I am so happy that you all like this story so much. It is kind of a difficult one to write, because I am a mother myself. I essentially have to put myself in Lady Anne's shoes and write as if I were writing to my own son, but with obvious differences.
Elizabeth slowed her strides as she rounded the corner in the path, certain that she was no longer visible to Mr. Darcy. She ventured a little further until the sound of the nearby stream bubbling over rocks reached her ears. She loved to visit the stream on her walks, feeling the sun on her skin and the grass beneath her feet. Today, it was a reassuring sight, especially considering her world had just been tilted on its axis.
She had been given permission to wander the park at her leisure, so she went out that day, intending to be delighted by the spring flowers. The gardens were the only part of the estate that Mr. Collins had not exaggerated. They truly were as lovely as all he had described when he visited Hertfordshire. She hoped she might visit during the summer when the gardens would be in full bloom, as they were already magnificent in spring.
She was astonished when her walk was unexpectedly interrupted by the sound of someone sobbing. Lady Catherine was known to be exacting and vocal when displeased, so Elizabeth had assumed it was likely a servant had been strongly reprimanded for some slight offense. Even though she was hesitant to approach, lest someone be embarrassed by another witnessing their tears, she felt she had to ensure that no one had been injured.
Therefore, she traced the sound to its origin near a few lilac bushes. When she rounded the corner, she couldn't believe her eyes. Mr. Darcy, his face wet with tears, was seated on the bench, his hands trembling as he read a letter. He uttered a curse and then begged her pardon, placing the letter in his pocket, standing up and bowing.
She did not know what to do. He looked truly miserable. She knew not who the letter was from or what it contained. Mr. Collins had said nothing of a family member to Lady Catherine dying, which she was certain he would have if such a thing had occurred. Thus, her immediate thought was that it might be a letter from a lover, perhaps one that was ending a courtship or secret betrothal. She was quite certain that Mr. Darcy would neither wish for her to witness his distress nor to confide in her. Thus, she turned and ran down the path.
She pondered if she should have remained or offered to get his valet or one of his cousins for him. She remembered that he had a sister, and the thought crossed her mind that the letter may have been from her. It might also have been from a friend. What if something had happened to Mr. Bingley or one of that gentleman's sisters? She might not like Mr. Darcy and think him rather proud and disdainful, but that did not mean he did not deserve someone to unburden himself to if he wished it.
She sighed to herself. It would be very awkward to go back to him now after her abrupt departure. No, she could not. She silently hoped he had sought some peace, and would not mention the incident unless he chose to do so.
Darcy stood motionless, watching as Elizabeth's figure disappeared into the distance. He was embarrassed for her, especially her, to have seen him in such a state of distress. He was certain of her kindness, and he knew she would never speak a word of what she had witnessed. Yet, with Elizabeth being the compassionate person she was, he was concerned that her caring nature would lead to her fretting too much if she was unaware of what was bothering him. Darcy pondered his next move, settling back onto the bench for a few more minutes as he tried to decide whether to tell her of the letters.
He soon became restless, as he often did when he was sitting for too long. He set out down the path, being much calmer now, and determined to continue with his plan of walking in the gardens. He always found solace in nature, and while the interior of Rosings was far from peaceful, the gardens were tranquil and gorgeous. The year had been exceptionally warm and flowers were in bloom in many parts of the garden. His mother's favourite flower, the hyacinth, was blooming in full force. It was one of the few flowers yet out. The flowerbeds were mostly filled with small, tightly packed buds, just beginning to show.
He decided to make sure his sister got her package of letters as soon as possible, so he hastened to the stables and had one of the boys summon an express rider to take the package to Matlock. This took only a half hour, but now Darcy was entirely calm. He entered Rosings through the far entrance, careful to avoid the construction taking place, so he wouldn't need to be confronted by his aunt. He didn't know for certain if she was responsible for the letters being hidden, but his intuition said she might have been. If there was anything in these letters that she was uncomfortable with, she likely thought it was a service to her niece and nephew to keep them hidden. He hoped she had not, as then he would have to rethink if he would continue to allow her in his and his sister's life. To hide his mother's last gift was unforgivable.
Darcy took dinner in his rooms that evening, which undoubtedly displeased his aunt. He found he did not care. He had letters to read. He skipped the letter for the day of the funeral, as that one would likely devastate him as the one for just after her passing had. Instead, he decided to read the letter intended for his thirteenth birthday.
Mr. Darcy remembered the feeling of utter despair on his thirteenth birthday. It was only a few months after his mother died. His father had obviously forgotten all about it, as Mrs. Reynolds had needed to announce it quite loudly that morning in order for him to obtain his father's good wishes for the next year. A footman had been shortly dispatched to Kympton to obtain a present for him. That day, he was given a very fine fob watch, and he had kept it always with him as a reminder of his father. They had cake with dinner, but as there was not much else they could do because of their mourning, it was not much else that marked the occasion.
He broke the seal of the missive, took a deep breath, and began to read silently to himself.
My Dear William,
I hope you have a wonderful birthday and that your father or Mrs. Reynolds have planned something very enjoyable for you. Despite the restrictions placed upon you due to mourning protocol, I encourage you to forget about them, at least for the day.
I once learned that in some cultures, boys become men at age thirteen. That never struck me as odd until recently, when you, my dear child, began to near that age. You show an impressive level of maturity for someone your age, but forgive me for still thinking of you very much as a child. I want to make sure that you don't feel you have to take on a parental role with Georgiana or more responsibilities because I am gone. Let Mrs. Reynolds take on many of the things I have done.
I anticipate that you will be going to Eton soon, and I hope you shall enjoy it and make many friends. It shall be good for you to come to know more people and expand your circle of friends beyond the children in Lambton and George Wickham. Your father will have better advice about Eton than I will, as I have only ever studied in Dame schools and at home with the governess. I know it shall be very different from the Quincys' school, though, and that you are very like me in your manner. I can only relate the experience to my first London Season, for which all of my mother's efforts to train and prepare me were not enough. Still, you are a good and friendly boy when you wish to be, so I trust you shall make at least a few friends.
Regarding George Wickham, I have observed that he has been engaging in more dangerous behaviour than I am comfortable with, especially due to his close relationship with you. I have had many conversations with his mother about it, but she does not think there is anything out of the ordinary for a young boy's behaviour. I am uncertain of what advice to give you, but I urge you to not be involved in any wrongdoings if he continues to become more reckless.
I love you so very much, my dear boy. Listen to your father and Mrs. Reynolds. Study hard and obey your teachers. Have some enjoyment, but don't become wild. Oh, and since I am not there to have cake, you can have an extra piece for me.
Love,
Mamma
As he had done with the previous letter, Darcy read the missive again, taking in each word and imagining his mother writing it. Or had she needed someone to write them for her? He recalled that she had been very feeble in the last weeks of her life.
If only he had received this letter at thirteen, perhaps he wouldn't have allowed himself to grow so close to Wickham. The pain of his former friend's betrayal was acute. It had been bad enough when George had rejected him during university, when he refused to join him and his friends in their wild nightlife. The pain Wickham inflicted on Georgiana was immeasurable when he planned to run away with her, leaving her with a broken heart when Darcy had told him there was no chance of him ever receiving her dowry.
The unfamiliarity of his surroundings did not distract Darcy from his grief during his first year of Eton. He had not been teased as much as some of the other new boys; his height and his family name had protected him from the worst of the teasing. Still, he had been dreadfully lonely. If it had not been for Richard and later, Richard's younger brother, Henry, Darcy would have been entirely miserable. It was not until Darcy's fourth year at Eton that he ad begun to make friends who did not just wish to befriend his name and wealth, namely Charles Bingley and some of his set.
Thinking of Bingley distracted him for a while, as he wondered if his mother would have approved of his handling of Bingley that autumn and his disguising Miss Bennet's presence in London from him. Somehow, looking back, he began to believe that his mother would disapprove. Miss Bennet might not be suitable and did not appear to have any affection for his friend, but his mother had always stressed the importance of honesty.
"No legacy is so rich as honesty," his mother often said. It was from the Bard, and his mother said it whenever Darcy had lied as a child. She had instilled in him that their family legacy was of the utmost importance, and that preserving the family's honour and good name was paramount. While others sought prestige, Lady Anne sought to have her family known for their integrity and morality.
Sighing, Darcy knew what he ought to do. It was if his mother was speaking to him now, telling him that he ought to write to Mr. Bingley and reveal all. He carefully mended the pen that lay on the writing desk, judging the softness of the nib beneath his fingertips. It is possible he spent far too much time on this task, apprehensive about the correspondence he needed to send and his friend's response, but eventually he was satisfied with his work. He found a sheet of letter paper and began to write.
