Elizabeth's hand hesitated in midair, her fist stilling inches from the dark paneled door of Mr. Bennet's study. She felt her stomach tighten uncomfortably as she considered what awaited her in the room beyond. Although she knew exactly why he had called her, she did not feel equal to the interview. So much had already happened this day that when she had been summoned by the housemaid, she felt vaguely unsettled at the thought of having to gather her wits yet again to defend her reasoning – especially to someone as clever as her father.
Elizabeth had a deep fondness for his acerbic wit and love of mischief, but she would much rather be joining in his amusement rather than be the subject of it. She suspected that, far from voicing his objections to his daughter exchanging letters with a stranger, her father would much rather tease her about Mr. Darcy's peculiar request.
Although she had always loved him, Mr. Bennet was a source of great consternation to Elizabeth. She had learned wit at his knee, but she had long ago lost her belief in his wisdom. Mr. Bennet was not an unkind man. Indeed the worst that could truly be said of him was that he treated what he could not easily control with indolence and that, instead of choosing to apply himself to his problems, he much preferred to laugh at them. His general avoidance of the more uncomfortable aspects of his responsibilities had almost certainly led to the dysfunction of his household. When she was younger, Elizabeth could not find it in her to pass judgment on a parent who showed her such obvious favor, but with age came the knowledge that even this preference for her was a symptom of his detachment from the rest of his family.
With a sigh, Elizabeth straightened and at last brought her knuckles to rap softly on the door.
"Come in," came her father's pleasant tenor. As Elizabeth entered the room she found Mr. Bennet leaning back in his chair, peering at her behind steepled fingers. His eyes were twinkling brightly as though he had just ceased laughing – perhaps he had. The picture he presented was as familiar to Elizabeth as the scent that pervaded his refuge. She offered him a warm smile as she inhaled deeply the comforting scent of old paper, oiled leather, and something indefinable but pleasantly masculine.
"Ah! Elizabeth," he said, smiling. "Come and have a seat here by my desk. I have something interesting to show you."
Elizabeth crossed the room to his mahogany desk. Her father's writing desk was perhaps the finest piece of furniture at Longbourn and certainly the only one which he had taken any trouble over, aside from the matching chair he now sat in. She had mostly happy memories sitting here, but fewer with the passing years and maturation of her own understanding. She did not speak, waiting instead for him to lead the conversation.
"You have had quite the eventful day, my Lizzy," he said with an arch of his brow. "I am certain your mother would not despair of your country romps were she to know how you manage to hobnob with society while out enjoying the glories of nature."
"I hardly think encountering Mr. Darcy accidentally on my walk counts as 'hobnobbing', Papa."
"Indeed, I am quite surprised he would have deigned to speak with you. He has certainly made no effort to disguise his dissatisfaction with local society. Perhaps he has been from London so long, he begins to forget its superiority," he said, giving her a small wink. "It is oft said after all that hunger is the best seasoning – this must be his excuse."
Elizabeth prevented her small smile by catching her lip in her teeth and inclining her head just slightly.
"Though I must say, Mr. Darcy has been a very indifferent friend to you," he teased. "So indifferent, in fact, that I believe you had no notion he was a friend at all."
Mr. Bennet produced a letter from his pocket and slid it across the desk to her. "Perhaps you will forget some of your animosity towards the gentleman when you read his opinion of you."
Elizabeth took the letter gingerly, suddenly anxious and wishing she were not being closely regarded by her father.
Wednesday, 27th November, 1811
Mr. Bennet,
I am sure you are surprised to receive this missive, but please be assured that what I have to communicate to you will not cause you any alarm. I shall be forthright – I have asked a most delicate and peculiar favor of your second daughter, Miss Elizabeth. For the sake of propriety, I have written to you to disclose the whole of it so that you may be assured this favor will in no way be injurious to the reputation of Miss Bennet or her family.
I feel I must first explain how our paths happened to cross early this morning. Much like Miss Bennet, I often rise early to take the morning air. For myself, the solitude of a morning ride often helps me to marshall my thoughts before attending to my duties. I came across your daughter whilst I was considering how to approach some difficulty that has arisen with my younger sister, Georgiana. She has reached the delicate age of sixteen and has recently been beset by low spirits, which have not abated these many months. I have been unable to bring her out of her melancholy and have come to the realization that she is in need of something I myself cannot give her. She is a much beloved part of my family, but she has not been blessed with sisters and due to her own natural reserve has few close connections of her own age. I do not believe I am likely to marry for some years and because of this it would be nearly impossible for me to seek such company (even for the benefit of my sister) without the risk of raising false expectations.
It is my belief that she would benefit from a true confidant. I know of few ladies of an age and disposition to appeal to her as a peer who are also sensible enough to not encourage her in vapidness or vanity.
This is where Miss Bennet may be of help to her. I have met few ladies near Georgiana's age who are both lively and rational and certainly none with as much understanding as your daughter possesses. It was my coming upon her this morning that gave me the idea to forward a connection between them. Despite the difference in their social standing, I believe your daughter's lively and amiable character is such that her influence would only benefit my naturally demure sister. I have suggested to Miss Bennet that she consent to a correspondence with my sister.
The peculiar nature of this request is not lost on me, but be assured that my intentions are genuine. There is nothing I would not do to help my dear sister, including forwarding such an odd request to a man I know but little. Be assured I will keep both ladies' best interest in mind should you and your daughter decide that such an arrangement is agreeable.
If Miss Bennet agrees to the connection, I would be most grateful if she would send a letter of introduction to Georgiana with your response.
I have included my direction in Mayfair, as by the time you have received this, I shall likely be en route to that place.
Regards,
F. Darcy
Although lacking some of the more delicate details, the letter contained much of the same forthrightness of his address earlier that day. She was surprised again by his willingness to lay open this sensitive matter not only to her, but also to her father. She still could not say she liked the gentleman but she was forced to acknowledge a small amount of doubt about her own judgments. Indeed, her animosity had lost its vehemence since their conversation on Oakham Mount, and she was surprised to find it had also kindled no small amount of curiosity. Regardless of the complexity of her feelings towards Darcy, she knew that if she admitted her doubts her father would gleefully assume she had become enamored with the gentleman as soon as she knew of his good opinion. When she raised her eyes from the page it was to find Mr. Bennet leaned back in his chair watching her over his steepled fingers, a sly smile tugging at the corners of his lips.
"What think you, Lizzy?"
She gave a small shrug, "I believe he made allusions to his superiority less often in person but beyond that, the essentials are all the same."
"He knows nothing of your disregard for him, I suppose?" said Mr. Bennet tapping his index fingers together idly. "Or perhaps he does not understand that someone so beneath him would be capable of disliking him. Such a fine presumption of regard he has! He and my dear cousin have quite the monopoly on self-assuredness."
Elizabeth cast her father a sour look, "You are wrong, Papa. is surely a man without equal."
Her father let out a bark of laughter. "I see your wounds are still stinging! Ah well, I know you can never be out of sorts for long. I am sure you will soon learn to laugh at the experience. has been a most delightful discovery, and I believe he might well be the favorite man of all my acquaintance. Darcy is nothing to him, to be sure."
"His addresses were an insult to my reason," Elizabeth said with a look of disgust.
"I would expect nothing less from my dear cousin! My only regret is that I did not witness his speech for myself. When you have got over your peevishness, you must think to write down your account of it, for I should dearly like to hear how he expressed himself on the occasion."
Mr. Bennet continued to chuckle for a few moments before returning to the central point of the conversation.
"So tell me now, what do you intend to do with regards to Mr. Darcy's request? Are you of a mind to impale him on his own sword, or will you soften yourself for this supposed girl in need?"
Elizabeth was mildly irritated at his characterization of the matter, but her response was careful and measured,"If you consent to it, I shall write to her," she said, simply.
He waved his hand in an idle gesture of consent but said nothing.
At his expectant look she elaborated,"I enjoy making new acquaintances and I believe if I trouble myself, it is entirely possible that I could gain a charming new friend."
"This of course assumes she has not been cut from the same cloth as her brother." He cast her a mischievous smile, adding, "but if that be the case, I doubt you shall derive any less enjoyment from the association. She could prove to you as valuable a correspondent as has been to me."
Elizabeth desperately wished her father would have some true care for this young lady. His disregard for the feelings of others was vexing.
"That is as may be, but I confess I do feel some stirrings of real compassion for the girl – if indeed she suffers as her brother supposes. I cannot see how a falsehood would benefit him here, and so I must conclude he is in earnest. Georgiana Darcy may be a high-born lady of the Ton, but she is also an orphan – without friends – at a very trying age. It must be quite a lonely existence."
He sighed, his glee dimming slightly at her insistence on sincerity. "Lizzy, my dear," he leaned forward and rested his warm hand on hers, "although we give Jane credit for most of the tenderness in this family, I believe you possess every bit as much goodness as she. Your empathy is perhaps more selectively bestowed, but it is all the more valuable for it."
Elizabeth bowed her head even as her heart warmed at his words. However disillusioned she had become, she loved this man. He possessed within him a true understanding and a generous nature, however much he was loath to show it. He had so long hidden behind his mask of indifference that she wondered how much of it was necessitated by the pain of being unable to master the circumstances of his life.
"Well Lizzy, if you are decided on this course, I will give you the trouble of penning a response to his letter."
Elizabeth had expected this. Her father despised letter writing on the whole and frequently outsourced the arduous task to his older daughters, claiming half-heartedly that it was important for young ladies to practice the , he rarely asked his younger daughters to write anything of import for him.
Elizabeth was embarrassed that she should be made to reply to Mr. Darcy herself. She was certain the always correct Mr. Darcy would view it as impropriety. Though she knew he was under no illusions as to the dubious respectability of her family, she could not like this immediate reminder of it coming on the heels of his complement to her character. Despite her discomfort on this score, she did not argue. She knew that, were he to take the task on himself, the reply would certainly not be expeditious and would very likely be sent well outside of the polite timeframe for a response.
"Of course, Papa," she said. Wasting no time, she stood and moved to the writing desk by the window, resolving that the sooner she made her responses the sooner she could return to her solitude. Tucking her skirts behind her, Elizabeth took her seat and opened the escritoire to remove a sheaf of paper and her writing implements. She stared at the blank paper for a moment, realizing anew how ridiculous this day had been. She was surely in no state to write such a letter, and she wanted nothing more at this moment than to think of it no more.
Elizabeth straightened, exhaled slowly, put the nib of her quill to the paper, and began to write. She hardly knew what she said, her tired mind unable to think overmuch on restraint in her expressions. She knew not how long it took her, but as she was putting her signature on the last page her neck and hand cramped painfully.
She sat back to examine her efforts, pulling a face as she read. Even to her eye, it was full of the animated language she had been so certain Mr. Darcy despised. Yet had he not praised her lively manner just this morning? In any case, Elizabeth would not sit scratching out and rewriting a letter to Mr. Darcy in front of her father. He would find that sufficient reason to tease her for at least a fortnight. Satisfied she had done her best under the circumstances, she was grateful at least that her fatigue had not made her usually neat hand illegible.
When she brought the letter to her father, he held it back to read it, a glimmer of amusement in his eye the only indication of its reception.
"I will have Hill post it in the morning."
"Should you not add something to the letter, Papa? So Mr. Darcy knows I have your consent?" She was afraid to assume anything about what her father would trouble himself over.
"Yes, yes," he said, waving away her concern. "Now run along. I have some business to attend to this morning." He let out a heavy sigh, which told her it was not merely an excuse to dismiss her to read his books in peace.
Elizabeth dipped a curtsy with a murmured, "Yes, Papa." As she turned her steps towards the door, her father's voice stopped her,
"Oh, and Lizzy," he said as Elizabeth turned back to look at him, "please have a care to avoid your mamma today. I have grown quite weary of the energy with which she despairs of you."
"I'm sure there could be no one more obedient than I, Papa," she said with a rueful smile and quietly left his study.
Darcy collapsed heavily into his chair with a sigh, his fingertips automatically beginning to massage slow circles on his temples. This week had been trying to say the least. The business with Bingley sat poorly with him and was no doubt partly to blame for the ache in his head, which had not receded since leaving Hertfordshire. He had been unfortunately obliged to have words with his friend regarding his obvious preference for Jane Bennet. Still, he could not like being the one to explain how unlikely it was that the affections of his 'angel' were in earnest, given her precarious social situation. She was no doubt a good woman but, as the eldest, the duty of saving her family from the consequences of an entail rested squarely on her shoulders. The poor man had looked absolutely stricken, and the image of his crestfallen face was now burned into Darcy's mind. Bingley was so rarely unhappy, that when something like true sorrow crossed his countenance, it was all the more noticeable because it was so foreign to his character.
Darcy grimly recalled the uncomfortable feeling like guilt that burned his insides as he stood shoulder to shoulder with Caroline Bingley outlining the stark facts of Jane Bennet's circumstances. Collaboration with that woman left a bitter taste in his mouth but he consoled himself that his actions were for the good of his dear friend and must therefore be beyond reproach.
As he glanced around his polished desk he noticed a fresh stack of letters that had been placed squarely in the middle of the red-hued wood. With a resolute exhale, Darcy reached for the pile with the hope he might bury himself in his work for a while and avoid uncomfortable recollections. As he combed through the stack, a letter written in a distinctly feminine hand caught his attention. Drawing it out to examine it closer, he felt a sudden nervous tension vibrate through him as he realized who the author was likely to be. He sat bolt upright in his chair, fumbling to break the seal. As he unfolded the stiff paper, a second sealed letter fell into his lap. He picked it up and noticed it was written in the same feminine script but was instead addressed to Georgiana. Relief flooded him. He was certain this second missive was a sign of Miss Bennet's acquiescence. He set aside the still sealed letter and turned his attention back to the paper he held in his hand.
Thursday 28th November 1811
Mr. Darcy
My father has commissioned me to write the response to your entreaty. I have given your proposal some consideration and have decided that I shall accede to your request. Be assured I am not doing so out of any sense of charitable duty – much as I am moved by your sister's plight. I confess I am largely motivated by a great curiosity about the lady herself as I have heard much about her and am now eager to have some firsthand knowledge. As you may imagine, I have never had the opportunity to correspond with a complete stranger (nor am I likely to have such an opportunity again) and the notion is a rather thrilling one. I fear Hertfordshire can be a frightfully dull place in the winter, and a mysterious correspondence will save me from monotony. Furthermore, the idea of a friend who has no prior opinions of my acquaintance, save the ones I may provide, is wholly appealing to my vanity. I am sure I shall gain a champion of all my causes in your sister.
Only swear you will offer nothing on the subject of our mutual acquaintance so that I may have success in this venture.
Cordially yours,
Elizabeth Bennet
To this, Mr. Bennet had added a post-script:
I must compliment you on your discernment of character. Elizabeth is without doubt my favorite correspondent, and I hope she will succeed in charming the young Miss Darcy out of her doldrums. Always remember, Mr. Darcy, that should you require a force of numbers, I have four more daughters at your disposal.
Respectfully,
T. Bennet
Darcy sat back in his chair, with a small smile. He tried not to be too affected by this brief communication from Elizabeth. It was remarkable how such a short collection of words could conjure an entire person. Her style and manner was exactly as he had hoped it would be, and he felt that while reading her playful letter, it was nigh on impossible to feel glum.
He tucked the first missive safely in his coat pocket, knowing he should leave it with his other correspondence. However, the thought of her words lying there amongst the drudgery of business was entirely insupportable to him.
Darcy stood, intent on taking the other letter to Georgiana immediately. As he made his way to the music room, Darcy ran a thumb over the unbroken wax seal of this precious parcel from Hertfordshire. He reflected that, although he had never resented taking up duty at such a young age, it was at moments like this he wished to once again stand behind the shoulder of his father, to be free from the self-doubt that came with the burden of responsibility. He had not considered how he might explain himself and his actions to his sister. Would Georgiana resent him? Surely even resentment would be preferable to the emotionless mask she wore of late.
He knew beyond doubt that Elizabeth was sure to bring light into her dark world, but Georgiana may not yet welcome it. In his admittedly very limited experience with afflictions of the heart, he believed that restoration could only happen when it was wanted. And his deepest fear was that his beloved sister did not wish to be restored. He had tried time, distractions, comfort, and he had even spoken with a physician (and then promptly threw him out of the house when the man had suggested she be removed to an asylum for afflicted women). Nothing had worked. In the space of mere months, she had simply wilted before his eyes. The once bright, golden-haired child with such a sweet and playful nature was now a specter of herself. The bones of her cheeks stood out against her pale skin, her golden hair looked dull and flat, and, perhaps worst of all, was the expression of absence now perpetually on her face. It was all the more frightening to Darcy, because it was so eerily reminiscent of the one his father had worn in the years after the death of his mother. And to Darcy, it heralded doom.
As he knocked gently and pushed open the door, Darcy made a conscious effort not to adopt the air of someone visiting a sickroom. He schooled his features into a pleasant expression as he moved across the sun-bathed room. As he had expected, Georgiana sat on her piano stool, slender hands resting in her lap while she stared vaguely in the direction of the window. She turned her head as he approached and offered him a weak smile, which did not reach her eyes.
"Brother," she said.
Darcy inclined his head and offered her a warm smile,
"Have you been practicing this morning?" he asked hopefully.
"I had not yet decided what to play," she said. Darcy doubted she had actually intended to play at all. She rarely did these days, however often she came to sit in front of the graceful instrument. There had been barely a sound made in this room since their return from Ramsgate.
"I'm sure something will inspire you," he said, having no real faith it would. "Until it does, dear sister, I have brought something for you."
Her eyes slid back into focus to examine him more carefully, and, after a few moments, she noticed the letter he held out to her. She frowned at it uncomprehendingly.
"It is a letter," Darcy said, stating the obvious. She looked at him blankly for a few seconds before reaching out to take it from him. Darcy answered her question before she could ask it.
"It is from Miss Elizabeth Bennet," he said with a small smile. Georgiana's eyes widened as she looked up at him.
"Why would she write to me?" she asked in quiet astonishment.
"I know you have heard me speak of her in my letters. The more I knew of her, the more convinced I became that you, in particular, should like her very much. On the day I left Hertfordshire, I happened upon her while I was out for a morning ride. It then occurred to me that, as I have no intention to return to Hertfordshire and as Bingley may well choose not to renew his lease, you would likely never have the opportunity to make her acquaintance. So, I asked if she would like to correspond with you. The idea was agreeable to her and so she has now written to introduce herself to you."
Georgiana said nothing, merely looking at the folded paper she held in her hands. Darcy shifted uncomfortably for a moment, unsure of what else she had read into his explanation.
Wanting to say something more of the truth he added,"Dearest, I thought perhaps a friend of your own age would be agreeable to you. I know of no lady more sincere and kind than Miss Elizabeth. She is full of wit and humor and. . . I think she would suit you very well as a friend."
Georgiana hung her head in shame, recognizing at once her brother's true purpose.
"I am sorry for my ill humor, brother," she whispered to her knees. "I. . . I am trying. . . to. . . to. . ."
At this, Darcy knelt down before her, taking her small hands in his. Looking up into her downturned face his words came out in a rush.
"Georgiana, please do not think I expect you to feign a happiness you do not feel. I would not ask it of you. I am trying, too, although I know I can do little at present. Read the letter, sweet one. I know not how, but I think it may help."
She nodded mutely, and he squeezed her hands, holding them tightly a long moment before standing and walking to the settee, allowing Georgiana time to compose herself. Absently, he settled on it and reached for a book he had left on one of the cushions. As he pretended to read, his senses were keenly attuned to his sister, ready to step in at the first sign of distress.
After about a quarter of an hour in this attitude, he heard the snap of a wax seal being broken, and with the sound came a new surge of restless energy as he prayed silently that Elizabeth had written something magnificent. The room was silent save for the little tick tick of his watch in his pocket. The minutes crawled by until, suddenly, a small huff of air erupted from Georgiana, causing Darcy's gaze to snap up from his book just in time to catch her eyes above the letter as they briefly crinkled in amusement before slackening once more. The knot in Darcy's stomach loosened a little, and he raised his book to hide his slow smile, inwardly blessing the letter's remarkable author.
Not long after, Georgiana quietly excused herself to go in search of Mrs. Annesley, and Darcy was left alone with the book he had not read. He let out the long breath he had unconsciously held as he rose, intent on returning to his study and the business of his estate. When he was at the door, however, something on the cover of the pianoforte caught his eye.
There, lying open was the letter from Elizabeth Bennet. Darcy's heart began to pound in his chest as a wholly indecent urge crept into his head. Before he could allow his better judgment to protest, he had crossed the room in four quick strides and unfolded the paper. With a sudden thrill of pleasure saw her familiar, tidy, feminine hand which, for the moment, disguised the guilt lurking in the periphery.
Thursday 28th November 1811
Miss Darcy,
I will not be so disingenuous as to begin this letter by any of the standard asks after your health and family. I certainly wish them all the best, but I fear we do not yet have any basis for such established greetings. I also will not take the trouble of writing you a shallow litany about myself as a means of introduction. In any case, I fear I am not the best authority on the subject of my character. My excuse must be that I have not often set my mind to the contemplation of my own merits. I wonder what you will think when I confess I would much rather study another's character – at least in that I cannot be harmed by any unflattering observation! If you desire a true account of my person, I suspect you should have to apply to both My dear sister Jane and also my dear mama. One thinks so highly of me as to be bordering on the absurd, and the other who thinks I have never done right in my entire life. I am sure the truth must lie somewhere between these two reckonings.
Your brother tells me we would be well suited as friends, but to this I cannot speak. I will give Mr. Darcy some credit. I believe he may know far more of me than I know of him, for between us, I am sure I did the majority of the talking and he the majority of the listening. Indeed, I believe it is likely that in the course of our acquaintance in Hertfordshire I spoke five words to him for every one he said in return. I am sure you will not be surprised by this. You are his nearest relation and are certainly familiar with his tendency to glower out windows in silence (perhaps he is upset by glazing in general?). When we did converse, it was often either inconsequential parlor conversation or a frank debate. It must be admitted we rarely have had cause to agree.
I fear you will take this to mean that I am disagreeable and so I must pause here to tell you that, according to my father, I have a tendency to take contrary opinions for sport. Mr. Darcy and I may, in fact, agree more often than not – but he is not to know this. I cannot always abide perfect harmony, at least not for the sake of a conversation. How dull it would be to always agree on everything!
Perhaps it is vain curiosity but I find I am desperate to learn about you. I truly know very little of you, save that you are tall and play the pianoforte admirably. I will admit that you must be my superior in both of these respects for I am quite short and have assaulted the ears of many a helpless listener. I believe I must have the distinction of being the more accomplished walker. I know of no lady who enjoys nature more than I, or indeed spends more time rambling about the countryside – to my mother's eternal dismay.
In my opinion, the surest way to establish a relationship is to begin as though we have already begun and so I shall tell you something of my life of late.
Life at Longbourne is much as it always is, which is to say, it is full of all the trivial little happenings that add interest to a largely unvaried society. I have a deep affection for these people and this place however I may wish to see more of the world. My father dislikes the trouble of travel and so I must depend on the world to come to me in Hertfordshire. One such addition is my cousin who has lately come to visit us from Kent. He is a rector there whose patroness is your own aunt, Lady Catherine Debourgh.
He is an odd sort of creature who has the distinction of possessing great humility and also a great pride in it. He has been a vastly diverting character on the whole, but one who exhausts my reason daily. He is the heir to my father's estate – I am sure I shall tell you more about this later as the circumstance of my home being entailed away from the female line has become quite central to my life. It is my belief that has come to Hertfordshire with the idea that he might return to Kent with a bride, but so far, he has not made progress on these plans. It is not an unreasonable idea: coming to the estate he is to inherit to see if he may also acquire one of the five daughters born to it.
He may have done better for himself, had not society been already made interesting by the addition of Mr. Bingley's party at Netherfield and the militia who have come to camp for the winter in Meryton. As it stands, poor has had remarkably little notice (although he has been largely unaware of this fact). My only regret is that all these interlopers had not managed to arrange themselves so that they staggered their arrivals by a few months. I fear that once they have all gone away, there shall be nothing left of novelty to entertain us, and we shall have to go about telling each other all the same stories and having the same conversations we have all had a hundred times over.
I shall fare better than my sisters under this boredom as my greatest enjoyments are a very long walk and a very good book. I enjoy society, but I just as much enjoy solitude.
As I am sure your brother has mentioned, we lately attended a ball at Mr. Bingley's estate. Mr. Bingley is truly one of the most amiable men of acquaintance, and his ball did him credit. I will not bore you with talk of finery – save to say there was enough lace in the room to entirely cover Nelson's Column. Say not the ladies of Hertfordshire have no taste, for what they lack in elegance, they make up for in yardage. The very best thing that can be said of this ball is that there were enough gentleman to fill the cards of all the ladies in attendance. I even had occasion to dance with your brother, who I am told dislikes dancing in general. For my part, I have often observed that those who should eschew dancing delight in it, and those who should dance more, despise it. Why do you suppose that is? My poor feet have yet to recover from my cousin's heavy tread.
I shall end by asking you a question of very great importance – where is your favorite spot to hide away with a book? I shall reveal to you that mine will always be under the hanging bows of a particular willow that grows on the edge of the mill pond near Meryton. Perhaps it would have been better to ask you first if you enjoy reading. However, I abhor the thought of scratching out and rewriting any part of this missive so you shall have to answer as you see fit. Write as soon as you can. I am waiting anxiously to hear if you enjoy reading.
Your friend in Hertfordshire,
Elizabeth Bennet
Darcy carefully replaced the letter, his heart still pounding as vague but powerful emotions surged inside of him. As he read, she had appeared before him taunting him with a delicate arch of her brow. Her buoyant levity always the antidote to his gravity. For a few moments he remembered nothing of anything outside of that page, and the realization was oddly frightening to him. He turned abruptly, a sudden urge to be away overtaking him and as he closed the door to the music room, he told himself it was now time to close the door, flung wide in Hertfordshire, to Elizabeth Bennet. He resolved that, with some effort, she would very soon be nothing more than a bittersweet memory.
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