Letters By Candlelight (Pride and Prejudice Variation)

Chapter 1

In the parlour of Hunsford Parsonage, the air hung heavy with words that could not be withdrawn.

Mr. Darcy had scarcely closed the door behind him when Elizabeth sank into the nearest chair, her hands trembling as they pressed against her cheeks.

The echo of his footsteps, swift and resolute upon the gravel, seemed to reverberate through her ears to her soul.

She had refused him — refused the proud and wealthy Mr. Darcy with a vehemence born from months of observation as well as information acquired from the most trustworthy source.

Yet, in the silence that followed, incredulity washed over her like a sudden storm.

How could it be? That he, of all men, should love her?

Not any love but an ardent one that had induced him to propose to her even against his reason and judgment.

That his feelings, so long concealed beneath that haughty exterior, had compelled him to offer for her despite the objections of rank, fortune, and family, was inconceivable.

Elizabeth’s heart thumped with a violence she could not contain.

Tears, unbidden and unwelcome, welled in her eyes as she replayed the scene in her mind: his fervent declarations, his nervous pacing, his shock and incredulity as he listened to her sharp retorts, her accusations, and her refusal.

Not for a moment had he expected a refusal — that was clear.

And why would he? Who would dare refuse Mr. Darcy?

Yet she had, and not for an instant did she regret it.

Her sentiments towards him were completely opposed to those she knew she should feel for the man whom she would agree to marry.

But even if her feelings had been favourable towards him, his despicable actions towards Mr. Wickham and his ungenerous intervention to separate Mr. Bingley from Jane were wrong; she could never forgive or forget them.

Yes, he was the last man in the world whom she could be prevailed upon to marry.

How could he have misjudged her feelings so utterly and completely as to presume she would accept him?

But then again, how could she have misjudged his feelings?

She had always assumed he looked at her only to find fault and to make her uncomfortable. Were her wit and judgment so faulty?

For a while after his departure, she believed herself justified, even triumphant in her refusal; the insult of his objections to her family far outweighed the flattery of his proclaimed ardent love.

Yet, as the minutes passed slowly, disquieting sensations stirred within her chest. Offending Mr. Darcy so deeply would surely ruin the last frail hope for a happy conclusion between Mr. Bingley and Jane.

If there was still a small chance that the gentleman still held Jane in regard and would return to Netherfield, Mr. Darcy would surely vanquish it.

He would never allow his friend to connect himself to the Bennet family — not because of their faults but because of Elizabeth’s harsh words.

She knew she had been correct in rejecting him, but soon enough she doubted the manner of expressing herself.

Mr. Darcy had seemed surprised by her accusation that he had separated Mr. Bingley from Jane, but he had not attempted to deny it. Quite the opposite; he had admitted his actions without remorse and stated it was for the benefit of his friend.

However, when she had mentioned Mr. Wickham, Mr. Darcy’s expression had revealed shock and anger, his tone had become derisive, and he had jeeringly accused her of being partial to the officer.

He was such a hateful man — impossible to understand!

She hoped she would not have to see him again soon, if ever.

She vowed to avoid setting foot at Rosings for the rest of her stay in Hunsford.

Perhaps she should write to her uncle and beg him to make arrangements for her to travel to London sooner than planned.

She could not bear to be near Mr. Darcy — nor his aunt.

The sound of the front door opening roused her from this reverie. Mr. Collins, Charlotte, and Maria had returned from their visit to Rosings Park. Elizabeth composed herself with what haste she could muster, dabbing at her eyes and forcing a semblance of calm upon her features.

“My dear cousin,” said Mr. Collins upon entering, his countenance full of concern, “I hope your headache has passed. Lady Catherine was most displeased that you could not join us. We shall not dine or take tea at Rosings for the next few days, since Mr. Darcy and the colonel are expected to depart in a day or two. Lady Catherine wishes for some privacy with her nephews. And who would not? Such wonderful young gentlemen. Among the best England has, I am sure!”

This little piece of information stirred Elizabeth’s emotions once again; the news that Mr. Darcy was to leave Rosings soon was quite a relief.

“The headache is still bothering me, Cousin. If you do not mind, I shall retire for the night, and I am sure I shall be much better in the morning.”

“We do not mind, my dear Eliza,” Charlotte interjected. “I am sure Mr. Collins, as well as Lady Catherine, would prefer to have you in good health sooner rather than later, so do whatever helps you.”

“You are very kind and considerate, and so is her ladyship,” Elizabeth replied, managing a smile that felt brittle upon her lips. “It must be but a passing indisposition. The fresh air of Kent will surely restore me in no time.”

“Indeed, that is what Lady Catherine always says. Rosings Park is not just beautiful — it also has healing powers. That is why her ladyship insists on Miss de Bourgh staying at home instead of going to London or other places. I heard her arguing with Mr. Darcy and the colonel upon this very subject just recently.”

“Mr. Darcy and Colonel Fitzwilliam wish for Miss de Bourgh to go to London because they are genuinely concerned for their cousin and wish her to be examined by the best physicians,” Charlotte said, her disagreement earning her a scowl from her husband.

“But my dear, you must accept that nobody knows better than Lady Catherine.”

“I am ready to accept Lady Catherine’s opinion as being valid and sound, my dear,” Charlotte diplomatically replied, casting a look at Elizabeth.

“Besides,” Mr. Collins continued, “I must tell you in utter confidence that Lady Catherine told me Mr. Darcy will be able to decide such matters for Miss de Bourgh as soon as they are married, which might happen very soon.”

Elizabeth frowned, doubtful. She had heard the rumours about the cousins’ engagement, but Mr. Darcy’s proposal to her utterly contradicted it. Why would Lady Catherine assume it was a certainty?

Was it possible that Mr. Darcy’s proposal had been a joke? Like the time he had invited her to dance a reel? No, that possibility was absurd.

“Poor Miss de Bourgh,” she whispered, and all eyes turned to her.

“Why poor?” Maria asked. “For marrying Mr. Darcy?”

Mr. Collins’s face was red with fury, and Elizabeth forced a smile.

“Of course not. For being so young and pretty yet finding her health so wanting.”

“Charlotte told me that Mrs. Darcy’s mother was sickly too and died young. Maybe Miss de Bourgh inherited the same illness. They share the same name, after all,” the girl added.

“Maria! I never said such a thing!” Charlotte cried. “Surely you misunderstood me! Come, let us change for dinner. We are not at liberty to discuss Lady Anne Darcy or Miss Anne de Bourgh!”

“Indeed, we are not, my dear!” Mr. Collins intervened, panicked. “God forbid that Lady Catherine hears us gossiping. I would lose her protection forever! She despises gossip and people who do not know their place in life!”

Maria paled and mumbled something unintelligible, hurrying to her room; Elizabeth excused herself, allowing the Collinses to continue the debate privately.

It was almost dinner time, but she was by no means hungry.

Fortunately, her headache had subsided, but her mind was still not clear.

There were still so many things to ponder!

Less than two hours had passed since Mr. Darcy’s proposal, but it felt like a long time ago. Was it real, or had she just imagined it?

She tried to rest, lying on the bed and closing her eyes, but to no avail. A maid brought her a tray, which served as a good excuse to abandon her attempts to sleep. She ate a little, then walked about the chamber, eventually pausing by the window, gazing out.

When Mr. Darcy had arrived earlier, she had been writing to Jane and had hurriedly pushed the half-finished letter into her pocket. She took it out, her heart aching for her sister. Jane would never hurt anyone, speak ill of anyone, or presume the worst about anyone.

Jane’s kind soul had been hesitant to accept Mr. Wickham’s tale about Mr. Darcy.

She had even asked whether they should trust Mr. Wickham’s words since he was such a new acquaintance.

But why would they not trust him when he was so amiable, so pleasant?

Everybody adored Mr. Wickham and very few approved of Mr. Darcy — there must surely be a reason for that!

Mr. Darcy had insolently suggested she took a great interest in Mr. Wickham.

How impolite! She did, of course, as she would have done with any other friend!

Even her aunt Gardiner suspected she might have some partiality for the officer, but Elizabeth knew that was not true.

She had always known it, and she had received proof when she heard about his relationship with Mary King.

There was no jealousy, no regrets, just a genuine desire for him to find his own happiness after Mr. Darcy’s unfair treatment.

As she engaged in such reflections, the sun went down, the sounds from downstairs faded, and the house fell into silence.

But Elizabeth’s torment was impossible to soothe, and sleep appeared to be an elusive companion.

Impatient, after a brief hesitation, she put on her spencer, wrapped a shawl about her shoulders, and slipped out. The fresh spring air tantalised her senses, and she took a deep breath. Yes, that was just what she needed.

She looked about, enjoying the solitude. Her first night-time walk in Kent, and Mr. Collins, as well as Lady Catherine de Bourgh, would surely disapprove.

She took a few steps through the cool, moist grass, onto the garden paths that bordered Rosings Park.

The impressive manor, tall and imposing, was shrouded in silence, lit only by the pale moon.

Therefore, only moments later, Elizabeth’s attention was drawn towards two particular spots, where the windows, so heartily praised by Mr. Collins at every opportune occasion, were lit by candles.

Somebody at Rosings shared her restlessness.

The night air was cool and fragrant with the scent of early blooms, a balm to her troubled spirits.

She walked without planning her direction, her feet carrying her deeper into the grounds, until she realised curiosity had drawn her towards the glowing windows.

She should not be there; if a servant happened to see her and report to Lady Catherine, she would have to listen to a tirade about the lack of decorum displayed by young women who grew up without a governess.

Smiling to herself, she walked on until she could see that the windows were open and candles burned brightly within.

For no apparent reason, her heart quickening, Elizabeth sat down on the grass, attempting to hide her presence, then covered her mouth with her palm to suppress her gasp. There, framed against the light, stood Mr. Darcy.