It was with a weary heart and fatigued countenance that I hoisted myself from the writing desk the next morning. It had been some time since I had last been compelled to churn out such a quantity of hieroglyphics – not since my residence at Oxford, in fact. The occasion might have coincided with my last all-nighter, as well. I experienced the same trepidation as I splashed perfunctory water on the drawn face before sauntering forth to my doom. This time, however, I was not aiming to please a crusty old professor complete with beard to be stroked and glared over at quivering students' essays. No, my audience was much more enigmatic in their expectations, with a face unreadable even to such a discerning eye as mine, despite the obvious lack of cover provided by beards.
Such heavy thoughts dogged my footsteps as I meandered over to the woods on the edge of Rosings Park. I rubbed my bleary eyes as I waited with my finished letter in hand, wishing as I did so that the intended recipient would come. Every minute of delay added two new doubts in my mind. I was fairly certain that the penmanship would satisfy even the most fastidious of gouty profs, and that I'd tolerably countered the claims of officiousness in Bingley's affairs. I just hoped I had been circumspect enough about Wickham in his business as well as Georgiana in hers. That was just why I disliked dredging up the past with those not in the know – dashed tricky to please everyone.
Most likely Jeeves would have advised patience, had he been present, and even included a line from one of the poets to lend credence to his counsel. I however, was far too tired to fish one up in his stead. I was on the brink of nodding off when I finally caught a glimpse of the girl in question. She looked reluctant to accept my missive, but not enough to outright refuse when I offered it with the utmost politeness. She disappeared immediately, holding my letter. That left me free to about face and march off to Rosings, where my bed and a cup of hot tea were calling my name with increasing insistence. I was more ready to heed them now that my task was finished. With the letter delivered to its reader, there was no use in recollecting any parts I had mangled or neglected. Well, there was little use in such a thing at all to begin with. We Darcys are pretty thorough in anything we set our minds to.
I stopped.
Of course I would remember now. Jeeves had told me specifically to explain my behaviour to herself as well as her elder sister – and I had meant to. I remembered including justification for my comments regarding her family's comportment in my final draft – or was that draft seventeen? I could no longer remember – but no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't recall ever explaining that I still respected her relatives despite their eccentric behaviour.
Maybe she'd forget those comments altogether. I certainly had until that moment. I forced myself to turn away rather than rush after her and demand to add an addendum. The only action left in the present circs was to wait and see.
Several weeks passed without a sight of each other's company, and it appeared that Miss Bennet did indeed forget my past offences. Unfortunately, for all intents she must have forgotten my existence along with them. I distracted myself as best I could – I removed myself as far as possible from charming country assemblies and pretty families with five unattached daughters. Naturally, I stopped at London.
There were a myriad of engagements to attend to – dinners with Bingley and his family, lunches with former schoolfellows at the Don, my club in town, and various social gatherings in the evenings. Many young ladies seemed anxious to attend to me during those times, no doubt discerning my heart to be disappointed in love – most females of a certain age possess this talent, apparently – but Miss Bingley knew of my solitary disposition and regularly dispelled them. Unfortunately, she must have been unable to sense that my desire to avoid feminine society extended to herself – again, many young ladies share this inherent failing as well, from my experience.
After repeated experiences of this nature, I took to fencing with a former master after early dinners in my rooms as an alternative. I had finally managed to rediscover a sort of rhythm to my existence, and renewed my passion for the sport. As a matter of fact, I was on the precipice of beating my record from my heyday at Oxford, vowing myself to conquer it once and for all, when I received a certain post by messenger from Jeeves, whom I had left in charge at Pemberley during my sojourn at the capitol. For better or worse, the contents drove all thoughts of fencing scores out of my head for months to come.