Chapter 1
One
The door closed behind Mr Darcy with a resounding thud, and the entire parsonage seemed to tremble in its wake.
In the stillness that followed, Elizabeth could only stare after him, her breath uneven, her heart pounding with restrained fury.
That he should speak of admiration in one breath and of her inferiority in the next! It was beyond bearing.
Scarcely half an hour earlier she had been reading Jane’s letters in quiet tranquillity when the door opened and Mr Darcy had entered, restless and ill at ease, only to astonish her with a proposal of marriage delivered in terms so arrogant and unfeeling that no woman of sense could possibly have accepted them.
Of course, she had refused him at once with all the civility she could muster, yet with a frankness he could not mistake.
She let out a sound between a scoff and a sigh. The headache she had feigned to avoid accompanying the others to Rosings was no longer a pretence; it now throbbed against her temples in earnest.
Turning from the parlour, she climbed the narrow staircase to her chamber, hoping solitude might quiet her thoughts. Yet the stillness only sharpened them.
How had her visit to Hunsford led her to such a moment as this?
She thought back to her arrival nearly five weeks earlier. Though she had not at first meant to accept Charlotte’s invitation, absence had heightened her desire to see her friend again, and Charlotte’s affectionate welcome had soon justified the journey.
Mr Collins proved much as he had ever been: obsequious, officious, and thoroughly self-important. Charlotte, however, bore his pompous speeches with unruffled composure, appearing, if not content, at least resigned to her lot.
Sir William remained but a week—long enough to assure himself that his daughter was comfortably settled—and with his departure, the household settled into a simpler routine.
Elizabeth’s days passed with relative ease.
Mornings brought pleasant conversation with Charlotte, who welcomed a companion offering both affection and intelligent discourse.
The season was uncommonly fine, and Elizabeth took frequent pleasure in exploring the countryside, delighting in the early signs of spring.
Even their twice-weekly visits to Rosings, though seldom anticipated, offered their diversions.
Lady Catherine’s absurd pronouncements carried a kind of theatricality, and Mr Collins’s fawning replies were almost entertaining in their excess.
The grandeur of Rosings, too, provided a striking contrast to the simplicity of the parsonage, lending some variety to otherwise quiet days.
When Mr Darcy and his cousin, Colonel Fitzwilliam, arrived for their Easter visit, Elizabeth was surprised, though not displeased.
She had taken an immediate liking to the colonel, whose easy manners and lively wit quickly recommended him to her favour.
In fact, had she believed there was the slightest chance of his seeking her hand, her heart might have been in very real danger.
Mr Darcy, on the other hand, was another matter entirely. In manner, he appeared unchanged from Hertfordshire—still reserved and distant, with a gravity that bordered on pride.
Charlotte, ever observant, had more than once suggested that Mr Darcy’s attentions spoke of something deeper.
But Elizabeth had paid her no heed. She had never suspected his admiration—let alone anything resembling love!
His frequent, searching looks she had always taken to be critical, and his unexpected appearances on her solitary walks she had ascribed to nothing more than a wish to escape his aunt’s oppressive company.
How could she have guessed—how could anyone have guessed!—that beneath that aloof exterior had existed feelings so powerful, so entirely unlooked-for?
Her skin prickled as she recalled his impassioned declaration, but the memory was swiftly displaced by another, more piercing recollection: her conversation with Colonel Fitzwilliam that very afternoon.
With the careless ease of one unaware of the pain his words might cause, he had confirmed what Elizabeth had long suspected—that it was Mr Darcy who had separated Mr Bingley from Jane.
The colonel had spoken of it as a kindness to his friend, a reasonable intervention meant to prevent an imprudent alliance.
But to Elizabeth, it had felt like a betrayal—cold, deliberate, and profoundly unjust. And so it was no wonder that her indignation, once a gentle smoulder, had blazed anew when Mr Darcy himself appeared scarcely an hour later to make his addresses.
How he could ever have imagined that she would welcome his proposal with gratitude was beyond her comprehension!
As though she might fall at his feet for the honour of being elevated by his favour above her family, her friends, her very station!
As if love—true and abiding love—could ever flourish beneath the weight of such condescension.
A sudden sound drew Elizabeth’s attention, and she moved to the front window. Lady Catherine’s carriage could just be seen pulling up to the parsonage gate. Elizabeth dropped the curtain, settling back into the shadows.
Her hand rose instinctively to her throat, finding the locket that rested there. It yielded no answers, only its familiar weight, constant and unchanging against her collarbone.
Crossing to the small dressing table, she unclasped the delicate chain and let the locket fall into her palm. For a moment she simply regarded it, before tracing the faint, nearly invisible seam with her fingernail.
She, Charlotte, and Maria had all taken turns attempting to open it, first with the tip of a hairpin, then a dull blade from Charlotte’s sewing basket, and, at last, a bent piece of wire Maria had produced with great optimism.
But the locket had resisted every effort, remaining stubbornly sealed.
Charlotte had laughed and declared it of no consequence, insisting, as Maria had, that it was a pretty trinket, even if it held no secrets within.
But Elizabeth’s curiosity had not been so easily diverted.
There was something about its resistance, about the sense that it might be guarding some long-forgotten memento, that refused to let her interest lie.
At last, she let the locket slip from her fingers onto the table, where it landed with a soft clink against the wooden surface.
With a weary breath, she extinguished the candle, then moved about the room with practised ease, loosening the fastenings of her gown, folding her shawl over the back of a chair, and drawing the bedcovers down.
The headache had subsided to a dull throb, and her anger, though not abated, began to soften at the edges.
She closed her eyes, and eventually, she drifted into a fitful sleep.
Elizabeth awoke the next morning with the same thoughts that had, at length, lulled her into uneasy slumber.
The shock of the previous evening had not lessened with rest; it lingered, sharp and relentless, refusing to be set aside.
It was impossible to think of anything else.
Feeling wholly unfit for any kind of occupation, she resolved soon after breakfast to seek relief in fresh air and exercise.
She set out in the direction of her usual walk, but the recollection that Mr Darcy had, on occasion, chosen the same path gave her pause. Rather than venture into the park, she turned instead up a peaceful lane that led her away from the turnpike road.
The morning breeze carried with it the promise of spring, and the countryside, now tempered by five weeks of warmer weather, wore its new greenery with pride. Drawn by the peacefulness of the hour, Elizabeth found herself pausing at the park gates to look inside.
She had just decided to turn back when a flash of movement caught her eye; a gentleman was walking within the grove that edged the park. For a moment she hesitated, uncertain. But as she began to retreat, the gentleman called out her name. The voice, unmistakably Mr Darcy’s, compelled her to stop.
He reached the gate just as she turned towards it. Without preamble, he held out a letter, which she instinctively took.
“I have been walking in the grove for some time in the hope of meeting you,” he said, his tone composed but cool. “Will you do me the honour of reading that letter?”
And then, with a slight bow, he turned and disappeared once more amongst the trees.
Elizabeth stood motionless for several moments, the folded letter resting in her hand like a lead weight.
What could he possibly have written? An apology?
A justification? Some further declaration of his regard?
The temptation to read it at once was strong, but she hesitated.
The possibility that Mr Darcy had not gone far—that he might still be watching her from somewhere nearby—was enough to make her flush with embarrassment.
No, she would not be observed in such a moment.
With a low breath, she tucked the letter safely away and turned in the direction from which she had come, lifting her skirts as she quickened her pace towards the parsonage.
The sky, once bright with the gentle light of morning, had grown suddenly dim.
Clouds were gathering, fast and dark, and a gust of wind tugged at her bonnet.
She glanced up with a frown. It had been so fine a day; how could the weather have changed so quickly?
Another gust blew through the lane, stronger this time, bending the young trees and sending a scattering of flower petals across the path. Then came the first drops of rain, cold against her skin. Gathering her shawl more tightly around her body, she pressed on with greater urgency.
The wind roared now, rattling the branches overhead. Leaves tore loose and swirled around her as her heart began to race. Instinctively, her hand flew to her throat, fingers closing around the locket that hung there, a small comfort amidst her rising panic.
She had nearly reached the park’s edge when a sharp, splintering crack rang out from above.
She looked up. A great oak, ancient and wide-limbed, shuddered violently in the wind—and then, with a thundering groan, one of the heavy branches began to fall.
She had only an instant to gasp before everything was swallowed by darkness.