact that Jane had never met a Mr. Bingley, she was quite sure that neither she nor any of her younger sisters had met a Mr. Darcy—unless her younger sisters had hidden something, but that was equally preposterous. She shook her head slightly before returning her attention to the letter.
My objections to the marriage were not merely those which I last night acknowledged to have required the utmost force of passion to put aside, in my own case; the want of connection could not be so great an evil to my friend as to me. But there were other causes of repugnance; — causes which, though still existing, and existing to an equal degree in both instances, I had myself endeavoured to forget, because they were not immediately before me. These causes must be stated, though briefly. The situation of your mother's family, though objectionable, was nothing in comparison of that total want of propriety so frequently, so almost uniformly betrayed by herself, by your three younger sisters, and occasionally even by your father. Pardon me. It pains me to offend you. But amidst your concern for the defects of your nearest relations, and your displeasure at this representation of them, let it give you consolation to consider that, to have conducted yourselves so as to avoid any share of the like censure, is praise no less generally bestowed on you and your eldest sister, than it is honourable to the sense and disposition of both. I will only say further, that from what passed that evening my opinion of all parties was confirmed, and every inducement heightened which could have led me before to preserve my friend from what I esteemed a most unhappy connection. He left Netherfield for London, on the day following, as you, I am certain, remember, with the design of soon returning.
A Bennet family with five girls, the youngest three lacking propriety. The letter was written to the second eldest and left here in her favourite thinking place sometime this morning. A shiver tingled down her spine. She had heard maids talk of feeling as though someone had walked over one's grave but had never experienced it before. Elizabeth glanced around once more, uneasily wondering if anyone was nearby, watching to see if she picked up the letter and how she responded to it. They could not be hoping for anything positive given the cold tone of the missive, whatever Mr. Darcy said about his feelings.
The part which I acted is now to be explained. His sisters' uneasiness had been equally excited with my own; our coincidence of feeling was soon discovered, and, alike sensible that no time was to be lost in detaching their brother, we shortly resolved on joining him directly in London. We accordingly went—and there I readily engaged in the office of pointing out to my friend the certain evils of such a choice. I described, and enforced them earnestly. But, however this remonstrance might have staggered or delayed his determination, I do not suppose that it would ultimately have prevented the marriage, had it not been seconded by the assurance, which I hesitated not in giving, of your sister's indifference. He had before believed her to return his affection with sincere, if not with equal regard. But Bingley has great natural modesty, with a stronger dependence on my judgment than on his own. To convince him, therefore, that he had deceived himself, was no very difficult point. To persuade him against returning into Hertfordshire, when that conviction had been given, was scarcely the work of a moment. I cannot blame myself for having done this much. There is but one part of my conduct in the whole affair on which I do not reflect with satisfaction; it is, that I condescended to adopt the measures of art so far as to conceal from him your sister's being in town. I knew it myself, as it was known to Miss Bingley; but her brother is even yet ignorant of it. That they might have met without ill consequence is perhaps probable; but his regard did not appear to me enough extinguished for him to see her without some danger. Perhaps this concealment, this disguise was beneath me; it is done, however, and it was done for the best. On this subject I have nothing more to say, no other apology to offer. If I have wounded your sister's feelings, it was unknowingly done; and though the motives which governed me may to you very naturally appear insufficient, I have not yet learnt to condemn them.
What sort of man was this Mr. Darcy? He had separated his friend and a Miss Bennet (certainly not Jane since she had never heard of these people) due to the lack of propriety shown by the lady's family and from a desire to rescue him from a loveless marriage. Elizabeth could not blame him for wanting to assist his friend, but he seemed to possess inordinate power over this Mr. Bingley—more than one would expect for one friend to have over another. Perhaps he acted as a sort of older brother. His deception was indicative of one used to employing the meanest of arts to achieve their own ends, yet he also appeared . . . perhaps not quite remorseful, but clearly uncomfortable with it.
Elizabeth skimmed through the rest of the letter which detailed Mr. Darcy's dealings with a Mr. Wickham; the man had tried to elope with Mr. Darcy's sister as well as acting the cad in other situations. Mr. Darcy then offered a Colonel Fitzwilliam as a witness to the various events detailed. Upon reaching the signature once more, she folded up the letter, tapping it on her palm as she considered what she ought to do.
On the one hand, she had never heard of either Fitzwilliam or Georgiana Darcy, nor Mr. Bingley and his sisters. And it was obvious that this Mr. Wickham was not the sort of person a lady should associate with, so she could not approach him for information even if she were to encounter him. The letter contained some very sensitive personal information though, and she was unwilling to leave it lying around. Although she did not know Georgiana Darcy, she hoped that if something similar had happened to one of her sisters and a stranger came across the information, they would secure it. It was rather careless to write something like that down and give it to someone who would lose it. Well, if nothing else, she could take it home and burn it.
On the other hand, it seemed so tailored to her situation—the second eldest in a family of Bennets with five daughters who lived in Hertfordshire . . .
A thought struck her, wiping away all her apprehension like sunshine dissipating the morning mist: someone must have known that she would be here this morning and decided to play a practical joke on her. She unfolded the letter, examining the handwriting this time. It certainly appeared unfamiliar and masculine. Very regular, as though the person were someone who liked things just so. Could one of her sisters have forged it? Neither Lydia nor Kitty would have had the patience for such neat penmanship, even for the sake of a joke. And Mary would never engage in practical jokes.
Elizabeth shrugged and folded the letter. What did it matter who had done it? She chuckled at the thought of her previous unease. Of course it was not real. What kind of name was "Darcy" anyway? Obviously made-up. She would show it to Jane, to see if her dearest sister had any thoughts as to who might have written it, and then burn it, lest anyone suppose it to be true and start gossip.
That settled, Elizabeth glanced up at the sun's position. If she left now, visiting hours would already be over by the time she returned, and being out too much later was not worth the trouble she would be in.
Elizabeth hung up her shawl and crept up the back stairs to put the letter in her room.
"Lizzy!" Her youngest sister called as she frantically rifled through a haphazard pile of clothing strewn across both beds and the floor of the bedroom she shared with Kitty.
A slight frown crossed Elizabeth's face as she halted by the open door. Lydia was never upstairs alone. "Yes, Lydia?"
"You will not believe the news!" Lydia said, stopping her hunt long enough to flit to the doorway. "Mrs. Long came by this morning—I still cannot believe that you left. I would never have gone out walking when people were likely to call." Lydia paused, watching her expectantly.
Elizabeth suppressed a sigh. "What news?"
"Mrs. Long told us that Netherfield has been let at last," said Lydia, beaming.
Elizabeth opened her mouth to reply, but Lydia rushed on.
"And not just let, but let to a rich, young, single gentleman." She danced a little jig. "I am sure he will like me the best. I am the tallest."
"Height is the greatest inducement of affection," Elizabeth agreed with a laugh.
"Mrs. Long says that Mr. Bingley plans to take possession of Netherfield before Michaelmas and that his servants will arrive as early as next week."
Elizabeth froze. "Mr. Bingley?" she asked, her throat suddenly dry.
"Yes, it is such a lovely name, is it not? Just imagine 'Mrs. Bingley,'" she said, a coquettish smile spread across her features as she mock-curtseyed. "La! What a good joke it would be if I were married before any of you!"
Elizabeth nodded dumbly, barely registering what Lydia had said. After a moment, she asked, "Mrs. Bingley?"
"Have you not been listening?" Lydia asked with an exasperated huff. "Mama says he will likely marry one of us. She has gone to ask Papa to visit Mr. Bingley as soon as he moves in, so perhaps we shall be among the first to meet him."
"That would be—nice," Elizabeth croaked.
"Only if we are ready for him! I have been looking over my bonnets—I do not have a thing." She glanced over to where a pile of bonnets and an even larger pile of hopelessly tangled ribbons lay scattered on her bed among the general chaos. "I will just have to wear one of Kitty's. She won't need them anyway—it is not as though Mr. Bingley would look at her. Which do you think he would prefer? This one?"—she held up a straw confection adorned with several ribbons in varying shades of pink— "or this one?"—she held up another equally colorful bonnet trimmed in blue.
Elizabeth nodded, her mind busy with the conundrum of the letter. Could it possibly be a legitimate letter and not just a prank? No, wait. The rain had kept many people indoors. "Did Mrs. Long say how long ago she learned of Mr. Bingley's impending arrival?" she asked Lydia.
Lydia huffed and set the bonnets back on the bed. "Why should I answer that? It is not as though you were listening to anything I said anyway."
Elizabeth shrugged nonchalantly. "Very well. I shall go ask our sisters."
"Fine! Mrs. Long said he came on Tuesday last to look at the house. I do not know who else saw him, but several people must have because Charlotte Lucas knew when she visited."
"She visited?"
Lydia rolled her eyes. "Yes. She is probably still downstairs, talking to Jane, although I have no idea what they have to talk about. Probably something ridiculously boring."
"Ah. Well, perhaps I will go down and see. Thank you for the information, Lydia." Elizabeth smiled vaguely at her, still wondering who had written the letter.
It seemed a very poor joke to talk of Jane having a rich, handsome suitor driven off by her relatives' indecorous behavior. In fact, the whole tenor of the letter was changed with the addition of a real Mr. Bingley. Perhaps she wouldn't show the letter to Jane, she mused as she walked down the stairs.
As Elizabeth drew near her father's study, her mother's agitated voice spilled through the slightly open door, followed by the low rumble of her father's reply. Elizabeth paused, trying to decide if she ought to involve herself.
"I desire you will do no such thing," her mother exclaimed. "Lizzy is not a bit better than the others; and I am sure she is not half so handsome as Jane, nor half so good-humoured as Lydia. But you are always giving her preference."
Elizabeth suppressed a blush. Her mother had made her views plain on many occasions. She openly doted on Lydia and expected Jane's beauty to snare her a husband rich enough to somehow support the entire family. Elizabeth had accepted her mother's resentment towards her, but acceptance did not protect her from the ache that sometimes filled her chest. Not that she desired the weight of being her mother's favorite—indeed, she would go quite mad if she had to put up with half so much attention as Lydia got, and Lydia was quite the worse for being so spoiled. But, sometimes, she ached for her mother to accept her as fully.
She still remembered when her own family's shortcomings had become plain: she had gone to stay with her Aunt and Uncle Gardiner for several weeks when she was twelve, and the differences between their two families had brought her parents' behavior into sharp focus. Unlike Mrs. Bennet, Mrs. Gardiner loved all her children equally. And unlike Mr. Bennet, Mr. Gardiner loved his wife and all his children and maintained a steady involvement in their lives.
Elizabeth was grateful for her father's preference, yet not insensible to the flaw it showed in his parenting. Not to mention that there was a burden to being her father's favorite. It put her in a rather uncomfortable position, just as her mother's favoritism did to Jane. She shook her head, trying to dislodge the negative thoughts. She could do nothing to change the situation, so she might as well put it out of her mind.
"They have none of them much to recommend them," he replied. "They are all silly and ignorant, like other girls, but Lizzy has something more of quickness than her sisters."
"Mr. Bennet, how can you abuse your own children in such a way! You take delight in vexing me. You have no compassion on my poor nerves," her mother screeched.
Elizabeth winced. If her mother had begun to complain about her nerves, a lengthy discourse on them was certain to follow. Better rather to investigate whether Charlotte remained in the house.
Happily, Charlotte was still in the sitting room, comfortably ensconced upon a settee next to Jane. Charlotte was a woman of good sense and spent much of her time running her father's household. Her father, Sir William Lucas, had retired to country life upon being knighted, and now both he and his wife quite considered themselves to be above the menial tasks of running the house. Despite the seven year age difference between Charlotte and herself, they had built a close friendship, and Charlotte had been an invaluable resource to Jane and Elizabeth when they had struggled to learn the ways of a household.
Glancing around the room, Elizabeth noted that her other two sisters were present as well: Mary sat by the window, reading some large tome, and Kitty sat in one corner on the opposite side of the room, appearing to be at loose ends without Lydia nearby. Why hadn't her sister gone upstairs as well? Perhaps Lydia had refused her company.
Elizabeth walked over to her best friend and her sister, a teasing smile lighting her face. "Why, Charlotte, so good of you to keep Jane company while I was away."
Charlotte returned her smile. "You are quite welcome. I suppose I can go now that you have returned."
"Why yes, I do believe I can manage Jane now."
Jane smiled sweetly. "Lizzy, you do tease so. Charlotte has been waiting for at least an hour to talk to you—it would be quite unfair to send her home now."
Elizabeth sat down on a chair nearby. "If you have come to tell me all about Mr. Bingley, I do wish you would."
"And how do you know of Mr. Bingley?" Charlotte asked, one eyebrow raised.
"Lydia told me. I went upstairs and crossed paths with her before realizing that you were here. I do apologize for neglecting you."
"You are quite forgiven. Lydia, no doubt, informed you without delay; she seemed almost as excited as your mother."
"Indeed. She has informed me that she has just as much chance of marrying him as any of us, since she is the tallest of us Bennet daughters."
Jane smiled. "I do admire her confidence."
"So, do tell," Elizabeth prodded. "How would you describe the illustrious Mr. Bingley?"
Charlotte shook her head. "I have not met him. Mr. Morris spoke to father about him. Apparently, he is quite good-natured and only attained his majority less than two years ago. His father intended to purchase an estate but unfortunately passed away before doing so; Mr. Bingley has taken it upon himself to fulfill his father's dream and is leasing Netherfield to see if it suits."
"Do many people in the neighborhood know of his coming?"
Charlotte simply looked at her. "Eliza, how long have you lived with the residents of Meryton?"
Elizabeth's lips turned up. "Of course, everyone already knows or will know by tea time. Silly of me to ask."
Both her friend and her sister smiled.
"Mr. Bingley's father was in trade, so my father is hopeful he will look upon me with favor—it would be a step up for him to marry into gentility," Charlotte admitted with a blush. "But I believe he will be far more interested in our Jane."
"Charlotte, do not sell yourself short," Elizabeth admonished. "Any man who secured your affections would consider himself fortunate."
"It is much more a question of me securing a husband than of him securing me."
Elizabeth waved the comment aside—despite all her declarations of eschewing love, Charlotte would never act on them. "Have you heard anything else about Mr. Bingley?"
Charlotte shot her a puzzled look. "It is not like you to be this interested in the doings of our neighbors."
Elizabeth suppressed a blush. Her friend was right—but something about that letter niggled at her, despite all the evidence in favor of it being a practical joke. She cast about for a likely explanation. "We have never had rich, young gentlemen as neighbors before. I must confess that I am already anticipating the entertainment caused by all the flurry over his arrival. But if you would rather talk of something else—how is Mrs. Twill?"
Mrs. Twill was Charlotte's horse. She had been off her feed lately, and Charlotte had consulted with various local experts for advice.
Charlotte's face lit up. "Much better. Farmer Harris recommended adding in some burdock to her feed, and she has been improving ever since."
"I am glad," Elizabeth said sincerely. Despite her own dislike for horses, she knew how much Charlotte loved hers.
"As am I," Jane added.