Chapter 1
CHAPTER ONE
On the last leg of her journey home from Kent, Elizabeth was too lost in her own thoughts to attend to the bumpy ride of the family carriage, her sisters’ squabbling, nor Jane’s attempts to mollify them.
Her perturbation had begun with her first reading of Mr Darcy’s letter and intensified over her last days at Hunsford and her short stay with the Gardiners.
Now as they neared Longbourn, she was still trying to make sense of Mr Darcy’s extraordinary words.
She wanted to take the letter out of her reticule and read it again even though she had the long missive almost committed to memory.
The heavy, luxurious, cold-pressed paper it was written on was already showing signs of wear.
She quite unreasonably wanted to hold it in her hands and run her fingers over the signature, the precise, masculine hand.
Fitzwilliam Darcy. The name suited him perfectly.
No, she could not be seen reading a letter so obviously written by a man; her sisters would notice and pester her with questions, and Lydia would most likely snatch it from her hands and read it aloud.
Elizabeth still could not think clearly, could only react to the astonishing revelations of the past week, her emotions running riot.
She had believed herself to be an excellent judge of character and had even taken pride in it, only to discover that she possessed her own overly generous quantities of vanity and conceit.
Enough prideful vanity and resentful conceit to lead her completely astray.
Now she knew the gentleman with the appearance of goodness had none and the gentleman she had hated for being disagreeable and conceited was, except for an utter lack of charm, an excellent man.
She had never felt ashamed of herself before, unbalanced and chagrined, internally squirming with discomfort. I do not like being in the wrong. She hoped the familiarity of her home would bring her the peace she needed.
It did not.
Her mother welcomed them home but repeatedly wondered aloud why neither had found a husband. She pestered poor Jane with questions about Mr Bingley and Elizabeth with questions about Mrs Collins, and how she kept her house. ‘A house that might have been yours if you were not so stubborn!’
Elizabeth affected an air of calm, but as she sat with her family in the small parlour that evening, she could only see them through Mr Darcy’s eyes: loud, ill-mannered, and—with the exception of Jane—devoid of social graces and proper behaviour.
Lydia was bored with any conversation that was not about her and picked a quarrel simply to entertain herself, reducing Kitty to tears.
Mary had risen without a word and stomped out of the parlour and had taken to pounding out hymns on the pianoforte in the next room.
Their father did not make an appearance after dinner but avoided his family altogether by shutting himself into his library.
Mr Darcy had been correct about everything, except his opinions about Jane’s character and her feelings.
Elizabeth’s head pounded, her eyes burnt, and she found herself blinking back tears. Avoiding her elder sister’s eye, she said quietly, “I have the headache, Jane. I am going to bed.”
Jane whispered, “I feel much the same. May I come with you?”
Elizabeth nodded, and they made their way up to their rooms. The two girls sank onto Elizabeth’s bed with sighs.
“What pains you, Lizzy?” Jane asked gently.
“I love our family, Jane. I truly do, even with their strange quirks and unseemly behaviour. But now I see them from Mr Darcy’s perspective and I cannot unsee it. It makes me wonder how many prospective friends have chosen not to make our acquaintance because of our impropriety.”
“I am also glad to be home, but it is a great change from Aunt and Uncle Gardiners’ home,” Jane agreed quietly.
In spite of herself, Elizabeth grinned. “Jane, I think that is the most unforgiving sentence I have ever heard you utter!”
Jane chuckled. “It is quite a large contrast, that is all I will say.” She studied Elizabeth’s face and surely saw unhappiness there. “You are still thinking of him.”
“I cannot stop thinking of him. I am mortified by how I quarrelled with him. I was wrong, and I hurt him.”
“He hurt you, and you reacted to him.”
“He did hurt me, rather badly. It was as if he announced his love for me and then slapped me across my face. Yet I should never have acted in the way I did or said the things I said. I should not have lashed out like a wounded animal!”
Jane kissed her sister on the cheek. “You will sleep well in your own bed, and you will feel better in the morning,” she said, and went to her own room.
As she changed into her nightclothes and tucked herself in under her faded quilt, Elizabeth knew she would not feel better, not for a very long time.
Darcy knew he would not feel better, not for a very long time.
He punched his pillow again and laid his head back down on it, in the hopes that his actions might make the pillow comfortable enough to let him sleep.
In the several days since his return from Hunsford, he had pummelled his pillows so much, some had had to be replaced.
He slept little and what little sleep he got was disturbed.
He had agonised over the letter. It had been a reckless, half-witted thing to do.
Every bit of his anger, hurt, and mortified pride had been poured into that accursed letter, the one that should not have been written.
He had been unable to curb his overwhelming desire to explain things to her.
He should never have written a letter to an unmarried lady who was not a relative.
He should never have given it to her. He would never know if she had taken his words to heart.
Had the letter made her more inclined to despise him? Did she even read it?
He had been an absolute bear since his return from Rosings.
His servants shied away from him and tiptoed silently about the house.
His sister remained at her establishment with Mrs Annesley; he knew he could not conceal his unhappiness from her so did not invite her to reside with him at Darcy House.
When, after several days, the anger began to fade, he was left alone with his pain and the conclusion that he had been in the wrong.
Terribly wrong, about the Bennet family in general and the two eldest sisters in particular.
He had been wrong about them ever since his arrival in Hertfordshire.
Yes, they were improper, but was silliness and vulgarity any worse than the rampant greed and calculation among the first circles?
Were they any worse than Miss Bingley? Or Lady Catherine?
He had seen with his own eyes how Miss Bennet and Elizabeth worked time and again to check their youngest sisters’ improprieties and to correct their vulgarity and rudeness.
He had seen how caring and loyal Elizabeth was, how she endeavoured to protect the ones she loved. Sadly, he was not one of them.
He was reminded of Elizabeth’s defence of Miss Jane Bennet. He resolved to write to Bingley first thing in the morning.
Darcy’s heartbreak overwhelmed him. Her smiles, her laughter, her singing, her pert remarks had not been for him only.
What a conceited fool he had been. He had spoken of his wealth and position in society, so she would understand the obstacles, the scruples, the moral impediments he had had to overcome to propose, only to find that she did not care two straws for his wealth or his rank.
They held no attraction nor any importance for her.
Conversely, how strange was it that he would have been disappointed in her had she actually been interested in those things?
Surely he did not want her to be like Miss Bingley, calculating and conniving?
And yet it was precisely that which had formed the largest portion of their interview at Hunsford.
Darcy wished with all his heart that he could see her again, drop to his knees before her, take her hands in his, and apologise. The one thing that damnable letter had not been was an apology.