Saturday, the 23rd of November
T hat Saturday, the rain had come steadily through the night and showed no intention of leaving by morning.
It tapped at the windows with rhythmic persistence, soft and grey and endless, soaking the paths and fogging the fields.
The house was silent—not peaceful, but dulled by the sluggishness of confinement.
Even Kitty and Lydia, deprived of a walk to Meryton, had resorted to sighing loudly in alternating corners of the drawing room.
Elizabeth sat in the smaller parlour, a book open in her lap and a fire crackling low beside her.
She had not turned a page in some time.
The light was poor, and her thoughts were poorer still.
Her gaze drifted toward the window, where the rain blurred the bare outlines of the trees beyond.
Jane had gone upstairs to rest; her mother was somewhere bemoaning the lack of visitors; and Mr. Collins had taken up position in the breakfast room, where he seemed to be preparing for another attempt at courtship.
Elizabeth exhaled softly and looked down again.
Elizabeth had tucked the letter between the pages of Much Ado About Nothing , just after the line she knew too well: I love nothing in the world so well as you: is not that strange?
She had not meant to bring it.
Her fingers found it anyway, as if remembering something before she did.
She glanced once toward the door—empty, still—and then eased the letter out .
She had read it a dozen times—quietly, curiously, even furiously—and still she did not know what to make of it.
It was not a love letter.
Not quite. There were no declarations of eternal devotion, no poetry, no appeals to the stars.
And yet it had moved her more than any verse might have.
Indeed, I have begun to picture her at Pemberley—at my side.
That line caught in her chest each time.
So plainly written. So unguarded.
I believe she would be the dearest sister to you, and her spirited nature might help both of us engage more easily in society.
He had written that not knowing she would ever read it.
And because of that, she believed it.
She closed her eyes briefly, feeling the paper between her fingers.
He had imagined her at Pemberley.
Walking its halls. Sitting beside Georgiana.
Laughing in rooms where he had lived in silence.
Her voice catching in the stone gallery.
Her footprints soft across the morning frost.
And not just a moment…
but a life. A rhythm.
A shared silence. Her name spoken beside his, and it was a most curious feeling, to be so deeply considered by a man who had scarcely spoken to her.
It ought to have alarmed her.
It ought to have made her recoil.
But instead, she found herself wondering what Pemberley looked like in spring.
The door creaked behind her.
She startled, quickly tucking the letter back into the book, but it was only Mr. Collins carrying a stack of thin pamphlets and a self-satisfied smile, as though he had just returned from delivering a sermon to the Archbishop of Canterbury himself.
“Ah, Miss Elizabeth,” he said, bowing with more reverence than grace.
“How fortunate I am to find you at leisure.”
Elizabeth offered a polite nod, already standing.
“I thought,” he continued, “that you might find these instructive. Lady Catherine was most emphatic, during my last visit, on the importance of horticultural literacy in the proper ordering of one’s domestic affairs.”
He held out the bundle as though presenting her with a prize.
Elizabeth blinked. “Pamphlets?”
“Yes,” he said, beaming.
“Several articles on the cultivation of kitchen herbs, and one particularly illuminating discussion of crop rotation. The diagrams alone are—well, I will not spoil the surprise.”
“I… shall certainly take a look,” Elizabeth said, accepting the stack with cautious fingers.
“I would be happy to discuss them with you at your convenience,” he added, as if offering a rare indulgence.
“Perhaps after tea. There is a most diverting comparison of carrot varieties. Lady Catherine has long favoured the purple, which she considers aesthetic as well as nutritious . ”
“I am sure her judgment is impeccable,” Elizabeth replied.
He swelled slightly at the praise.
“Indeed. Her views on root vegetables are, like all her views, remarkably sound.”
Elizabeth edged sideways.
“Forgive me—I promised Jane I would bring her a shawl.”
Mr. Collins blinked, then recovered with magnanimous calm.
“Of course, of course. Family duty must come first. Another time, then.”
“Perhaps,” she said, already halfway to the door.
“And the pamphlets… thank you.”
“It is my pleasure to promote knowledge wherever I may,” he said smiling indulgently.
Elizabeth nodded quickly, turned the corner, and made her escape.
Upstairs, the rain had softened to a whisper.
Jane lay stretched across the bed, shawl already around her shoulders, a book in her hands and the windows open just enough to let in the scent of wet earth and the sound of dripping eaves.
When Elizabeth entered, shawl in hand, Jane looked up with a faint smile.
“Did something happen?”
Elizabeth gave a wry huff as she crossed the room.
“Mr. Collins arrived with an offering.”
Jane sat up slightly.
“An offering?”
“A bundle of pamphlets on the superior virtues of purple carrots,” Elizabeth said, setting the shawl aside and walking to the window.
“Illustrated.”
Jane blinked.
“Oh.”
“Yes,” Elizabeth added, folding her arms. “Apparently he considers them vital reading for—well, one’s general domestic enlightenment.”
Jane’s smile grew as she set her book down.
“You did not offend him, I hope?”
“I may have disappointed him by choosing to fetch you a shawl rather than stay for a lecture on parsonage crop rotation.” Elizabeth turned from the window and dropped to sit at the foot of the bed.
“But I regret nothing.”
Jane laughed, a soft sound that settled easily into the hush of the room.
“He does mean well, Lizzy.”
Elizabeth sighed.
“So I am told. Frequently. And at length. But his persistence is… unwavering. Mama seems to think the matter all but settled.”
Jane’s brows rose, just a little.
“Truly?”
Elizabeth nodded.
“As far as Mama is concerned, I am halfway down the aisle.”
“And what,” Jane asked gently, “do you think of it?”
Elizabeth gave her a sideways look.
“If fending him off requires this much exertion, I shall require more than tea to fortify my resolve.”
Jane smiled but said nothing more.
Her eyes drifted toward the window.
There was a brief silence before Elizabeth spoke again, more thoughtful this time.
“He is not unkind,” she said.
“Merely oblivious. And so certain of his right to be admired.”
Jane considered that.
“Some men are.”
“Yes,” Elizabeth said, her voice quieter now.
“Though not all.”
Something in her tone made Jane glance at her, curious, but Elizabeth had already turned back toward the window, her fingers lightly brushing the sill.
Jane let it be.
“Janie,” Elizabeth said softly, her gaze still on the rain-slicked trees beyond the window, “may I ask you something absurd?”
Jane looked over at once.
“Of course.”
Elizabeth hesitated.
Then: “If someone imagined you—imagined your life, your voice, your presence—in a home you had never seen… would you be flattered, or unsettled? ”
Jane tilted her head.
“Is it someone you care for?”
“No,” Elizabeth said quickly, and then, after a pause, “Not in that way. Not exactly. I…I do not know.”
“Then… perhaps I would be flattered,” Jane said gently.
“But also a little confused. Especially if I thought he disliked me.”
Elizabeth gave a low laugh, one without humour.
“Yes. That part, especially.”
Jane waited a moment, then rose from the bed and crossed to sit beside her.
“Lizzy.”
Elizabeth looked down at her hands.
“He wrote a letter.”
“Mr. Darcy?”
A nod.
“Not to me. To his sister. But I read it.”
Jane blinked.
“You read Mr. Darcy’s letter to Miss Darcy?”
“I was not meant to,” Elizabeth said slowly.
“It was a mistake. He wrote it in private, a sort of reflection, addressed to his sister but never meant to be sent. He sealed it in haste, left it with the household post by accident, and only realized after it had already reached her.”
“And she read it?”
Elizabeth nodded.
“She did. And... she misunderstood. Completely.”
“In what way?”
Elizabeth gave a soft, disbelieving huff.
“She believed it was an announcement. That he had written to tell her of our engagement.”
Jane’s eyes widened.
“She was so certain,” Elizabeth continued, her voice low with astonishment even now.
“She arrived at Netherfield full of joy. She told him she could not wait to meet me—her future sister. And he… he told me everything.”
She paused for a second.
“He could have denied it. He could have corrected her at once. But instead, he came to me. And he told me everything.”
Jane studied her in quiet amazement.
“And then?”
Elizabeth swallowed.
“He stepped back and let Georgiana bring the letter. And when she handed it to me… I think I understood, in that moment, that he trusted both of us more than he trusted himself.”
Jane was silent for a long moment, absorbing this.
“Lizzy… wh at could he have written that made Miss Darcy so certain?”
Elizabeth gave a long, measured breath.
“It was not a proposal. There was nothing formal. But the way he wrote—so unguarded, so... certain. He spoke of me by name, described my temper, how I had challenged him, softened him. How I might bring life back to his home. How he had begun to imagine a future together with me… at Pemberley.”
Her voice grew softer.
“Not as a guest. As a partner.”
She looked up again, her voice softer now.
“He described a life. Not just admiration, Jane, but belonging. And to a sister who loves him and wants his happiness… it must have sounded like certainty.”
“Lizzy,” Jane breathed.
“It is not quite a love letter. It is awkward and careful and… honest. Too honest, perhaps. He wrote it not as a man trying to impress a woman, but as a man trying to tell his sister of an imagined future.”
Elizabeth looked down at her hands.
“And somehow… that makes it harder.”
Jane tilted her head.
“Because it was not meant for you?”
“Because it was not written for me,” Elizabeth said softly.
“And yet… it saw me. Not as I pretend to be, or as I try to be—but as I am. As someone worth knowing. Worth imagining a life beside.”
She paused.
“Georgiana said… he is a very easy man to love. Once you do know him.”
Her voice was low, uncertain.
“I think… I am beginning to know him.”
Jane was silent, watching her.
“And now it feels as though I had been written into a story without knowing it,” Elizabeth continued, her voice barely above a whisper, “and somehow, it felt like mine.”
She did not know yet if she could return such certainty.
But she could not forget that he had offered it, quietly, when no one was listening, not even himself.
A silence followed—soft, reflective.
Then Jane reached across the space between them and took her hand .
“What will you do?” she asked gently.
Elizabeth gave a small, helpless laugh.
“I thought I disliked him. I was so certain of it. He was proud, silent, difficult. He offended me. And I wanted to be offended.”
A pause.
“Maybe it was not just what he said, Jane. It was that he dismissed me before he ever really saw me. And I thought that was the end of the story. But now… I wonder if it was only the beginning.”
Jane said nothing.
She only held her hand, still and sure.
The rain had eased to a mist now, threading softly down the windowpane in silver lines.
“You have never been afraid to change your mind,” Jane said at last, her voice calm but sure.
“That is one of the things I admire most in you.”
Elizabeth smiled faintly.
“No, just afraid to admit it aloud.”
Jane looked at her.
“Do you want it to be true?”
Elizabeth did not answer at once.
She pressed her head lightly against the glass, watching the slow movement of clouds across the field.
Then, just above a whisper: “I think… I want to find out.”
Jane nodded, her eyes gentle.
“Then perhaps that is enough for now.”
Another silence followed, but this one sat easier—less tangled with doubt, more wrapped in thought.
After a while, Elizabeth rose.
“We will be at the ball on Tuesday.”
“Yes,” Jane said.
Elizabeth hesitated, her hand at the back of the chair, her expression unreadable.
“Two sets,” she said.
“He asked for the first and the supper sets.”
Jane’s eyebrows lifted.
“Did he?”
Elizabeth gave a half-smile, almost rueful.
“It seems I have already started to answer him.”
And with that, she crossed the room, her step light, the letter still warm against her side.
As if the line still whispered: is not that strange?