Pride and Prejudice and its characters belong to Jane Austen. This would not be possible without her. You all know that, of course, but it bears repeating.
Pemberly's Shades
By: M. Handy
Fitzwilliam Darcy stalked the darkened halls of Pemberly house, scarcely conscious of the hour. He should have been in London days ago, but how could he make a decent showing among his acquaintances when emotions boiled so strongly upon the surface of his mind. The servants were all abed, and so much the better. Any who saw him would not have known Darcy for their genteel master. But even if the morning stood in full bloom, he doubted he could have silenced his feelings.
Muted rays of moonlight filtered in at the corridor's end, providing enough light to walk by, albeit barely. They would not leave him alone. His memories would not release him, and instead of fading with time, the pain of his last encounters with Elizab- with Miss Bennet grew more intense by the day. Her humiliating rebuff of his proposal paled when compared to her mortifying survey of his character, views, and heart. Yes, even his heart, which for many months had burned for her with passion he dared class as nothing other than forbidden and now could scarcely credit as reasonable.
On a day at Netherfield, now an eternity distant, he had sat across from her in the Great Room reading a book alone in her presence. "Pretending to read" might be more accurate, for in truth he remembered little of the volume and discerned only a jumble of words even at the time. Hiding behind his book, he had tried to convince himself that her sparkling eyes were only a fascination, and her lively mind would only lead to uncomfortable imprudence. Yet the nape of his neck tingled not unpleasantly whenever she turned either upon him.
Every time he saw her, he felt his defenses weakened. To marry her was impossible. To be in her presence drove him to distraction, but so long as both of them remained in Hertfordshire, he could never cease to search her out, or watch her unawares in the reflection of a darkened windowpane. It came as a relief, therefore, when Charles quitted Netherfield. Caroline fairly jumped at his suggestion that they follow him, and within hours, temptation lay far behind.
Then came Kent, and Elizabeth Bennet entered his life again. What possessed him to visit her so immediately? That very day his last reservations shattered, not due to the girl herself, but the insinuations of his aunt. Every time he visited her, indeed, every time they met one another, she pressed him to formalize his engagement with her daughter. Anne was a fine girl, but he could never love her. Neither of them openly rebelled against the decree, but even Anne knew the match between them could never lead to the ultimate happiness of either. That day, when his aunt brought it before him again, the image of presenting her with another fiancé danced before his eyes. The fact that he could propose right under the nose of his relations added relish to his conviction. It was a mad plan, but he felt equal to it.
Had he ill-used Miss Eliza in this? Probably. He had thought she wanted his attentions. Or at least his love of her told him she would invite them. How wrong could one man be?
"You are mistaken if you suppose that the mode of your declaration affected me in any other way, than as it spared the concern I might have felt in refusing you, had you behaved in a more gentlemanlike manner."
How those words tormented him. They would not fade. He heard them in his dreams. They accompanied him at meals, during carriage rides, and whenever he went on horseback.
Finally, Darcy entered his own bedchamber only to continue his previous employment. He walked thoughtfully from the hearth to the window, from the window to the hearth, hardly knowing he received warmth from one, or discerning objects through the other. Eventually a sight of the full moon arrested his attention.
He stared at it for some time, his mind's fancy arranging the shadows on its face into a young woman, a man's countenance, and then a couple in the flame of a passionate embrace. His eyes widened at the sight, and he averted his eyes, shaking the vision from his head.
Elizabeth thought him a knave. She thought him unprincipled. Darcy blamed Wickham's seducing tongue for that... no. If he prided himself on truthfulness, he could not charge it all to Wickham's account, for her words censored him for more than the supposed mistreatment of a former comrade. And that made it all the worse.
Darcy sighed, pulling away from the window. Horseback riding... let the memories follow him if they dared.
Turning, Darcy snatched up his hunting jacket from a nearby desk. He slipped it on over his blue coat and left the room with more determination than he felt for weeks. Soon the manor house lay in his wake. The stable loomed before him. The restive snorts of his many mounts greeted the young man's ears.
Darcy saddled his favorite stallion, realizing that he had not done so himself in years. Enjoying the feel of the leather in his hands, he tightened each buckle and strap carefully, stroking and caressing the horse from time to time to keep him quiet. That deed done, and digging one boot into the stirrup, he swung his other leg over the animal's back.
Moments later, moonlight streaming all around him, he cantered forth into the crisp gloom of mid-Spring. Pemberly receded rapidly, and the estate's great woods loomed close, darker than blackest night. He guided his mount toward them. As timber enclosed like a garment, anonymous shadow cloaked him from the prying eyes of any and all. Darcy smiled tightly, urging the stallion onward at a greater pace.
He knew these paths like old friends, and in the confidence of certainty, spurred his horse into a gallop. Wind whipped through his ebony locks, and the horse's mane became a streaming banner behind its graceful neck. At that moment, nothing else mattered. Wickham could vilify him to his heart's content, and Aunt Catherine, her impertinent propriety, money and claims could go to the Devil for all he cared. Georgiana was safe enough for the moment, and Elizabeth… Miss Bennet had taken herself out of the equation by her pointed refusal.
He brushed it aside, glorying in the freedom of the night. But then the realization hit him, sudden consternation overspreading his features. He had never been free; duty, honor and family guaranteed that. He was not free now, and if freedom meant the absence of Elizabeth Bennet, he did not even wish to be so. He was not free... he was merely running away.
Darcy reined his horse in and the beast came to a gradual halt. He had been running for a long time. Gazing again, through a rift in the canopy, at the couple kissing on the moon's face, he realized it was time to reevaluate his life.