Alone (Pride and Prejudice)

Part 1

Hyde Park was empty at that early hour—frozen, covered in frost, and shadowed by a mist that barely allowed one to see even a few feet ahead.

The entire scene looked desolate, but strangely, Darcy felt comfortable.

More so than in the midst of the many parties he had endured in the last two months since leaving Hertfordshire.

Christmas time had dragged on for too long, brought to an end by the various festivities of Twelfth Night; the whole of London had been in high spirits, wandering from parties to balls and excursions and more parties, but all the joy had been irksome and demanding for Darcy.

He was grateful that, after mid-January, the pace had calmed somewhat.

He wished for nothing but to rest, as he was exhausted.

Not so much from London’s agitation and bustle, but from the tumult in his heart and head, which never quieted, just as Elizabeth Bennet’s image had never faded from his mind—or his heart—even after two months of separation.

By the time the parties and balls of Christmastide had begun, he had been back from Hertfordshire for nearly a month.

He sent his regrets, or dismissed without even answering, as many of the invitations that piled up on his desk as he dared.

He accepted a few out of duty or foresight, thinking of Georgiana and her coming out.

Although it would not be soon, London society could have a long memory; it would not do to diminish her prospects by his slights.

He knew he should feel ashamed of himself as it was ungentlemanlike and beneath himself to do so, but his selection took into consideration which hosts would not extend the invitation to the Bingleys, even if they were to accompany him.

He had had more than enough of Miss Bingley’s company, and it would not do to give her the opportunity to claim a more intimate acquaintance with him in London, as he had been forced to endure in Hertfordshire.

He had enjoyed much more the quiet Christmas Day at home with Georgiana than any of the mandatory appearances he had been required to make from Boxing Day until Twelfth Night.

They had attended services in a less fashionable church in their neighbourhood before returning to their peaceful household.

Darcy had given most of the servants the day off to spend with their own families.

The night before, on Christmas Eve, he had surprised Georgiana by lighting a yule log brought from Pemberley.

Not many in the city would have one, and instead they would content themselves by lighting a candle expected to burn until the next day when they came home from church.

Their log would burn joyfully in the library for all the twelve days.

They had spent the evening as they had in years past, with him telling Georgiana tales from happier times of Pemberley Christmases with a playful Lady Anne and a smiling George Darcy Georgiana did not remember.

They both had ended that night by saving a few thoughts for their departed parents.

It was by far the best evening of the season.

The morning after each event he attended, Georgiana would be waiting for him at the breakfast table and, more animated than usual, anticipating his report.

He was hard pressed to remember how the halls had been decorated, whether the greenery had been brought inside the house, braving superstitions, or not, whether they had dared to put up kissing boughs or any other trivial detail that Georgiana timidly asked about.

He tried to be patient and answer her, but it was obvious to him that she found him lacking both in patience and observation.

And yet, if she had known what to ask and he had dared to answer, he could have told her that none of the ladies present at those balls and parties had eyes finer, or hair arranged more elegantly, or a figure more pleasing, or a cream evening gown more becoming, despite not being made in the most fashionable style or in the richest silk, or a brow arching more beguilingly, or a presence more infuriating than the obstinate, wilful lady who occupied his thoughts every day and even invaded his dreams every night. Alas…

“You are more thoughtful than usual, Brother. Does Aunt’s invitation displease you?”

“What?” Darcy asked abruptly, almost dropping his glass.

“Oh, please forgive me, dearest, I did not mean to bark at you like that. I was just preoccupied and did not hear you properly. We shall do whatever you please. I have no fixed engagements, nor desire to attend any particular events. If you wish to accept the invitation, we shall.”

“What would please me would be to see you less thoughtful and in better spirits, Brother. I have no desire for any particular event, either, not even with our uncle and cousins.”

“It is settled then—we shall go,” he concluded, avoiding a dispute. “Have you received word from Anne?”

“Yes, I just received her weekly letter. No significant news, except for the fact that Lady Catherine’s clergyman, a Mr Collins, recently married a young lady from Meryton.”

Darcy’s heart jumped, lodging in his throat, and a tremor made his fingers unsteady on his glass.

“I was unsure why Anne would even mention it, but I believe she noticed the coincidence. You spent some time in Meryton with Mr Bingley, the same small town where Mr Collins found his wife.” Georgiana smiled, but whilst he had noted her attempt at a joke, he could not enjoy it.

Whom was that ridiculous clergyman married to?

Darcy remembered the silly man dancing the first set with Elizabeth at the Netherfield ball and her mortified expression when he kept missing the steps.

With a new shard in his heart, another recollection crossed his mind: Mrs Bennet mentioning something about the clergyman favouring Elizabeth.

No, that was not possible! Could it be? Such an aberration!

But in the end, why not? The Bennets’ precarious situation in life, with their lack of connections and their estate entailed, threatened their future like a dark cloud.

Compared to the notion of losing everything after their father’s death, marrying Mr Collins might appear a reasonable solution.

A solution which might save the Bennets but would certainly haunt him to the end of his life.

To imagine that man claiming rights over Elizabeth, touching her, kissing her, sharing her bed and her life, was a torture that would weigh on Darcy forever.

And the most horrible part was, if that dreadful marriage had occurred, Elizabeth would be living at the Parsonage in Hunsford, minutes away from Rosings Park!

He would not bear to set foot at Rosings ever again, for as long as she was there!

“Brother? Do you know her?” Georgiana’s voice startled him again.

“Whom?”

“Mr Collins’s wife.”

“I am not sure. It is possible I do. Do you happen to know her name?” he asked, his heart pounding frantically in his throat. Praise be the fashion for cravats! He could blame his constricted throat on…

“She was Miss Charlotte Lucas.”

Darcy stared at his sister, taking a few moments to breathe as the weight suddenly lifted from his chest, making him giddy with relief.

“Miss Lucas? Yes, yes, I do know her. We are acquainted. Her father was knighted for services to the King. From my recollections, Miss Lucas is a pleasant woman with proper manners and a good education. Mr Collins is certainly fortunate in his choice of a wife.” Maybe more than he deserves.

He kept that particular thought to himself.

“I am glad to hear Anne and Lady Catherine are in good health,” Darcy concluded, somewhat unconsciously, sipping the rest of his drink with a sense of utter relief that the bad dream had ended before it had even begun.

His reason and common sense argued with him that he should not even care; that whomever Miss Elizabeth decided to marry or not was not his concern.

But Darcy had long ceased to listen to the voice of reason in regard to Miss Elizabeth, probably from the very moment he had noticed her fine eyes.

He had spent six weeks at Netherfield, and in that short period of time, all his beliefs about himself, his place, and his value had been proved wrong—challenged by a pair of fine eyes in a pretty face.

What had happened to him, he could not understand.

He had met many pretty faces before and many eyes that could be called fine.

Then why had he been so utterly enchanted, captured, trapped only this once?

He struggled to deny it, to understand, then to accept and to forget.

All was in vain. He had never been so bewitched by any woman as he was by her.

Neither the voice of reason proclaiming that Elizabeth Bennet—by her situation in life and connections, so far below him—was not suited to becoming Mrs Darcy, nor the distance he put between them when he left Hertfordshire, nor his self-control succeeded in silencing his heart’s desire, which was so powerful that it gnawed at every fibre in his body, every thought, every argument.

A desire that transcended the mere attraction of a man to a beautiful woman; it stirred his senses, weakened his strength, troubled his life and—because he knew it could not be fulfilled—broke his heart.

He had left Hertfordshire two months ago, but the longing, the grief, the pain remained as sharp as on the day after the Netherfield ball, in the carriage conveying him back to London, still feeling the touch of Elizabeth’s hands from their dance, still remembering her scent, still seeing the smile that twisted her lips when she teased him and the sparkle in her eyes when they had argued over that miscreant Wickham.