Chapter One: Her Ribbon

I thought I would feel relief when they left, but instead Netherfield felt a tomb, all grey and monotonous without Miss Elizabeth Bennet. Bingley must have felt similarly as he told me, "How quiet and lonely Netherfield now seems since Miss Bennet and her sister left."

I said nothing. My mind was more pleasantly engaged in staving off my present melancholy with memories from Miss Elizabeth's stay at Netherfield:

There was the morning when Miss Elizabeth arrived to see her sister, her dark eyes sparking, a becoming stain of pink upon her cheeks from the exertion of the walk. Her loveliness drew me forward like a magnet, although I stopped myself before I closed the distance more than a step or two.

I remember mumbling a quick, "Good morning, Miss Bennet," but leaving it to Bingley and his sister to speak with her about her sister. I paid little mind to that conversation as I was occupied with considering both the brilliancy of her complexion from her walk and feeling a sort of worry about the perils she could have faced from walking all alone just to visit a sister with a bad cold.

I likely stared at Miss Elizabeth as I examined her eyes more closely, letting everything fall away from me but my consideration of her. From the sun streaming in the windows, her eyes were a brownish-green hazel, darker toward the center with flecks of gold, rimmed with a circle of chocolate, rather than being a muddy brown as I had earlier supposed.

I remember my thinking kept circling around to Miss Elizabeth that day. I both wanted to speak with her and dreaded the uncertainty that such a conversation might entail. Miss Bingley, as always, attempted to occupy my attention. I recall, though, exchanging a bit of conversation with Miss Elizabeth that the evening in discussing accomplished ladies. By the light of the candles and the fire her eyes were dark, like coffee, and I drank them in, wanting more.

I cared only for Miss Bingley's list regarding accomplished ladies as I know that is what society expects, what my father expected. However, almost without my volition, I added my dearest hope, that "to all this she must add something more substantial, in the improvement of her mind by extensive reading." For the bride I desire, shall always be learning. What exchanges I could have with such a bride! Again, Miss Bingley complained and again I deflected, believing she was setting up her own talents as superior as a net to catch me in.

Later, when Miss Elizabeth informed us her sister was worse, I felt I should care more about her condition. That was what was expected of me, and Bingley reacted as he ought. But as for me, I could only think about the fact that this development would result in Miss Elizabeth staying longer at Netherfield. I did not understand the mix of excitement and dread this filled me with.

While the Bingley sisters played their duets, I imagined holding Miss Elizabeth in my arms as we danced. It was difficult to sleep that night while I had inappropriate carnal thoughts about her, kissing her hand without a glove between my lips and her skin. Her hand was warm and soft in my imagining, like the petals of my mother's roses.

Then there was that evening when I had been occupied myself with a book, studying maps of New England in our former colonies. I recall I was looking at a map of Boston in 1677, enjoying the curve of Cape Cod which resembled a jester's boot, all that was missing was a bell, when I heard Miss Bingley engage Miss Elizabeth to take a turn about the room. Oh, what a sight to look up and see her!

The firelight cast a soft glow upon Miss Elizabeth's form, revealing curves in her hips, bosom and cheek. While Miss Bingley had an elegant short stride, undoubtedly taught to her, Miss Elizabeth's seemed the product of many vigorous walks. She seemed to be proceeding at a slower pace than typical as restrained as she was by her arm being linked with Miss Bingley's.

I could only imagine myself in Miss Bingley's place, but rather than having our arms linked, she would be grasping mine and we would walk as one. Though she was small in stature, I believed Miss Elizabeth more than capable of keeping up with my stride.

What were the undulating two dimensional rivers of the map which that evening had been before me, when compared with this living woman's form? In remembering, I longed to trace her topography—the mountains, valleys and rivers—with my fingers, my lips. I wanted to understand what was hidden, what the map maker left off the page.

While I was still half lost in this reverie of recalling Miss Elizabeth's stay at Netherfield, Miss Bingley decided to make idle conversation. She asked me, "Tell me, Darcy, do you hire staff for Pemberley solely from the surrounding community or do you ever find them farther afield?"

I forced my eyes in her general direction and absently answered, "Most of our staff is derived from those who have served our family for generations."

"What a pity," she replied.

"If you will excuse me," I said, standing abruptly and not waiting for an answer.

I escaped, walking out of the parlor. I let my feet carry me out to the park before Miss Bingley could invite herself along.

As I walked, I consoled myself with the thought that Miss Elizabeth's feet had also walked these same paths. I felt the echo of her presence ahead, as etched in my memory when I had been hemmed in by escorting Bingley's sisters and Miss Elizabeth ran off while laughing gaily. I imagined her just out of sight, having turned in front of me.

As I reached the end of the park and turned to return, I spotted a flash of color that was out of place. It reminded me of a colias croceus, a clouded yellow butterfly, fluttering its wings, but the season for them was past. Intrigued, I investigated.

I found a piece of yellow ribbon snagged on a rosebush thorn. It was from her dress.

I carefully freed the ribbon. A fragment of thread remained on one side. The ribbon must have come partially loose before being caught and ripping free. I straightened it and smoothed it as best as I could before I tightly wrapped it up and placed it in my pocket.

I spent most of the rest of the day in my chambers, wrapping and unwrapping that strand of yellow ribbon around my finger. I went to sleep holding it grasped in my hand.

The next morning when I awoke my hand was empty. I frantically searched my bedding for Miss Elizabeth's ribbon, but then found it on the floor next to the bed. I carefully wiped a bit of dust from it and then held it for a while.

When my valet knocked, I quickly placed her ribbon in a drawer. I tried to set aside my feelings for Miss Elizabeth just as I had set aside her ribbon.

It did not work. I felt, though I knew it made no real sense, that finding her ribbon was a sign, in a language intended just for me.