Yours (Romantic Pride and Prejudice Variations)

Prologue

The susurration of the leaves on the Spanish Chestnut trees that lined Pemberley’s front lawn was a delicate sound, as delicate as the breeze that stirred them.

The sky above was free of clouds, and the weather, while warm, was by no means uncomfortable.

It was a perfect summer’s day, made even pleasanter by the fact that Elizabeth’s companion was not only handsome but agreeable.

Mr Darcy had not offered her his arm, perhaps because he thought she would not accept it, but he remained close, so close that his arm occasionally brushed against her own.

Each time it happened, Elizabeth felt a flush of warmth seep through the sleeve of her gown, spread along her arm, and further soften her heart towards the gentleman she had once declared the last man in the world she could ever be prevailed upon to marry.

His voice was steady and rich as he regaled her with tales of Pemberley’s past. The trees they were presently strolling beneath had been planted under the direction of his great, great, great-grandfather shortly after he acquired the property.

They were large, mature trees, with lush, verdant canopies that offered a reprieve from a storm, or from the heat of the midday sun.

According to his father, his grandfather had proposed to his grandmother beneath the largest, finest one.

“Theirs,” Mr Darcy told her, “was not an arranged union of convenience, but a love match.”

Elizabeth had been surprised to hear it, as his relations—like most of those within his sphere—tended to view marriage as a means of improving one’s situation and standing in society.

Regardless of whether their personalities and opinions suited, it was their duty to marry and increase their wealth, strengthen their bloodlines, and forge useful connexions, all the while cementing their position within the hierarchy of the ton.

It made her think of her own grandparents, whose marriage had not been the result of attraction or common interests, but an arrangement forged between their fathers once they had become of age.

She said, “My father’s parents barely knew each other when they married, but my father assured me that love did eventually blossom between them, as did understanding, patience, and mutual respect. ”

They passed beneath a low-hanging bough, and Elizabeth plucked a leaf from one of its branches.

Twirling it between her fingers as she walked, she regarded him from beneath her lashes and quietly, almost sombrely, said, “Despite such an inauspicious beginning, my grandparents came to feel a deep and abiding affection for one another. Theirs may not have begun as a love story, but it evolved into one. It has brought me comfort. And…it has also given me cause to hope.”

He looked at her then with such an expression of longing that it nearly stole her breath.

The possibility that the love he had professed for her in April had not faded made it difficult for Elizabeth to think, never mind speak.

In the end, speaking was not required of her, for Mr Darcy said softly, but with a considerable wealth of feeling, “It was my parents’ expectation that I would marry some society lady or other, but I have always hoped to marry for love. And so I still do, someday.”

He ceased walking then, and murmured, “Miss Bennet.”

But whatever he wished to say to her remained unsaid as the moment was interrupted by Miss Bingley and Mrs Hurst, who called to them from the terrace as Mr Bingley waved at them and shouted, “Halloo!”

A deafening clap of thunder rumbled across the sky, and Elizabeth returned to the present with a start.

A light rain had begun to fall, dampening her pelisse and bonnet.

It had not been raining when she had first set out on her walk, and a brief moment of confusion followed before she comprehended that she was not in fact strolling through Pemberley’s grounds with Mr Darcy, but walking along the crest of the steep, sloping hill at Rosewell.

Had not the remembrance of a near perfect summer afternoon inspired such regret two years later, she would have laughed at herself for her inattention, but the ache within Elizabeth’s breast made it impossible to find even an ounce of humour in what she perceived to be the loss of the gentleman whose society she had come to value above all others.

Wiping wetness from her cheeks, she set off towards the house at a brisk pace, all the while chastising herself for indulging in memories that were better left in the past.

Dwelling on disappointments was not usually Elizabeth’s wont; she preferred to remember people and places and things as they afforded her pleasure rather than occasioned her pain.

But there were moments that struck her as ironic or disheartening or even mind-numbingly dull; moments that would prompt reminiscences of the people and places that had once brought her joy and contentment.

Although diverting, in certain cases such musings often led to melancholia, especially when she dwelt overmuch on Mr Darcy.

The end of what felt like a second chance with him was the tragedy of her heart, but the loss of her father, who had been killed when his carriage overturned on the London Road that same summer, had been the most devastating loss of Elizabeth’s life.

While she had been enjoying herself in Derbyshire, Mr Bennet had been racing towards town, desperate to discover the whereabouts of her youngest sister, who had eloped from Brighton with the most worthless man in the world.

When news of his death reached Longbourn, Mrs Bennet suffered a fit of hysteria that required a doctor’s care.

She had not been the same since. Losing her husband and her fifteen-year-old daughter within days of each other had permanently addled her mind.

Had Elizabeth been at Longbourn then, her presence would likely have provided her mother and sisters with comfort; instead, she was one-hundred-fifty miles away and in need of comforting herself after unexpectedly coming face to face with Mr Darcy.

Their entire acquaintance had been tumultuous, riddled with misunderstandings and prejudice, but come April, when they each happened to visit Kent, their misapprehensions culminated in a spectacular argument on the heels of an offensively worded proposal of marriage by the gentleman, and a vehement rejection from Elizabeth.

When she had met him that summer in Derbyshire, she had anticipated his scorn or worse: his indifference.

Instead, she was treated to a glimpse of the good-hearted man that he truly was and likely always had been.

The handful of days that followed were some of the most enjoyable of Elizabeth’s life.

Not only had she seen Mr Darcy in a very different light, but she had anticipated their every interaction with pleasure.

More surprising still, she had even dared to hope that he might still love her, despite all that occurred between them in the past.

Then Jane’s express arrived and all hope for a future with Mr Darcy was at an end.

Had he called at the inn as she and the Gardiners were preparing to leave, Elizabeth could have bid him a proper farewell, but the express had arrived at far too early an hour.

Her only recourse was to beg her uncle to leave a note with the innkeeper with their apologies.

Once Mr Darcy learnt of her family’s disgrace, Elizabeth was certain that his abhorrence and disgust would drive away any tender feelings he had for her. They would likely never meet again.

The journey from Lambton to Hertfordshire should have taken them three days, but Mr Gardiner’s coachman was able to reach Longbourn in two.

When Elizabeth burst through the front door of her childhood home, she had not known about her father’s death; Jane had only mentioned Lydia’s elopement.

She had expected to enter a house in chaos; instead, Longbourn was in mourning.

Gowns and gloves had already been dyed black, crepe had been sewn to bonnets, and the servants had donned black armbands and ribbons in deference to their master.

There was no gaiety. No laughter. Every word of every conversation was whispered.

Without her father’s droll observations at the supper table, and the unbridled exuberance of her mother and Lydia, Longbourn felt empty.

Mr Bennet’s cousin, The Reverend William Collins, had arrived the following week.

His stated purpose was to condole with the family, but his actual purpose was revealed when his beady little eyes began to take inventory of all within his purview.

As Mr Bennet’s heir, he was entitled to all of it.

As a man of God, he should not have given the silver service, or the china closet, or their father’s gold cufflinks a single thought on such a sombre occasion.

His first and only object should have been to provide solace and empathy to his grieving cousins, and to offer his assistance.

He did not.

To add insult to injury, Mrs Collins was instructed to remain in Kent for weeks while her husband established his authority over Longbourn’s inhabitants.

For Elizabeth, Charlotte’s capitulation to such a demand was as sobering as it was disappointing.

She had been her friend since childhood—a dear friend who had married Mr Collins after Elizabeth had refused him the previous autumn.

Her absence at such a time, during such a heart-wrenching tragedy, had felt like a betrayal.