Excerpt from Letters from Hertfordshire (upcoming chapter) on Ao3:
"Though he was certain Bingley’s wife would soon be recognized as one of the greatest beauties in London, Darcy’s gaze lingered only briefly on her before shifting to the woman beside her—whose beauty remained as indefinable to him now as it had ever been. Elizabeth Bennet was more than a collection of fine features, with correct proportions and rosy hues. She was, to Darcy, something far beyond that.
Whatever essence it was that made mere flesh human, she possessed it in greater measure than anyone he had ever known. To look upon her was to feel, to touch, to taste, to see.
Even now, when seeing her was a torment, he knew to his bones he would never look away. He felt the warmth of his own blood in her nearness, and whatever pain it cost him, he would endure it– if only to remember what it was to be alive."
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Writing is going very well, just beginning the editing process of chapter 20. :)
For those of you new here and interested in reading this story, here is the summary:
After accidentally overhearing a conversation between Elizabeth Bennet and Charolette Lucas at the Netherfield ball, Darcy is forced to admit that he has made an embarrassing misjudgment. Elizabeth Bennet detests him. The trouble is, she might be the very person he needs most to help his sister out of her depression. Darcy must overcome his pride to ask a woman who does not even LIKE him to befriend his lonely sister, while Elizabeth must open her heart to a young woman in need.
Darcy and Elizabeth learn to know each other in broken pieces through letters sent to a mutually beloved girl.
Elizabeth Bennett and Georgiana Darcy become 'pen pals'.
“Little though I enjoy being insulted in such a manner–” Darcy interrupted, “and by someone whom I regard nearly as a brother, it is not my honor that concerns me in this case."
He rose abruptly and moved to the window.
“I was wrong, Darcy. I admit it fully and without reservation. But what else can be done? You must allow me to do what I can to make amends,” the colonel said to his back.
“Then do so to Miss Bennet,” Darcy replied sharply. "It is her forgiveness that absolves you, not mine.”
--Excerpt from the newly released chapter 23 of Letters from Hertfordshire on Ao3
New here? Letters from Hertfordshire is a canon-divergent, slow burn Pride & Prejudice retelling. If you like a character true Darcy x Elizabeth, earned emotions and restraint that simmers-- this one is for you.
here is the synopsis:
After accidentally overhearing a conversation between Elizabeth Bennet and Charolette Lucas at the Netherfield ball, Darcy is forced to admit that he has made an embarrassing misjudgment. Elizabeth Bennet detests him. The trouble is, she might be the very person he needs most to help his sister out of her depression. Darcy must overcome his pride to ask a woman who does not even LIKE him to befriend his lonely sister, while Elizabeth must open her heart to a young woman in need.
Darcy and Elizabeth learn to know each other in broken pieces through letters sent to a mutually beloved girl.
P.S.
Are you guys proud of how 'back cover' I sound? I worked hard on that. 😍
Chapter 23 of Letters from Hertfordshire is with the betas and I hope I can release it later tonight or early tomorrow!
for those of you new here, here is the premise of this story:
After accidentally overhearing a conversation between Elizabeth Bennet and Charolette Lucas at the Netherfield ball, Darcy is forced to admit that he has made an embarrassing misjudgment. Elizabeth Bennet detests him. The trouble is, she might be the very person he needs most to help his sister out of her depression. Darcy must overcome his pride to ask a woman who does not even LIKE him to befriend his lonely sister, while Elizabeth must open her heart to a young woman in need.
Darcy and Elizabeth learn to know each other in broken pieces through letters sent to a mutually beloved girl.
Elizabeth Bennett and Georgiana Darcy become 'pen pals'.
Looking for something different? How about, Fitzwilliam Darcy, the white Knight?
Not a Woman Who Waits, Not a Man Who Forgives.
Chapter 4 is now posted!
Premise:
When Elizabeth Bennet finds herself bound to a scandalous marriage bargain that would save her family home at the cost of her honor, she flees.
Pursued by the very men who would claim her, she runs straight into the path of the one man she has sworn to despise.
Her instinct to trust Darcy—against all reason—sets in motion a chain of events that will alter both their lives forever.
In a world that mistakes virtue for compliance, one reckless plea forces Darcy to confront the truth: that honourable men do not always wait, and that cowardice can sometimes hide behind restraint.
OR
The one where Elizabeth begs a favor -- a very improper favor. ;-)
Thank you all for loving on this fic. I’ve decided to make it a full story because of YOU!
❤️
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I've never really written for a theme before, but a scene dropped into my lap while I was thinking about the "let the ladies propose" prompt. I think my brain is still processing my first reading of the ancient poem The Wanderer, and I've been dwelling a lot on noble knights and love-struck heroes lately.
Chapter 22 of Letters from Hertfordshire has now been posted!
“That you would never be seriously interested in a woman of my station,” she whispered. “No matter how highly you thought of her. He made it clear that if you looked at a woman so far beneath you, it would not be because you wished for a wife… but rather, for something far less… honorable.”
She watched as the slack expression her words had drawn from his face gave way to something altogether different—unreadable, yet unmistakably intense—the contours of a mortal heart glimpsed behind clouded eyes.
The words struck Darcy like a stone to the chest, driving the breath from his lungs.
Thank you so much for your patience with me! I understand how difficult it is to attempt to follow a story that takes its time in the updates, but I am so grateful that you do.
Chapter 22 of Letters from Hertfordshire is off to the betas today and hopefully, it will be in your hands soon after.
There is much to look forward to in this chapter and I hope it will be worth the many weeks it took to craft, edit and then re-edit approximately one million times.
Here is a little snippet for you to enjoy in the meantime--
"
As she approached a shaded glen, a sudden movement beside her made her start. A small, speckled dog burst through the underbrush, his muddy body trembling as he came forward. He stopped a few feet away and studied her with dark, hopeful eyes. Upon closer inspection, Elizabeth saw his fine, liver-spotted coat matted with burrs and filth, and she thought she saw something which looked suspiciously like blood flecked along his side. He appeared little more than a pup.
Smiling despite herself, she bent down and reached out a hand—an invitation he readily accepted, shuffling forward to press his head into her palm as she began diligently scratching behind his ears.
“Are you lost, little one?” she asked, as he leaned his muddy body against her skirts.
With a rueful shake of her head at the little brown stain he left on her skirts, she stooped to pick him up—but the moment her hands closed around him, he yelped, lurched forward, and slipped from her grasp, bolting up the path and out of sight.
Without pausing to think, Elizabeth hurried after him, following the path deeper into the wood, where the trees grew taller, their knotted trunks twisting as they reached toward the sparse light above.
Some time later, when it became clear she had lost her quarry, Elizabeth’s steps slowed, then stilled. Turning in a slow circle, she saw no flash of white, no cheerful bark to guide her. She let out a quiet breath and had just resolved to turn back—knowing she would soon be missed—when a new sound caught her ear, and she tilted her head, alert with sudden interest.
It was a sound like deep, warm laughter—something both strange and oddly familiar. Elizabeth froze, her breath catching. Then, without pausing to think, she stepped forward, drawn toward a great, moss-covered boulder from which the sound had come. The air seemed stiller here, charged with something she could not name.
Peering around the stone, she stilled—caught, for a moment, in the quiet spell of the scene beyond.
There, in a copse some dozen yards away, lay the pup. Bars of golden light filtered through the trees, illuminating the arresting sight of him sprawled belly-up across the toes of Mr. Darcy’s boots.
Though Elizabeth could not see Darcy’s face, the plane of his shoulders was, by now, unmistakable to her. Even crouched as he was, diligently scratching the creature at his feet, she could not have mistaken him for another.
Neither dog nor man had noticed her presence. And for her part, Elizabeth seemed unable to move or speak as she watched.
A faint crease of amusement touched the corner of the gentleman’s eye as he looked down at the pup, who gazed back at him—tongue lolling through a mouthful of white teeth. He was speaking to the dog, though she could not make out the words from where she stood. His voice was low and gentle, and the cadence of it—unseen, half-heard—sent a thrill up her spine.
The sight of the straight-backed and proper Mr. Darcy—crouched and smiling at the creature now soiling his boots—was so wholly unexpected, so endearing in its quietness, that something unfamiliar stirred within her. A tenderness that swelled like hope. Like an ache.
Then, before she could draw her attention from the scene to decide what she might do, the little dog caught sight of her and scrambled to his feet, making his way toward her with his tail sweeping the ground behind him.
And all at once, her eyes met Darcy’s, and the forest fell silent—save for the soft ‘thump, thump, thump’ of the pup’s tail.
They were each still for a few long seconds until, abruptly, Darcy stood and doffed his hat with such suddenness that Elizabeth took an involuntary step back.
“Miss Bennet!” he exclaimed, his surprise unmistakable."
Excerpt from my latest WIP-- the one where Fitzwilliam Darcy plays the role of the white knight, and Elizabeth Bennet, our damsel in distress:
"And as she considered her gratitude for this moment’s security, her thoughts drifted once more to her sisters, her father, and the looming shadow of the elder Mr. Collins.
“Perhaps I should simply return to Longbourn,” she said in a small voice, as she watched twisting patterns of smoke rise through the air. “It would be the simplest solution, after all. Your honor would be satisfied, and I do not suppose that I would be unhappy forever. However degrading the prospect might seem, some might even call it my duty.”
Darcy did not move at first. Only the tightening of his jaw betrayed that he had heard her at all.
At length, he said, low and firm, “I will not hear you speak of duty when what is demanded of you is a violation.”
He turned then, meeting her gaze fully.
“There is no honour in submitting to such depravity. It is they who should suffer—for conceiving of such a scheme and for daring to enforce it— never you.”
His voice remained steady, yet she caught the heat beneath it. “You will not return. Not to that. Not while I—.” but he broke off, shaking his head.
Elizabeth was taken aback. “You would prevent me then? Even if I feel bound to comply?”
“My honor forbids it in every way.”
They stared at each other for several tense seconds until Darcy said, “Miss Bennet, It is absurd to speak of this as if it were mere conjecture. You do not wish to be subjected to such a scheme—it is so far beneath your dignity and inclination that you placed yourself willingly under my protection. And it is not a duty I take lightly.
If you have asked for my protection, then you shall have it. I cannot, and will not, release you from it now—not while danger to your person remains.”
“No,” he continued more gently, “the question is not whether you wish to submit—but why you believe you ought to.”
After a moment, she said quietly, “You presume to know a great deal about what I would wish for, sir.”
Elizabeth arrives at Pemberley-- THIS IS NOT A DRILL PEOPLE!!!!
Letters from Hertfordshire
Summary of this fic:
After accidentally overhearing a conversation between Elizabeth Bennet and Charolette Lucas at the Netherfield ball, Darcy is forced to admit that he has made an embarrassing misjudgment. Elizabeth Bennet detests him. The trouble is, she might be the very person he needs most to help his sister out of her depression. Darcy must overcome his pride to ask a woman who does not even LIKE him to befriend his lonely sister, while Elizabeth must open her heart to a young woman in need.
Darcy and Elizabeth learn to know each other in broken pieces through letters sent to a mutually beloved girl.
Elizabeth Bennett and Georgiana Darcy become 'pen pals'.
Hellooo! I've been loving Letters from Hertfordshire, I love the story, but I'm especially impressed by your characterization, it's so accurate to the book! I wanted to ask about your layout process, as in, did you always know the story would have 25 chapters? Did you, from the get-go, have a basic layout for each chapter of what is meant to happen? And how flexible are you with that? Thanks! xx
You know, I wish I had a better answer.
This is my first crack at writing anything ‘real’, so I’m honestly still trying to figure out what works for me.
I attempted to create an outline at first which I learned somewhere in the middle that it is not really my process. I now have a list of plot point to hit, and I aim to cover three of them per chapter—but sometimes it’s more, sometimes less. When I write I sort of live in the story I guess. Hard to explain really but it often feels like I’m watching a movie and taking notes about what the characters are doing or saying. I believe it’s called discovery writing. It has the upside of being (I’m told) very organic, but the downside of being a bit harder to control. I write twice as much as what actually makes it to the final draft— 😩.
I don’t know exactly how I will get to the plot point I need to write about, but when I stopped trying to force myself to stick to a rigid outline, the better ( I feel) my writing and character work became.
You guys... I am not dead and I am also SO close to releasing chapter 21 of Letters from Hertfordshire. This past month my son has decided that he does not like it when I write and will cry if I open my laptop. I have not yet resorted to pencil and paper writing, but if this continues I may have to get creative 😂. As a result I've spent a lot more time in the sandbox playing with trucks and a lot less time writing than I had been before.
Anyway, thank you for your patience. He's growing, things are changing, and we will adapt.
And for fun, I'd like to show you the view from the place were I get so many ideas. My little (big) friend is called Elliot, and he really ought to get a writing credit.
As my daughter says, "Everything just looks better when you're on a horse."
"When she was seven years old, Elizabeth Bennet had fallen from a tree. She had slipped on the rain-dampened trunk some ten feet in the air, and somehow found herself lying on the ground, with no recollection of a fall. There was no pain, though the rational part of her knew there must be, even if she could not perceive it. There were the only long seconds that straddled two moments in time. She could not draw breath, but not afraid of this fact, she simply lay in the cool shade watching the light flickering through gaps in the canopy above. It was only when first breath raced into her lungs that the feeling came—the fear, the pain, the relief that she had not been harmed.
The final leg of their journey took them through the heart of the Peaks, the road winding through miles of sharply rising hills draped in soft grasses. A fresh rain had come and gone, leaving behind a sky of lavender-grey and turning the jagged hills the brightest green. Wisps of mist curled lazily in the hollows below.
As she pressed her fingertips to the glass, looking out at the great rocky hillside beyond her window, Elizabeth knew she would feel it all soon enough. She had no convictions to carry her boldly forward, for whatever certainty she had about the Darcy’s was long since disregarded. As the Gardiner’s carriage drew nearer to Pemberley, she found herself in that same strange place—neither present nor past, the rugged ground looming around her like the future she did not know."
Excerpt from Chapter 21 (upcoming) of Letters from Hertfordshire.
Summary:
After accidentally overhearing a conversation between Elizabeth Bennet and Charolette Lucas at the Netherfield ball, Darcy is forced to admit that he has made an embarrassing misjudgment. Elizabeth Bennet detests him. The trouble is, she might be the very person he needs most to help his sister out of her depression. Darcy must overcome his pride to ask a woman who does not even LIKE him to befriend his lonely sister, while Elizabeth must open her heart to a young woman in need. Darcy and Elizabeth learn to know each other in broken pieces through letters sent to a mutually beloved girl. Elizabeth Bennett and Georgiana Darcy become 'pen pals'.
"For the past sennight, sleep had been a capricious companion to Elizabeth Bennet. Since receiving Georgiana’s last letter, she had lived in a near-constant state of disquiet. Its revelations haunted her in the quiet hours, when impossible to escape the contemplation of it. This morning was no different. A dark, hazy dream had roused her far earlier than was her wont, and when the first light beckoned, she yielded without hesitation. Dressing swiftly, she slipped out into the cool morning air, hoping the quiet might shake off the lingering unease that had settled upon her.
Her body craved movement, and so she wandered into the open fields, where ewes speckled the tender grasses, their soft bleating like the murmur of familiar voices. Cattle lay among the rushes in the lowland places, watching her aimless progress with dark, placid eyes, chewing lazily and flicking their tails as she passed. Soon, the dim morning sky began to pale, the stillness of dawn yielding to the first stirrings of wakefulness. When, some time later, she lifted her eyes from the ground, she found herself looking across the valley at a familiar manor house, its wide, stately façade set against the swelling hillside beyond.
Netherfield.
She had not meant to come this way, yet her steps had led her here. Her subconscious mind, she supposed, seeking some connection to the two people who had preoccupied her of late. She could not help but look upon the place with a certain wistfulness, which she dared not examine too closely.
Her eyes fell upon a lone oak some distance from the path, and on a whim, she walked to it, seating herself at its base. Leaning into its rough bark, she watched the smoke curl from the chimneys of the great house. She found the windows of the rooms she had used when she stayed there, and wondered, fleetingly, which had been Darcy’s.
With a sigh, she withdrew Georgiana’s letter from her reticule. Like pressing a bruise to test its pain, she opened it once more and began to read:
“...Mr. Wickham, my father’s godson, was the son of his longtime steward. My father held the elder Wickham in the highest esteem, for he was, by all accounts, as worthy a man as ever lived. The elder Mr. Wickham had, I am told, married young, to a woman whose character was later found to be wanting. Though I do not know the full details, when George Wickham was about eight or nine, his mother passed away from a consumptive illness. Not long after, my father, who had long resolved to do all he could for the boy, brought him to live with us at Pemberley. I was but a year old at the time.
From his earliest years, George Wickham possessed a good humor that endeared him to all at Pemberley. I still cherish fond memories of he and Fitzwilliam leading me around the grounds on a fat grey pony called Prince John. When he and my brother would set off on one of their many adventures, it was always George who remembered to bring me a little posy, so I would not feel left behind.
As we grew older, George’s devotion to me waned somewhat. I was, after all, much younger and had little interest in swordplay or hunting. When he left for school and later for Cambridge with Fitzwilliam, I heard from him only rarely. He did not write to me in particular, and I would have heard nothing of him were it not for the mentions my brother made in his letters. As they grew older, it became quite plain that they also grew apart. Whatever the reason, neither of them spoke of it, yet my father laid this breach at Fitzwilliam’s door. I do not know whether my brother ever tried to correct this notion.
Then, when I was twelve, my father passed away suddenly. Fitzwilliam came home, and so soon after, did George. I do not know all that transpired between them at that time, but I remember that Fitzwilliam was not just distant towards George, but openly disliked him. He left soon after the funeral, and I did not hear from him for some time.
My brother had decided against sending me to the seminary, as it was my preference to remain near my family after my father’s death. He was obliged to hire a companion for me so that I might continue my education. The lady he chose was Mrs. Younge, a woman of gentle birth whose family had fallen on hard times and who had also been widowed less than a year after she was wed.
Fitzwilliam saw that I was happy, and of his choice, he felt secure. Just before my fifteenth birthday, George Wickham was reintroduced to me. Mrs. Younge and I had gone on an excursion to Hyde Park to take the air, and it was there that we encountered him strolling alone on the path we had taken.
Mrs. Younge readily agreed to allow a young gentleman whom she had never met to stroll with us that day, and perhaps I should have begun to suspect that not all was as it seemed. I did not know then of any prior association between Mrs. Younge and my childhood friend, but I now believe there was some impropriety in their relationship.
To me, George seemed just as he had when we were young—open, playful, and ever solicitous of my comfort and happiness. He picked me a posy right there in Hyde Park, and though I do not know if it was proper, I could not help but be affected by such a gesture.
Before we departed, he bid me say nothing of our encounter, for he claimed that Fitzwilliam was still angry with him and would be unhappy if he knew we had become friends. Despite my protest that my brother was not so unforgiving as to be unwilling to reconcile, it was Mrs. Younge who encouraged my silence on the matter.
She said that a gentleman’s anger wanted more time than conversation to be altered. If my conscience protested, I reassured myself that a companion such as Mrs. Younge knew far more of the world than I, and so I did as she suggested.
Over the following weeks, we happened upon him often. His friendship became a comfort to me during a lonely time. By the following year, things between us began to change. The posies he gave me became bouquets, and kind words turned into endearments.
By the time I realized I had fallen in love with George, I did not wish for Fitzwilliam to know. I was afraid—afraid that he would disapprove, or perhaps, in my heart, I knew that he would. On the eve of my fifteenth birthday, my cousin Richard nearly discovered this very dear secret of mine. My brother was to arrive in the morning, and we were to attend a dinner party with the Fitzwilliam relations. We knew that we could not meet while my brother was in town, so he came to me the day before he was to arrive.
It was then that he first told me that he was in love with me.
We kissed.
Oh Elizabeth, how wanton you will think me when I admit I cannot remember happiness such as I experienced in that moment! But it did not last. We were interrupted by Mrs.Younge who I was certain had come in such haste to scold me– but she did not. She had come to warn us that my cousin, the colonel, was on the stoop. With her help, George fled through the servant’s entrance. I was so full of confusion that when Richard was announced only a few minutes later, he was certain I was taken ill.
I knew then that my omission had become a lie. But still, I kept my silence.
Then came the summer.
We were to go to Ramsgate at the end of July, and my brother would join us a fortnight later. Fitzwilliam took a house for us so near the seaside that it overlooked the water on both the east and south frontages. It was such a lovely place, with a walking path at the end of the garden that led down to the water.
George’s letters had grown more frequent by then, filled with endearments and promises that soon we would never be parted. Yet there was something in his urgency—his insistence that we belonged to each other—that made my heart pound in a way I could not wholly attribute to happiness. Or perhaps it was the way Mrs. Younge had begun to lay the groundwork for open rebellion. I remember her saying to me one night as she tucked a loose curl behind my ear, ‘Brothers do not always know what is best, dear Georgiana. Only you know what is right in your heart.’
Only two days after we arrived, George came.
Mrs. Younge and I were searching for shells along the shore when he appeared, standing just beyond the tide’s reach. At the sight of him, every uncertainty was gone. I tossed my basket aside and ran to him, embracing him in full view of our little cove.
It was then that he proposed—right there, beside the sea. You will understand at once that I accepted him. Whatever lingering doubts I had were cast into the shade by the most earnest feeling I had ever known. I cared for nothing in the world so well as George Wickham, and I believed—with all my heart—that he felt as I did.
It was decided that we would leave Ramsgate for Scotland a day before my brother was to arrive. George and Mrs. Younge both deemed it preferable to present Fitzwilliam with a fait accompli rather than delay a union that, as I then believed, was ordained by God and written in the stars.
But fate had seen fit to spare me, though a piece of my soul was ransomed to do it.
That fate came in the form of Fitzwilliam, who arrived a mere day before we were to leave for Gretna Green. He had come, he said, because he feared the lapse in my letters indicated some illness, or lowness of spirit. Mrs. Younge seemed very unsettled when he arrived, and I could not help but feel something of her agitation, especially considering what we planned to do in the morning, though to my own surprise, I felt no small amount of relief at seeing my brother. The spell I had lived under for so long seemed to weaken when he was near– enough for me to feel some remorse for what I was to do.
And so I told him.
His shock I had been prepared for, but not his fear. He asked only the necessary questions—who was involved and how it was to be achieved. Only after he understood what was to happen did he begin to share something of his suspicions with me.
I did not want to hear that, by the time George arrived at Cambridge, he was a well-practiced gambler and seducer or that he had accumulated substantial debts since our father’s passing. I refused to believe it when Fitzwilliam told me he had rejected the church living our father had gifted him, asking instead for a financial settlement of three thousand pounds. I argued when Fitzwilliam revealed that George had squandered the whole of it in less than three years, only to return and request the very living he had so recently forsaken. Distressed, I tried to flee to my rooms, desperate to shut out any more of it—but Fitzwilliam pleaded with me to stay, to hear his gravest charge before I went. He believed that George had sought to marry me not only to seize my dowry, but to take revenge on my brother for what he believed had been withheld from him.
Before anything more could be said on this topic, George himself arrived. Even then, I wished to run to him, to beg him to take me away to the dream he had promised me. But Fitzwilliam had brought with him something that poisoned every illusion I cherished– doubt.
There was an argument then, and–though my memories of it are uncertain–I can recall what my brother said to George, “You would do well to remember that the only thing keeping your blood off of my hands is the duty I owe my sister.”
I have never known my brother to speak of violence: his words frightened me more than anything else had. That Fitzwilliam would wish him dead, to kill him, was beyond anything I could have imagined. It was in every way horrible.
George fled then. He did nothing to deny my brother’s claims, but what hurt more than anything was that he never once looked at me—never sought my gaze, nor looked for me in my distress. He paid me the same attention as he did the furniture.
And when he was gone I became a broken thing, feral in my grief of him.
Fitzwilliam should have been angry with me, but he was not. He was, as he has ever been to me—good and kind. Richard, too, who was the only other soul to know of my disgrace, treated me as he always had. Somehow, this was worse than anything—by far. Their forgiveness became my shame
…When Fitzwilliam returned from Kent, he came to me to ask my forgiveness for a breach of trust—one, we must both now be acquainted with. Though, I cannot say that what he did was right, I believe his regret was earnestly felt and the action, unlike his nature in general. I shall say no more on the matter, as I do not wish to involve myself in your disagreement.
I did, however, feel some compulsion to tell you of my association with Mr. Wickham, so that you may better understand Fitzwilliam’s dislike of him. I place my trust in your discretion, my dear friend, and while I would not wish for my own circumstances to become widely known, I would not have you deceived by him.
You are far too good to cast me aside for my folly but I must admit that I am afraid you must think less of me for the things written here. Yet, I have no power to change the past, and so I must take from it such lessons as I may. And after nearly a year of reflection on the matter, I have found two pieces of wisdom that I may carry with me:
The first: Love is not to be reasoned with and it is often indistinguishable from madness.
The second: A noble heart does not proclaim its worth, but proves it through constancy and devotion.
I have now exhausted my courage. I wish that you would tell me of nothing—write to me of the stitches we have despaired of in the past—I wish only to hear from you.
Georgiana”
Elizabeth let out a long breath as she folded the letter and tucked it back into her reticule. Rising, she made one final glance towards the house in the distance before turning to make her way home. "
Excerpt from Letters from Hertfordshire on Ao3.
Full description:
After accidentally overhearing a conversation between Elizabeth Bennet and Charolette Lucas at the Netherfield ball, Darcy is forced to admit that he has made an embarrassing misjudgment. Elizabeth Bennet detests him. The trouble is, she might be the very person he needs most to help his sister out of her depression. Darcy must overcome his pride to ask a woman who does not even LIKE him to befriend his lonely sister, while Elizabeth must open her heart to a young woman in need.
Darcy and Elizabeth learn to know each other in broken pieces through letters sent to a mutually beloved girl.
Elizabeth Bennett and Georgiana Darcy become 'pen pals'.
Glancing beyond his shoulder, she repeated, "If you have a heart inside that great cuirass you call a chest, Mr. Darcy, marry me."
"I—" he stammered.
Elizabeth searched his face with frantic intensity as the sound of rapid hoofbeats grew behind him.
"Mr. Darcy," she hissed, "if you will not marry me, you must kiss me. Right this moment."
He could not help but glance at the parting of her lips.
"Miss Elizabeth, I do not under—"
"Will you help me?" she pleaded, her voice rising as she cut across him.
Somewhere in the distance came a shout, but to Darcy, it was a disconnected detail—divorced entirely from the here and now, where, for some inexplicable reason, Elizabeth Bennet was asking him to kiss her.
His eyes did not stray, even as the faint awareness of approaching horsemen nagged at his subconscious.
"Yes." He knew he wished to say it, but somehow, he could not recall when he had made the decision.
And then she was kissing him.
Like a curtain ripped wide to the sun, he was blinded for a moment by the sheer brightness of it. Heat, breath, and posy sweetness crashed over him as his senses realigned. He could not draw a breath. He was frozen and burning all at once. Then, suddenly, he became aware of the clumsy movements of her mouth over his as her hands dragged roughly at his lapels.
If there was a rational thought within him, he had no command over it. A ripple surged through his chest, and from the mire of half-felt, unrecognizable emotions, a sense of triumph rose—one he could not explain. He smiled into the kiss before leaning in, pressing more firmly against her, surprise giving way to a delight that disarmed him. His arms folded around her as she became heavier, more supple in his embrace.
If he did indeed keep his heart within a cuirass, then it was she who recklessly wielded the bolt that pierced it.
She was like the raw burn of rum on his tongue, and his heart raced like a horse at full gallop as he imbibed the heady sensation of it all.
A horse.
Then, a roar split the air behind him, and Elizabeth tore herself away. She spared him only a single glance—her eyes wide and wild—before stepping past him.
Darcy swallowed and blinked slowly, his body instinctively following her movement.
Two horses came to a barely controlled halt a dozen feet in front of them, their sides heaving as they shook their heads and shifted on their feet. Elizabeth stood straight-backed before them.
"What use am I to you now?" Elizabeth cried. "As you see for yourself, I am ruined."
There was a long, ringing silence that followed her declaration, then her father cast quelling eyes on his companion.
"There is no one to admit to it but those who are here," Mr. Bennet said. "All is not lost, Mr. Collins. Your son need never know of this."
Mr. Collins turned cold eyes toward Mr. Bennet. "I see you have done nothing to curb her animal spirits. No matter. I shall honor our contract—although you must also pay me pecuniary compensation for the damages this headstrong female has inflicted upon herself."
Mr. Bennet glanced at her for a moment before giving a curt nod.
Elizabeth’s frame seemed to shrink slightly as she looked up at her father.
"Papa…" came her soft plea.
Mr. Bennet looked at the ground before her feet as Mr. Collins shifted forward in his saddle as if to dismount.
A sudden horror dawned within Darcy. Without thinking, he stepped forward and clasped Elizabeth’s hand. She gasped softly, but he ignored it, his gaze locked on the man about to step off his horse.
"I hope," Darcy said, his voice flat and cold, "that you were not just speaking of my future wife in such an abusive manner. Do you have any idea who I am?"
Elizabeth stepped closer, and Darcy released her hand only to draw her nearer to his side.
The two men stilled, and Darcy used their rapt silence to deliver another invective.
"Whatever plans you pretend to, if you think to conspire against my bride, you conspire against me—and I am not a man who forgives."
***
To all my lovely Jane Austen fan fiction friends, I have decided to continue this prompt as my next WIP (after Letters from Hertfordshire). I've never really written for a theme before, but a scene dropped into my lap while I was thinking about the "let the ladies propose" prompt. I think my brain is still processing my first reading of the ancient poem The Wanderer, and I've been dwelling a lot on noble knights and love-struck heroes lately. In the meantime, I just wrote a follow-up to this that is posted on Ao3.
