Darcy stirred to the warm, orange glow of the sunrise, earlier than usual. The light streaming through the sheer curtains made him squint in pain, and he muttered an angry curse at his aunt for not having the sense to put up thicker curtains, as well as for placing him in a room with windows that faced east. Darcy firmly believed that any room that had windows facing east should be furnished with the most substantial curtains available, especially if the room was going to be used to host guests.

He was unable to return to sleep, so he lay in bed, reluctantly resigning himself to being awake. Eventually, he motivated himself to get up and call for his valet, Witting, to attend him. When his servant arrived, Darcy was met with a too-perky demeanour and the smell of fresh-brewed coffee.

"Is it not a lovely morning, sir? I see you could not lie abed much longer than I was. Too fine a day to waste sleeping, eh?" said Witting.

"Indeed." Darcy did not at all agree with his valet, but he liked the fellow a great deal. He had been his valet for a long time, and a sort of friendship had developed between them. Thus, he bore with the cheerful man's chatter while he helped him to dress.

After he was dressed and Mr. Witting left him, Darcy realised he had forgotten to put the letter to Bingley on the salver to be sent out. He was still apprehensive about what his friend's response would be and debated casting the letter into the fire. He could not, though. He knew that his failure to make Bingley aware of Miss Bennet's presence in London had been a mistake. It had eaten at him for months.

Then Darcy's eyes fell on the drawer that held his mother's letters. The musty smell of aged paper filled the room as he opened the drawer, extracted the letters, and spread them across the desk. Twelve more birthday letters, one for before the funeral, one for when he was ill, one for when he was sad, one for his engagement, one for his wedding, and one for when he made a mistake.

He knew he should read it but did not want to fall apart so early in the day. After a moment, he decided he might as well, for he had many letters to read and now was as fitting as ever.

My dear Fitzwilliam,

I would like to tell you about the worst mistake that I have ever made. I write this to you so you will know that whatever you have done, it likely is not so bad as what I did. I still regret that day and think of it often.

It occurred just after my third season. I had, by then, thought that I was unlikely to find an eligible gentleman that I could love and respect. Too many of my suitors only wished for my connexions, my dowry, or my beauty. Despite their words, I could tell that they did not have a sincere admiration for me.

Then, during a house party, I met a wealthy tradesman. I will call him Mr. David for the purpose of this letter. Mr. David was charming, good looking, and did not pursue me. He was one of the few men at the house party who did not, which made him all the more interesting to me.

I must stop here momentarily to tell you that the mistake was not that his rank was not equal to mine. Although I love your father, I believe I could have been happy with Mr. David, had things turned out differently and if I had not been so proud and foolish.

Anyhow, I eventually learned that he did not pursue me because he knew that my father would not approve and, therefore, saw no point. By the time this conversation came about, we had known each other several months and I was completely smitten with him. I pushed him to confess his love for me, and we entered a secret betrothal. I was not yet one-and-twenty, so we needed to wait a while longer before I could marry without my father's permission.

One day, he and I got into an argument about something minor, and I threw in his face that I outranked him and essentially said that I was better than him and that I could marry a duke if I wished. I said much more, but I dare not repeat it here. He became angry and stormed off. It was raining quite hard that day, but he did not care. He could not bear to look at me at that moment.

The next day, I sent a note to his house, apologising and asking him to meet me in our usual spot. I received a note back from his sister, one of the few people who knew about our understanding. She told me that he had been killed in a carriage accident the night before. He had been going far too fast for the wet roads and his carriage went off into the ditch, killing both him and the horses.

I mourned him a great deal and eventually had to confess all to my father, for I could not be made to go out to rotes and parties when I was so miserable. Although he assured me that I did not kill Mr. David, that it had been an accident and he should not have been driving so fast on wet roads, I could not help but feel guilty.

The next year, I told my father to arrange a marriage for me. He would not, at least not entirely. He introduced me to several acceptable suitors, one of which was your father. I liked your father well enough, although I did not love him when I agreed to marry him. We were friends and had interests in common, so I accepted him.

Whatever mistake you have made, I hope it is not so bad as mine. Many times, I wished that I could go back and repeat that day, so he would not be dead. If you have a chance to fix whatever mistake you have made, even if it is discomforting to do so, you should do it.

If your mistake is not one that can be made better, then I beg you to forgive yourself. It took a long time for me to forgive myself. I had to realise that although the incident might have been partly my fault, it was not entirely. Mr. David made choices as well that led to that outcome. We are all imperfect and we cannot always see the results of our actions. So long as we do not act to purposefully try to hurt others, we must allow that mistakes, even terrible ones that cannot be made better, can occur.

I was afraid for a long time to allow myself to love again, even after I was married to your father. I know that hurt him as well, for although I had told him of Mr. David, it was not easy to have a wife still pining for another man — even a dead man. I had to let go of all my fear and guilt before I could allow myself to love your father.

This letter has been long and rambling, but I know you are a good person and shall fix your mistake if you can. Be honest. Be kind. Cherish those who you love without regard to station. Forgive yourself. I love you, my dear boy, no matter what mistakes you have made.

Love,

Mamma

Darcy was astonished. The letter was nothing like what he had expected. He had known nothing about 'Mr. David', but he supposed that his mother would hardly have mentioned her first love to her twelve-year-old son. He was aware that his grandfather had been the one to introduce his mother and father and that they were already friends when they became betrothed, but not yet in love. He had heard that story countless times. He anticipated he would find someone suitable, and that love could blossom eventually. For his mother to have had a previous engagement with a tradesman, well, that was beyond anything he might have imagined.

He felt for his mother, for he could not imagine being even partly responsible for the death of someone he cared for. His mind immediately went to Miss Elizabeth, and he shuddered at the thought. Quickly, he put that image out of his mind, for it was too much to bear.

He returned the letters to the drawer, slipped the letter for Bingley into his pocket, and drank the last of his coffee. It was hardly the thing to steady his nerves, but he was aware that he would have a headache from lack of sleep later if he did not finish it. He went the long way out to the garden, again going through the area under renovation to avoid his aunt. He could not face anyone now. He suspected that during the next week or so as he read his letters, he would be often walking around the gardens and park.

As he came round the side of the house, he spotted Mr. Witting readying a cart to go to the village. Darcy had asked him to fetch a few items from the shops shortly after their arrival and this was the first chance that Witting had to do so. Darcy waved him down and handed him the letter to post while he ran the other errands. With that, Darcy turned down a path towards the stream that ran along Rosings' south border.