Author's Note: Wow, I didn't think I'd be back on this site after over 4 years of silence, but here I am! I've really missed writing, and I want to give Pride and Prejudice fanfiction another shot. This idea came to me recently and I'm excited to see where the story goes. I would really like critiques especially on any grammar and spelling errors, but please be respectful. This is a work in progress and I have a general outline already, I just need to flesh out the story and characters. I'm going to update every two weeks or sooner if I can get the chapter done sooner.

I wanted to do a Pride and Prejudice fanfiction set in America during the dawn of technology. I wanted it to be more modern than 19th century England but more dated than the current times. If there are any history buffs out there, let me know if something I mention would not fit with the times, I will try and make it as historically accurate as possible.

I'll mention at the beginning of the chapter who's voice I am writing in, so that you don't get confused by my going back and forth between characters. That's all I want to say for this chapter, so I hope you enjoy reading!

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Chapter 1: Darcy

"Are you even listening to me?"

I set my newspaper down and look up at my mother. She is looking up at me with her piercing green eyes, her mouth set in a thin line of annoyance. Her hair is pulled back tightly, but her forehead shows no sign of wrinkles despite the severe hairstyle. As always, her face is perfectly made up and her clothes are immaculately pressed. Even at a little over forty years old, she doesn't look a day over thirty.

"Yes, mother, I'm listening," I sigh picking up my coffee and taking a long drink.

"I do not understand why you are acting as if I am the devil." My mother daintily dabs at the corners of her red pout. "As if I am not looking out for your best interest."

I pick up another muffin and bite into it. Immediately notes of cocoa and cinnamon with a hint of pepper overwhelm my taste buds. Betsy's decadent chocolate cinnamon muffins are just as good as I remember. A wave of nostalgia hits me as I am immediately transported back to my schoolboy days - the simple days when all I had to worry about was sneaking snacks from the cookie jar and getting more railway figures for my model train set. I turn to the older woman standing dutifully in the corner. "You have truly outdone yourself with breakfast, Betsy. If not for your unwavering sense of loyalty I would have already stolen you away as my personal cook."

"William, stop avoiding my questions. Why did you have to treat poor Mary Lou so horrendously?"

I roll my eyes as I think back to the accidental date I went on with poor Mary Lou. I met the girl at a sandwich shop nearby under the impression that she was seeking out my managerial expertise. I foolishly assumed that mother had introduced us in order to facilitate a professional acquaintance and only that. Of course, my dear mother had orchestrated this whole meeting to try and lure me into falling in love with Mary Lou from the well-bred family and the college degree in French History.

"She was vapid."

My mother huffs. "You think every woman is vapid." Mother forks a few more strawberries onto her plate. "Besides, you wouldn't know what to do with a wife who is smarter than you."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means that no girl is ever up to your standards. Even a college graduate is too vapid for you. My goodness, William, I'll be dead by the time a girl smart enough for you comes prancing along!"

I finish off my muffin and lean back in my chair. "Well, mother, it's not my fault that the society we run with encourages women to know more about the latest gossip than actual news. Find me a young woman who can talk about something other than the color of Sally Hansman's new frock and I will happily endure the entire date instead of walking out as I did to poor Mary Lou. Also, I'm particularly fond of brown eyes, so I'd very much appreciate if you kept that in mind when choosing candidates."

I glance down at my watch to see that almost two hours have passed since this Breakfast Inquisition began; so, I pick up my newspaper and grab another muffin before heading to the coatrack. "As always, this has been a pleasure, Mother. I'll see you tomorrow." Not waiting for my mother's reply, I jog to my car and pull out of my childhood driveway

My mother is desperate for grandchildren, and as her only child, I am her only option for providing little tykes to spoil. Every high society event is another opportunity to matchmake me with some new doe-eyed, coquettish courtesan. All of them are pretty and well-mannered and some have been genuinely interesting, but I am so tired of trying and failing to sustain a conversation with the predatory young women of high society. For once, I would like to meet a woman whose comments don't seem rehearsed and whose laughs don't seem timed. Every gesture, every compliment, every look is perfectly calculated and practiced and the contrived air of it all is so obvious.

I turn down a less populated street and continue down the open road. Ever since I took over the family entertainment company, I have thrown myself into the business, learning about the inner workings of film production and distribution. I am always looking for ways to best the competition and keep our company on top. Directors clamor for the chance to work with our studio and writers sometimes pay us to produce their work. I am proud of my company, and I take pride in doing my best to always realize its full potential. I want to continue my father's legacy.

It is hard to talk about my desires and dreams with others in my immediate circle of acquaintances. Nobody quite understands why I have such a fascination with finding meaning outside of making more money and acquiring more power. My mother, fearful that I might one day take off to "find myself", believes that marrying is the only way to keep me grounded and on top of my responsibilities. She does not get that I yearn to step outside of myself while still being myself. I want to continue running the company, and I want to continue being a good son, but I want to explore more artistic endeavors.

As I drive, the road becomes less winding and more bumpy. I haven't seen a car for probably five miles and there are no road signs or streetlights. I have found myself on a path surrounded by tall grass and wildflowers. A sea of vibrant greens, yellows, and purples stretch across the landscape and spill over the edge of the earth where the sky kisses the ground. I turn off the car and leave it on the side of the road. I am always so amazed by all of the beautiful scenery that I still have yet to see. To think that I have lived in this town my entire life and have only just recently come across this magnificent view. I pull my Canon camera out of the backseat and place the strap around my neck, I roll up my sleeves, and I begin walking through the tall overgrowth. I peer through the lens testing out a few angles, and through my viewfinder, I spot a young woman sitting in a small clearing a little further ahead with her face turned up towards the sun.

I peer at her through the lens. The way the breeze whips through tendrils of her curly hair and slightly lifts the ruffles of her dress is accentuated by the brightly shining sun overhead and the cluster of wildflowers surrounding the one lone clearing in which she sits. Through the lens, the sky seems extremely blue and the grass appears extra green. I quickly snap a picture as she bends her head back with her eyes closed. I slowly raise my camera, angle the shot, and snap another picture as the wind lifts her hair Heavenward. I wait a few moments, watching her as she turns back to the horizon and closes her eyes once more. She looks so serene. I want to go up to her and ask for a more personal photo. The photos I just took, although beautiful will not capture all of the meaning behind her eyes. I am pretty shy about talking to strangers especially ones as intriguing as she. I have never asked a stranger to pose for a picture. Usually, acquaintances in my circle are more than happy to pose in some contrived way if I mention that photography is one of my hobbies. Often, the subjects of those pictures do their best to imitate the austere and coy poses made popular by Hollywood stars. My subjects have only ever been unwitting if they were part of a scene I wanted to capture that happened to have them in it.

The picture I just took feels… invasive. The young woman probably looks so serene because she feels safe. She believes that she is experiencing undisturbed peace as she attempts to be at one with nature. She is completely oblivious to the man with a camera taking unsolicited photographs while she enjoys the scenery. I feel like I should make the girl aware of her immortalization in my film roll, but I am too worried about negative repercussions to go up to her. What if she is so mad, she breaks my camera? What if she finds me creepy and reports me to the local sheriff? Even if she is not immediately repulsed, I am worried that I will blunder my words and be too tongue-tied to make any coherent sentences. I definitely will not be witty or charming no matter how much I practice beforehand; I have years of failed mingling experiences to know that with certainty. It is best to vow to never show these invasive pictures and leave before the young woman is made aware of my intrusive presence.

I make my way back to my car. Once safely inside, I let out a breath I did not know I was holding. Feelings of giddiness begin to set in as that familiar rush of joy from taking amazing photos begins to flow.

Just as I am about to drive off, I notice the young woman look down at her wrist before standing and stretching. She is holding a little black book in her hand. After getting her bearings, she walks through the field in the opposite direction that I drove in from. Once she hits the main road, she keeps up a moderate jogging pace and in a split-second decision, I start up my car and follow behind her.

She runs for about half a mile before turning into a town market area. I watch as she sprints up to the door of a grocery store before I quietly turn my car around and drive back up to the studio to begin my work for the day.

Later as I am developing the photos, I look again at the uninhibited girl taunting me. Such beautiful pictures should be shown. They deserve to be admired. I let out a deep breath. Of course, that's impossible, right?

I take a moment to consider why such an endeavor would be impossible. The girl could say no. She might be creeped out by my taking candid photos of her. She might be a diva and only want to be photographed in a certain way.

But what if she says yes? I am always talking about wanting to take risks with the company, but I am struggling to ask a girl a simple question. I shake my head, ashamed that I am so worried about her reaction. I am William Thomas Darcy, one of the wealthiest and most successful men in America. Any woman would be lucky to have me ask them anything at all. I have absolutely nothing to worry about.

I hang the final picture and clean up my station. I mentally go through my schedule for the week. I have a full day tomorrow going over weekend openings and projections for new releases, and I have a meeting with my father on Tuesday. But this Saturday I should be free. Charlie usually takes Saturday mornings off, so he will be free to accompany me. I just need a story to tell him so he does not know my true purpose for randomly going downtown, but it should not be too hard to come up with a plausible enough reason. Charlie is not one to pry and he will probably take whatever I say at face value and suspect no ulterior motives.

I exit my basement and enter the kitchen to find that my housekeeper Nancy has already laid out a plate of food for me. I usually eat my dinner alone. I prefer solitude in the evening time. As I chew on my steak and potatoes, I try to push out the thought that this plan is a terrible idea and that it is more bother than it is worth.