Darcy's Dark Summer

Prologue

April, 1812

Elizabeth Bennet stood at the gate to Rosings Park, where a minute earlier Fitzwilliam Darcy had handed over a letter. His look of haughty composure was fresh in her memory. Will you do me the honour … The hint of a bow, and he had gone.

So much for her hopes of a pleasant stroll that would raise her spirits after his insulting proposal …

She had slept little, and awoken determined to put aside recollections of that awful encounter. Her plan had worked at first. The air was fresh, the sun warm, and staying outside Rosings Park she had hoped to avoid further meetings. But by ill luck Darcy had spotted her at the gate, and now the accursed letter lay in her reticule.

If only she had had the presence of mind to ignore his outstretched hand! But in her confusion, instinct had pre-empted deliberation and she had taken the envelope.

But not opened it. Yet.

She walked a little further along the lane, saw a bench, and sat. A cart rattled past and the driver nodded politely. There was no-one else in view. As if guided by an external force her fingers probed for the envelope, which held two sheets densely written. Its composition must have taken hours. What could occasion such an effort? It would do no harm to read a few lines …

She winced at the pompous opening. His words had to be written and read. He demanded it of her justice. Jane’s dreams of marrying Bingley were a minor matter, an affection that could be the growth of only a few weeks. Impatiently she raced through a lengthy justification of his actions. The objections to her family. His remonstrations with Bingley. The claim that Jane had received Bingley’s attentions with pleasure but no participation of sentiment. Worst of all, Darcy’s connivance with Caroline Bingley to conceal Jane’s presence in London over the winter. And all in a tone that suggested he was proud of his actions, which had proceeded from the noblest of motives.

It was not to be borne. Elizabeth returned the letter to her reticule, unsure she wished to read further, and walked slowly back to the parsonage.

‘Lizzy, where have you been?’ Charlotte Collins ran into the hall. ‘The gentlemen came a quarter-hour ago, wishing to take leave before riding to London.’

Elizabeth flinched. ‘Gentlemen?’

‘Mr Darcy left but the colonel is waiting in the parlour.’

Elizabeth sighed with relief: at least there would be no embarrassing confrontation. She smoothed her hair and went directly to the parlour where Colonel Fitzwilliam was seated at the fireside.

‘Miss Bennet!’ He rose, all affability, as she stuttered an apology. ‘I was on the point of walking after you so that I could say farewell.’

‘This is rather—sudden,’ Elizabeth said.

‘You know Darcy. Once he gets an idea into his head he carries all before him.’ He met her eye. ‘I wanted, before leaving, to check whether there was any matter on which you wished, ah, to consult me.’

She frowned. ‘Why would that be?’

‘Darcy suggested …’ The colonel broke off. ‘No special reason. I wanted to say what a pleasure it has been to have your company these last weeks. And express my hopes that our paths will cross in the future.’

‘Sentiments I reciprocate heartily.’

‘Then I will be on my way.’ He bowed. ‘Sad to be deprived of your company but glad have fulfilled my mission. Au revoir, Miss Bennet, and my best wishes.’

As Elizabeth accompanied the colonel to the door, she pondered his wording. Taking one’s leave was courteous, when possible. But a mission? She returned to the parlour, confused, and intensely aware of the envelope in her reticule. Alone again, should she take advantage of her privacy in order to finish reading the letter?

She hesitated, in two minds. On the one hand, she was curious to discover by what artifice Darcy would justify his behaviour towards Wickham. On the other, she was distressed already: why punish herself further to no advantage? She recalled an accident in Meryton High Street, when a boy had been run over by a carriage. Everyone had run to the scene, a few to help, but most out of curiosity. Like her sisters she had joined the crowd—and later wished she had not.

She stood at the fireside, holding the envelope. Darcy had left Rosings. She would probably never see him again, nor did she wish to. She wanted only to remove him from her life forever.

As her hand extended towards the flames, she wavered. Perhaps it would better to read the rest?

She recalled Darcy’s expression that morning, so proud, so sure of himself, and with a grimace of disgust released the envelope. For a moment it lay perched on a glowing log; then a black edge formed, smoke billowed, and flames consumed the contents, destroying Darcy’s hateful words forever.