The soft second morning succeeding your arrival at Pemberley broke, and you found yourself at leisure to stroll through the vast and dignified halls of the Darcy estate. The privilege of quiet liberty was graciously granted to invited guests of Miss Georgiana Darcy, yourself and your esteemed aunt Mrs. Gardiner. The establishment, though grand beyond measure, was conducted with a grace that softened its magnificence, and the servants moved with a respectful hush, as though the very air were too rich to be disturbed by haste.
Of Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy you had seen but little since your entrance into the house. He had received you and your aunt upon your coming, with his accustomed gravity, offering a polite inclination of the head and a murmured welcome that seemed to carry more weight than the formalities required. His manner, though unchanged in its usual reserve, had held a new softness, perhaps owing to the presence of his younger sister, a flicker in the dark of his eyes, a hesitation as he inquired after your journey. Thereafter, he had taken himself away, citing pressing estate matters, and you had not seen him since.
The weather was remarkably fair, April sun dappling the stone façades through the lime trees that flanked the gravel drive, and you resolved to take a solitary walk through the gallery, which Mrs. Reynolds, the housekeeper, had so warmly recommended to your aunt the day prior. “It’s quite the treasure,” she had said, her voice low with reverence, “Mr. Darcy keeps it private, but he makes rare exception for gentlefolk with true appreciation.”
Thus persuaded, and while the house still hummed with the gentle bustle of servants and the distant laughter of Georgiana at the harpsichord, you stole away now to the portrait gallery. Though the words had seemed faint praise at the time, you now felt a curious anticipation as you approached its doors of tall, carved oaks banded with black iron, standing like sentinels at the east wing’s end.
You pushed gently, and the doors yielded with a soft creak, revealing a long chamber lined with rich paneling and gilded frames. The honeyed morning light fell in slants through tall windows draped in silk, illuminating the solemn faces of solemn ancestors, in powdered wigs, with expressions, and resolute chins echoing through generations of an unbroken lineage.
The air was cooler here, faintly touched with the scent of varnish and paper as you moved slowly along the wall, footsteps muted by the carpet below. You moved slowly, pausing before each portrait, a knight with a drawn sword, a lady holding a rose, a child with a spaniel at her feet, reading each inscription in soft murmurs. Sir William Darcy, 1603. Lady Eleanor, wife of the third Earl of… The names wove a tapestry of lineage and pride, and you could not help but feel a certain awe in the presence of such history.
Only when you reached the far end of the room that the order of all was interrupted. There, in a shadowed alcove where the light fell less brightly, you noticed a small anteroom half-hidden by an archway draped in faded damask. A door stood ajar, and curiosity, the most dangerous of guides, drew you forward.
You entered with caution, yet saw nothing remarkable in the arrangement. Near the far end stood a small, unassuming easel, half-turned from the light, as if to remain unseen. Upon it rested a sketch unfinished. Beside it, a small table; upon which a scattering of charcoal, a cloth, and a folio loosely tied.
You drew nearer, scarcely breathing as the full magnitude of this last artwork took hold of your very soul.
Rendered in delicate lead, your likeness appeared in a profile caught in a moment of quiet, your head slightly inclined as if listening to distant music. Your hand rested gently against the stone balustrade on the west terrace, the very place where you had stood only yesterday, lost in thought, watching the sun settle behind the hills. The artist had not merely captured your form, but had seized your very expression, the slight curve of melancholy at the corner of your mouth, the way your hair, loosely gathered, had caught the breeze.
You reached out, trembling, yet could not bring yourself to touch the page. Your pulse quickened for there was more.
Beneath the easel, secured by ribbon of deep blue silk, lay a small folio. You lifted it, your conscience warring with curiosity, but the moment you opened it, you could not close it again.
There you were again, and again. You reading beneath the willow by the lake, your head bowed over a book; you laughing softly at some remark from Mrs. Gardiner; you gazing into the fire in the drawing-room with that dreamy-eyed look that comes when the mind wanders far from the present. In every drawing, the hand was assured, tender, and imbued with a tenderness impossible to mistake.
One sketch was larger than the rest, nearly complete. You stood in morning light, your face turned slightly toward the window, your eyes half-lowered as though burdened with thought. Beneath it, in strong, slanting script, in a firm, familiar hand was written a single line:
“When she is near me, she sheds light upon me.”
Your breath faltered and the room seemed, for but a moment, to shift.
The sentiment echoed within you like the chime of a bell in a silent chapel. You knew then, with a certainty that left your knees weak, that reserved Mr. Darcy, proud, impenetrable Mr. Darcy, had not merely noticed you. He had studied you, contemplated you, with the deepest attention.
Behind your trembling stature, a floorboard creaked.
You turned sharply.
There was he, stood in the doorway with hat in hand, coat still dusted with the morning’s ride. His expression, always guarded, became arrested between alarm and exposure. His eyes, dark and intense, moved swiftly from your shock to the open folio in your hands.
For several long moments, neither moved.
“I had not imagined to find you here,” he said at last, voice low and almost hoarse.
“I... I beg your pardon,” you stammered, closing and returning the folio as though it might scorch your touch. “I had no intention of intruding. Mrs. Reynolds spoke of the gallery, and I—”
“You have not intruded,” he interrupted, advancing step. “I should have secured them more carefully. I—” He paused, and in that hesitation, the mask of composure he had so long maintained seemed to fall away, revealing a sincerity at once striking and disarming. “Indeed, the fault is entirely my own.”
You raised your eyes to him, heart thudding. “These are… of me.”
His gaze flickered briefly toward the sketches before returning back to you. “You must think me exceedingly foolish,” he said, edged with quiet anguish. “Or worse, wholly without propriety.”
“No,” you breathed. “I think you…” But you could not bring yourself to finish as your heart thundered in your ears. “These are… they are too kind. Too generous in every regard.”
“They are woefully inadequate,” he replied with steady earnest. “No effort of mine could capture the light in your countenance nor the quiet grace with which you bear your thoughts. I have endeavored repeatedly to secure some impression...” He faltered.
For a moment, neither of you spoke. The silence was thick, charged with a thousand-fold of things unsaid.
“And when did this begin?” you asked, scarcely above a whisper.
He drew nearer still, close enough to see the fine line between his brows and subtle tremor in his eyes. "I have tried- in vain have I tried, to forget the impression you have so thoroughly made. From the very moment you crossed the park at Netherfield to attend your sister, mud upon your petticoat, your countenance animated with determination, I perceived your spirit then. And later, when you defended your family with such fierce loyalty, though it ran contrary to my own pride, I could not help but admire you.”
He continued, more resolute. "That night, I began from memory and since, your image has accompanied me incessantly. Whether I turn my mind to ledgers, to correspondence, to the management of this estate, I can find no true occupation free from your influence.”
You stared, speechless, clasping the skirt of your muslin gown. This could not be the Darcy of cool reserve, the proud master of Pemberley who had once declared you not handsome enough to tempt him to a dance. In front of your very eyes was a man laid bare.
You felt your eyes grow hot. “And yet, you never spoke a word.”
“How could I? When every word I uttered seemed to give you offence? I believed myself forever excluded from your regard. And yet… here you are. In my home. In my thoughts. In my dreams.”
From his coat, he produced a small, folded paper and without looking at it, handed it to you.
You unfolded it with trembling fingers.
Another sketch, newly begun. Your eyes, rendered with such care, stared back at you, feeling alive even in its incomplete state.
You looked up at him, tears slipping free despite your efforts.
“I have misjudged you terribly,” you whispered. “I thought you cold. Aloof.”
“And I thought you indifferent,” he replied, softer, heart aching at your fragile state. "From the moment of your arrival, I knew I could not go on without revealing the truth. You must permit me to tell you how ardently I admire and love... love you, in defiance of reason, hope, and against my better judgment. I would sooner spend my life in quiet admiration than to lose the happiness your presence affords me.”
You advanced, shortening the distance of fields between you.
“There are few people in the world whom I really love, yet I believe I couldn't bear it to ever be relinquished by you” you said.
He exhaled deeply, as though relieved from a long oppression. Then, slowly, reverently, he took your hand and raised it to his lips.
“Never,” he murmured. “You have captivated me entirely, body and soul.”
Beyond the open casement, wind stirred the branches of the linden trees, and a single petal from the early-blooming cherry drifted inward, landing softly upon the sketch where your eyes met his across the page, as they now did in truth.
Thus the portrait, unfinished, yet complete in spirit, remained on the easel, a silent witness to the moment when pride fell away, and two souls, were at last united in the light.
It was on an evening marked by a clarity of moonlight rarely seen in Hertfordshire that the house at Netherfield Park was open to recieve its most lavish celebration of the season. A masquerade ball was hosted in honour of the continued prosperity of the neighborhood and, was now in full swing. The night air was still, perfumed faintly by late-autumn roses in the hedgerows and the flickering scent of beeswax and polished oak issuing from the house’s open doors.
From the moment your carriage drew up along the gravelled drive, the sound of music, delicate strains from a well-tuned quartet, reached your ears, blending sweetly with the laughter of arriving guests and the low hum of voices muffled by velvet masks. Netherfield was alight with a thousand candles, each reflected tenfold in the windows and mirrored sconces. Every chandelier sparkled with the promise of enchantment.
You stepped into the grand foyer, gloved hand resting lightly upon the arm of your companion, your aunt, ever dignified, ever observant. Your gown was of deep garnet silk, trimmed modestly in ivory lace, the colour chosen for its warmth and quiet elegance rather than any ostentation. A half-mask of cream satin adorned your face, secured with a ribbon the same hue as your dress. Its subtle embroidery caught the light only when viewed closely, leaving your eyes as the chief subject of mystery.
Though the house swelled with guests in every chamber, it was the ballroom that held the centre of the world. It was there that you entered with silent anticipation, your gaze drifting over the crowd, catching the swish of fine skirts, the gleam of military braid, the flutter of a lady’s fan. An opulence lingered in the air, not the richness of gold or rubies, but that of expectation.
And you—betrothed though you were to Mr. Darcy of Pemberley—could not help but feel your heart beat more quickly in your chest. He had not yet arrived. You were informed he was delayed by business in town, and though your affection for him was that of practical duty, the sense of adventure that seized you now, under the veil of a masquerade, was one you had not felt since childhood.
A gentleman in dark attire stood by the eastern wall, his posture composed but not rigid, his presence commanding without being overbearing. He wore no ornament to boast of status, but there was something in the breadth of his shoulders and the austerity of his silence that set him apart. His mask, of black velvet, revealed little but a sharp brow and eyes that lingered not idly on the crowd, but attentively. He did not fidget, nor did he offer false jests to strangers. He simply watched-and you, finding your gaze caught in his, found yourself unable to look away.
When the next set was called, the stranger stepped forward with quiet confidence. You half-expected him to address another lady, perhaps one of greater beauty or more glittering rank, but instead he stopped before you.
"Miss," he said, his voice low and composed, yet not cold. "Might I entreat you for this dance?"
There was no bowing flourish, no simper in his tone. There existed only a courteous gravity, as if the invitation bore some weight. You hesitated a moment, your fingers tingling as you placed your hand in his. The music began before you could reply aloud, and with that silent assent, you were drawn into the set.
He danced not like one who sought to parade himself, nor one who merely fulfilled an obligation. His movements were precise, his steps elegant, though his eyes never left yours. It was within that deep gaze that something stirred in you, tinged now with the thrill of uncertainty.
"Do you often seek mystery where certainty is offered, madam?" the stranger asked lightly, his words breaking the silence between figures.
"Only when certainty forgets to enchant," you replied, surprising yourself with the lightness in your tone and boldness of your own words.
A ghost of a smile touched his mouth then, brief and unreadable. “Then allow me the privilege of mystery for just one evening.”
Your heart stirred—and yet your conscience pricked. You were engaged. And not merely engaged, but promised to a man of remarkable honour and constancy. What folly, to be so enthralled by a stranger!
Still, as the dance continued and the world slipped into the rhythm of candlelight and strings, you could not ignore the truth. The stranger held your gaze as if he had known you before the first note played, and would know you still when the last had faded.
As the final strains of the set faded into a gentle silence, and as you curtsied, your hand still lightly in his, you felt a curious reluctance to release it. His fingers brushed yours a moment longer than form dictated, a touch so fleeting that propriety could not condemn it, and yet so distinct that your heart could not mistake it. His eyes—dark, unreadable beneath the velvet mask—remained fixed on you, though his expression betrayed little.
“May I secure the next?” he inquired softly.
Your voice near caught in your throat. “I fear I am engaged for the following,” you managed to say, though the truth of it was you could not recall if you were or not. His manner, though reserved, inspired not unease but curiosity—a keen sense of having entered into something meaningful, even if unnamed.
“Then I hope we may speak again this evening.” he said, bowing with the faintest inclination of his head. There was nothing theatrical in his movements, nothing to draw attention. Yet every gesture was imbued with deliberation, as though every motion he made had been first weighed and approved by a mind not easily given to folly.
You were spared the need to respond by the sudden appearance of Miss Bingley, who swept into view in full satin and feathers, her expression bore its usual flavour of amused scrutiny and her interest clearly not directed toward yourself.
"Ah! There you are," she said with over-practiced familiarity, speaking to the gentleman at your side, barely sparing a glance over at you as one might examine a botanical. "I thought you had vanished into some corner, neglecting all your obligations.”
The man inclined his head. “I was, for once, honouring them.”
Miss Bingley blinked, caught off her guard. Before she might recover and stake her claim upon him, he turned to you with a small, unreadable bow. “If you will excuse me, madam.”
You inclined your head as he moved away—swiftly, quietly, disappearing among the guests like a shadow chased by candlelight.
Miss Bingley, upon seeing your gaze linger, narrowed her own as her lips curved with the faintest arch of amusement. “Well,” she said, “Most mysterious, is he not? There’s always some gentleman at these assemblies who believes himself above merriment.” She offered a dry laugh.
You forced a smile and retreated toward the refreshment room, yet you found your thoughts, against better judgment, returning again and again to your masked stranger, though not merely for the quiet command of his presence or the way he had spoken to you as though the world had fallen away.
You wandered through the card room and back into the passage beyond the ballroom, hoping, absurdly, that you might see him once more. Instead, you came upon someone else entirely- A tall, broad-shouldered gentleman in a dark coat, his profile obscured in the candlelit corridor. A servant was just passing him a folded note.
“Mr. Darcy,” the servant said in parting, “I shall ensure your carriage is prepared for the journey at midnight, as requested.”
You froze, your heart stumbling strangely in your chest. Could it truly be?
He turned slightly, enough for recognition to ripple through your whole frame like a shiver. Though his mask remained, your soul recognized the particular stillness that had captivated you so on the ballroom floor.
The name had been spoken clearly, and you could not now deceive yourself. The stranger that had danced with you as if he had never known you was none other than the man to whom you were betrothed. The very man whom you had only met once before during a stiff, formal visit arranged between families.
And you, foolish and feather-headed, had danced with him as though he were the object of an idle fancy, as if you had never been promised to him.
He saw you then. A pause, no more than two seconds, echoed between you like the hush between heartbeats,
"You knew," you said softly, voice barely rising above the quiet.
His eyes, deep-set and solemn, held yours for a long moment. He removed the mask slowly, revealing that the whole of his expression was not guarded nor proud, but exposed. Earnest.
The candlelight etched the familiar planes of his face in gentle relief—the high brow, the firm mouth, the eyes that looked at you now with a kind of searching restraint.
“I did not,” he said at last. “Not at first.”
“And when did you discover it?”
He looked away for a breath. “By the near-half figure. I ought to have said something. You turned your head in profile and…” There was a rare falter in his voice. “I recognized you. It was not so difficult once I saw clearly.”
His eyes held yours, steady. “You seemed… unguarded. At ease. Happier than I had ever seen you. I feared that naming myself would alter the spell of the moment.”
You felt the heat rise in your cheeks, embarrassment and wonder twining uneasily in your chest. You were silent, recalling how differently he had seemed that evening, and though it stung your pride to realize that you yourself had not recognized him, it was not pride alone that troubled you. There was a trembling awareness that you had, perhaps for the first time, truly met him.
You inhaled, the scent of wax and smoke mingling with the cooler perfume of late-blooming roses from the windows left ajar. “But we are engaged,” you said, less in protest than as a reminder to yourself. “We ought not have played at strangers.”
His lips curved—barely a smile, and yet it softened him more than anything you had seen before.
“I have never played, madam. Not with matters of the heart. I will admit, perhaps, I have waited too long to speak with honesty.”
“I suppose,” you said, “that now we must pretend none of it happened.”
“Do you wish to?” he asked.
You looked at him then and really saw him; not as the proud, brooding figure painted by secondhand reports, nor the fiancé you had dutifully agreed to marry. You saw truly a man who had danced with you in silence, who had spoken to you with care, who had desired, above all things, not to be known but understood.
“I do not know you,” you whispered, unsure whether it was protest or confession.
He took a slow step forward, not touching, but nearer than propriety would permit in a brighter hall. “You were promised to me as a matter of alliance. I did not seek affection, only duty. But tonight I saw you as you are: clever, eloquent, quietly bold. I have not known how to speak to you, and for that I am ashamed.”
You blinked, surprised by the admission.
“I have admired you from a distance,” he continued, his voice low, deliberate. “Yet admiration offered stiffly, with pride for a mask, earns only civility in return. Tonight I saw my pride has kept me from your spirit.”
He paused. “I hoped… that you might see me not as a fixture of obligation, but as someone capable of owning your love.”
Your breath caught and the corridor around you seemed very still. Beyond it, laughter rang, glass clinked, feet stepped through the figures of a new dance.
In the quiet space between you and Mr. Darcy, there was a change—not in declaration, nor in sudden embrace, but in the simple, fragile thread of truth stretched between two hearts long distant.
“And if I said,” you ventured, “that I had already begun to… to think well of you?”
His expression altered subtly with a flicker of hope beneath the solemn dignity. “Then I should consider myself the most fortunate of men.”
You lowered your gaze, a smile curling at your mouth in spite of the unease still clinging faintly to your heart. “Then perhaps we ought to return to the ballroom, Mr. Darcy. We would not wish to appear to have eloped to the orangery.”
He extended his arm. “May I escort you, Miss—no, forgive me—may I escort you, my dear?”
With a soft smile, you placed your hand lightly upon his sleeve, and together you turned back toward the light and music. Yet the warmth in your chest was not born of candlelight nor the echo of strings, but of the knowledge that, masked or unmasked, your fiancé had begun, at last, to become known to you—and you to him.
And in that mutual discovery, the promise of marriage became something far greater than convenience.
“‘You talk as though I’ve had an amputation.’ ‘I think you have. I think someone has cut out your heart.’” - Jeanette Winterson, from The PowerBook
In my earliest years, I fancied myself the fortunate keeper of a rare treasure: the private smile of a solemn boy, the rare confidences of one who seldom gave voice to his thoughts, and the warmth of his hand in the soft grasses beyond the orchard wall.
Though his words were few, with me, he spoke—and that simple distinction seemed then to define the world entire. That he would grow into a man of consequence I never doubted, though I knew not then how consequence could harden a heart.
Time, as I have since learned, is no gentle guardian. When my father's affairs necessitated a relocation to Bath, I left behind not familiar fields, a promise unspoken, a connection severed not by words, but by distance. There was no letter, no final conversation. Only absence. Years stretched between us like a winter's fog, and I, foolish girl that I was, hoped still that he might remember me kindly.
Now, upon the persistent and not altogether subtle invitation of my Aunt, I find myself returned to Hertfordshire, where she has taken residence at Netherfield Park, recently leased to her amiable son-in-law, Mr. Bingley. I am persuaded—instructed—to spend the Season amongst familiar strangers, to dance and smile and behave as though I had not once left my heart in a field of wild chamomile.
The hedgerows of Hertfordshire are much the same as I remember them—swept golden in the late autumn sun, tangled with bramble and memory. As the carriage creaks along the gravelled path toward Netherfield Park, I cannot help but feel the air grow thick, not merely with the mist of November, but with the weight of returning. Though I have not stepped foot in this county for nigh on ten years, it greets me not as a stranger but a watchful old friend.
My aunt, Lady Hensley, is all warmth and bustle upon my arrival. She wraps me in furs and affection, clucking softly about how pale I have grown and how quiet I seem. “You are too often in your head, dearest,” she says, patting my hand as though to knock loose whatever cobwebs have gathered in my thoughts.
I do not tell her that my thoughts have grown companionable over the years. I have lived much within them.
"My dear girl," she declares with a smile that portends no small amount of mischief, "you shall find Netherfield quite the bustling center of society. Mr. Bingley is most affable, though his friend, Mr. Darcy, is—how shall I say it?—less so."
I feel my stomach tighten. I speak with studied calm. “Mr. Darcy of Pemberley?”
“The very same!” she exclaims, not noticing the sudden stillness of my hands. “Tall, grave, quite impressive. The young ladies are beside themselves, and the mothers worse. Though he scowls more than he smiles, I daresay he is well worth the trouble... Are you unwell, my dear?”
I smile too quickly. “Not at all.”
But I am. For the name conjures more than a face. It awakens a host of half-buried sentiments, of what once was and what might never be. I am unsure which pain is worse—the shock of what had happened or the ache for what never will.
Upon our arrival, the house bursts into greeting and chatter, the drawing room warm with the scent of roses and freshly polished wood. Mr. Bingley receives us with such generous energy that one could scarcely feel unwelcome. His sisters are elegance personified, though rather sharper of tongue than is strictly necessary. I curtsy, I smile, I endure.
That evening, as I am ushered into the drawing room—where I am to meet the other guests—I steel myself with a practiced smile. Lady Hensley is speaking animatedly to Mr. Bingley, a gentleman of such amiability that I warm to him at once, even before he bows.
“Miss Y/L/N,” he says cheerfully, “we have been eagerly anticipating your arrival. My sister speaks of little else but your grace and education.”
I laugh politely. “I fear I shall now disappoint you doubly, sir.”
But it is not Mr. Bingley I am aware of. No—across the room, near the hearth, stands a tall figure in black. He is turned slightly away, as though the flicker of firelight might reveal too much. His profile is unmistakable—cut sharp like winter wind. I would know him anywhere, and yet, I scarcely know him at all.
Fitzwilliam Darcy.
Older now, broader of shoulder, more austere of countenance—but unmistakably the same. The very air about him seems charged. He does not smile, no boyish warmth. Of course not, for how could there be.
His eyes meet mine once—only once—and I feel something twist within me—oh!—how strange it is to be so close, and yet so far. Like January and December, we stand divided by time, though born of the same calendar. He looks upon me as though through a glass pane, and I am frozen on the other side.
He bows. I curtsy.
“Miss Y/L/N” he says at last, his voice deeper than memory, but not less familiar.
“Mr. Darcy.” I speak evenly, though my pulse stirs traitorously. “How very... unexpected.”
“Indeed.” He pauses, and I wonder if he, too, sifts through years in search of the right words. “I hope... your family is well.”
It was a polite inquiry. Nothing more. Yet the way his gaze lingers suggests something else—something unspoken, waiting.
“We are, I thank you.” I smile, though it costs me.
His jaw tightens slightly, his hands clasped behind his back. He is unreadable.
Later, as we take tea, Lady Hensley leans close. “Is he not the most peculiar gentleman? Still, a fine match if one plays her cards right.”
I do not answer. For I no longer know what game we are playing, nor if I wish to play at all.
He is not as he once was. And perhaps—I am not, either.
But as I take my leave of the drawing room, his voice halts me.
“You talk as though I’ve had an amputation,” he says, low, almost bitterly, in response to something Bingley has said. I glance back.
“And I think you have,” I murmur softly to myself. “I think someone has cut out your heart.”
The following morning dawns gray and damp, the kind of soft Hertfordshire drizzle that curls hair and dulls the shine of polished boots. I sit at the breakfast table beside a window blurred with mist, stirring my tea with greater attention than it merits, listening to the gentle murmur of voices around me.
Lady Hensley chatters on about an upcoming assembly at Meryton, her tone bright and animated. Mr. Bingley, ever affable, assures her that his party shall be in attendance. His sisters look less enthusiastic, though they mask their disdain beneath practiced smiles.
Across the table sits Mr. Darcy.
He does not speak. Not to me, nor to anyone unless pressed. He sips his coffee with measured calm, his gaze fixed somewhere just beyond the edge of the tablecloth. And yet, as our eyes meet across the silver teapot, I am to look away first.
“Miss Y/L/N,” Bingley says, drawing my attention. “You are newly returned to the country. Might I entice you on a short walk before luncheon? The grounds are most charming, and the morning air, despite its wetness, is rather restorative.”
I glance outside. The air looks anything but restorative, but I assent with a polite smile. “A walk would be most welcome, Mr. Bingley.”
We are soon assembled—Mr. Bingley, myself, his younger sister Miss Louisa, and, rather unexpectedly, Mr. Darcy. He joins at the last moment, his coat already damp at the shoulders, as though he has been outside for some time and only now remembers society.
We walk two-by-two along the path leading from the garden and into the lightly wooded edge of the estate. Mr. Bingley speaks easily at my side, pointing out clusters of late-blooming michaelmas daisies, the odd squirrel’s nest, and the changes he means to make to the shrubbery come spring.
I answer him, but not fully. Not attentively. For I am aware, too aware, of the figure just behind us.
Darcy walks with Miss Louisa, who keeps up a sprightly monologue—of which he absorbs little. His responses are brief, distracted. When the path narrows, he falls in step beside me instead, Miss Louisa ahead with her brother.
The silence between us stretches like a taut string, almost musical in its tension.
“I hope,” he says at last, “your time in Bath was agreeable.”
“Agreeable enough,” I answer. “Though I do not think Bath suited me as well as it suited my mother. She found it entirely too agreeable, in fact—particularly the dress shops.”
A hint—just a flicker—of amusement touches his mouth. “And you? Did you not enjoy society?”
“I found it often tiresome,” I admit, more candidly than intended. “Though I suppose that speaks poorly of me.”
“Not at all. It speaks sensibly.” He pauses, then adds, almost reluctantly, “I was sorry to hear of your father’s losses. The news reached Pemberley some years ago.”
There it is. The acknowledgment. I feel it settle in my chest like a stone in still water.
“I thank you, but we have quite managed.”
A silence again. Then, softer: “I should have written.”
I stop walking.
The path bends slightly, the trees arching above like watchful old gods. He has halted as well, though he does not meet my gaze.
“It would not have changed anything,” I say, carefully.
“No,” he agrees. “Nevertheless, I should have.”
We stand in the hush of the woods, the others just out of sight. The air smells of wet leaves and distant smoke. I feel the years between us stretch and curl like mist, not quite vanishing.
“I remembered you,” he says, finally turning to me.
My breath catches.
He continues, voice low: “You were... a comfort to me. When we were children. I did not say it then. I would not have known how.”
“I was a child,” I say. “I did not expect you to.”
He takes a step closer, and I feel the shift in the air.
“And now?” he asks.
I meet his gaze, and in it I see not the solemn boy I once knew, nor the proud gentleman of last evening, but something fragile beneath—a memory still living, if only barely.
“Now,” I whisper, “I expect nothing.”
He nods once. Slowly. And we walk on.
But as we return to the house, I hear Lady Hensley’s voice drift from the parlor window, carried faintly by the breeze:
“Miss Y/L/N and Mr. Darcy? Oh no, my dear—he has no interest in her. It is well known. He is quite set on Anne de Bourgh—twenty thousand pounds is no meaningless dowry, even to the richest of men.”
I do not flinch. Not outwardly.
Inside, however, I feel something small and aching stir—old and familiar. It is foolish to mourn what never was, and still, I do. I say nothing of what I overheard.
Lady Hensley receives me with her usual warmth when we return, bustling me toward the hearth and scolding the dampness in my hem. I smile, I thank her, I sip my tea, the words cling, whisper.
It should not matter. It does not. And yet, I excuse myself early that evening, pleading a headache. Lady Hensley insists on lavender oil and warm milk. Mr. Bingley offers his sincerest regrets. Mr. Darcy does not speak at all.
I do not look back as I ascend the stairs, though I feel a gaze follow me halfway up.
Sleep is elusive, I pace my room, watch the fire die low, and at last pull on my shawl, determined to walk the corridor and cool my thoughts. Netherfield is quiet now—servants retired, guests tucked behind heavy doors. Only the ticking of the longcase clock accompanies me as I drift toward the western wing, toward a small music room I had glimpsed earlier.
I do not expect to find it occupied, but there, silhouetted by the glow of a single candle, stands Mr. Darcy.
He is not in evening wear now, but in a simple shirt and waistcoat, collar undone. He does not turn when I enter, though he surely hears me. His hands rest on the closed lid of the pianoforte. He looks not quite at ease, and not quite himself.
“I thought I was alone,” I say softly.
“You often are,” he replies, without turning. “Even in a room full of people.”
The words strike with uncomfortable accuracy. I draw closer, careful to keep distance between us.
“Is that observation or confession?” I ask.
He turns now, his expression unreadable in the low light. “Both, perhaps.”
A long silence stretches between us.
I speak first. “Miss De Bourgh is said to be quite lovely.”
His brow lifts. “Is she?”
“By your silence, I rather thought you knew.”
Something akin to irritation and amusement flickers across his face. “You are angry with me.”
“No.” I cross my arms. “That would imply expectation. I’m merely... reminded of reality.”
He steps forward, carefully. “Reality is not always truth.”
“Oh?” I lift my chin. “And what is truth, Mr. Darcy?”
He doesn’t answer. Instead, his gaze drifts downward, then returns to mine with startling clarity.
“Truth,” he says quietly, “is that I never forgot the meadow.”
My breath catches. I say nothing, afraid even the sound of it will unravel me.
“You wore lavender,” he continues. “With your hair half down. I remember thinking you looked like the end of summer.”
I force a laugh, brittle as old paper. “We were children.” I want to scoff, to dismiss where we were leading to. But the intensity in his eyes halts me.
“Why didn’t you write?” I whisper.
His face shifts—guilt, shame, pride. “I was young and foolish. My father had just died. Everything was changing. And... I didn’t know what to say.”
He looks away. Outside, rain begins to fall, soft and steady against the windowpanes.
“I heard,” I say, my voice quieter now. “About Miss De Bourgh.”
“I imagine half the county’s heard.” He sighs. “She means well. And Miss De Bourgh is... convenient.”
“Convenient,” I echo. “How romantic.”
“Do not.” His voice sharpens slightly. “You think me cold, and perhaps I am. But I never lied—not then, and not now.”
I move toward the window, placing my hand against the cool glass. The garden below is cloaked in rain, the path we walked hours ago now slick and shadowed.
“I will not pretend to understand what you want from me,” I say.
“Nor I from myself.”
He’s behind me now, close enough that I feel his presence without touch.
His hand lifts—hesitates—and then falls back to his side. “Even now, I am drawn to you in ways I do not understand.”
The candle gutters, shadows wavering across the floor.
I do not turn. Instead, I ask the only question that matters.
“And if I cannot offer convenience? If I come with nothing but memory and a history you’d rather forget?”
At last, his voice cracks. “Then I will take memory, and all its weight, if it means I might have something real.”
The silence that follows is a living thing.
Neither of us breathes.
And still—I do not turn. Not because I am unmoved—far from it—but because to face him now would be to surrender something I am not yet ready to name. So I stand still as stone, and he does not press me.
Instead, I hear the faint retreat of his footsteps, the whisper of the door opening and closing, and then I am alone. The candle flickers once more, then dies.
...
"You were unsure which pain is worse - the shock of what happened or the ache for what never will." - Simon Van Booy, Everything Beautiful Began After
It is a truth seldom acknowledged—though often endured—that a woman of no great fortune and little distinction must make peace with the inevitability of being overlooked. I had long since accepted this as my portion, though not without some private rebellion of observation.
Though I was no Miss Bennet in liveliness, nor a Miss Lucas in worldly cunning, I was permitted, by virtue of distant relation and docile manners, to attend the Meryton Assembly. There I stand at the edge of the crowd, where wallflowers bloom and wither unnoticed, my hand extended to no one, my thoughts my only companions.
It was then I saw him—Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy, who had come to disturb the tender quiet of my life more than I could have foreseen.
He was, at first glance, every bit the figure of arrogant elegance the room whispered about. His gaze was high and unmoved, a sentinel surveying lesser lands. I did not look away when he turned; I studied him, a habit I had not the ability to resist. And in that moment, when he thought himself unseen, something flickered across his face. Not disdain. Not pride. Something lonelier.
It is a strange thing, to recognize pain in a stranger. Stranger still to feel, in response, not pity but kinship. Perhaps it was merely a projection of my own aching heart—what ridiculous errand was I inventing for myself, weeping in the dark recesses of my thoughts, imagining sorrow where there was only silence?
He stands with Mr. Bingley and the Miss Bennets, answering questions with brief courtesy. He is polite, but not engaged. Elizabeth teases him—she is one of the few who dares—and he parries with discomfort poorly disguised as indifference. Their exchanges crackle with unspoken challenge. He studies her, drawn and unsettled, his sharp tongue and sharper gaze not quite under control. She catches him off guard. I see it in the way his posture stiffens when she laughs.
Their interactions continue at gatherings, dinners, and walks. Always the same choreography: a push and pull, his attempts to maintain distance collapsing under the weight of his interest. He watches her speak with Colonel Fitzwilliam and Bingley, his eyes sharp with something he does not name. He is falling, slowly, awkwardly—and she is not impressed.
I was not part of the favored circle. I was not the witty and bright Miss Elizabeth who met his pride with fire. In time, we spoke—briefly, obliquely—at Rosings, where our paths crossed again. He sought her eyes always, but when she turned away, his gaze lingered elsewhere. On me.
After Elizabeth had eventually come to rejected his proposal, the weight of his silence was unbearable. We were alone in the garden once, two specters wandering the margins. He said little. But in his eyes, I saw a man newly hollowed out, carved by refusal. He spoke not of her, but of duty, of the weight of expectation.
"I have often been told," I ventured, too quietly, "that duty and affection must not dwell in the same house. But perhaps… perhaps affection is not so weak as we believe. It survives even in cold rooms."
He did not answer at once. His hand, gloved and motionless at his side, flexed slightly. And then: "Do you always speak so plainly?"
"Only when I am not expected to be heard."
It was the first time he truly looked at me.
I was no fool. I knew what I was. I was not his first thought nor his most bitter regret. Elizabeth's name lived behind every silence, and I—I had learned long ago to live within the margins of other people’s stories.
----
It is not in a single moment that affection blooms, but in a series of barely perceptible shifts—a light creeping through the curtains in the morning. You do not see it arrive, though suddenly the room is no longer dark.
Mr. Darcy’s change in manner was not one that others marked readily. He remained reserved in company, still carrying the chill of a man too well-acquainted with his own significance. Yet for those who watched carefully—for those who always watched carefully, as I did—there had been a change.
He came to me slowly, not in passion but in gravity. As if recognizing at last the constancy of a star barely visible among brighter constellations. Did that make his regard lesser? Or truer?
He no longer sought Elizabeth’s attention with the same silent intensity. At the card table at Rosings, where Lady Catherine’s voice soared shrill, his eyes found me more than once.
I was not accustomed to such glances. I had grown used to being the invisible woman—silent, unremarkable, present without ever quite being there. But now, when our gazes met, I felt the hot weight of being seen- it was not a comfort. It frightened me, for what could possibly come of it?
He had loved another. Openly, foolishly, nobly. She had refused him, and rightly so. She had the strength to reject not only his wealth, but the man who carried it. And I—did I have the strength to refuse being seen in her shadow?
It was during one of Lady Catherine’s interminable lectures on lineage and propriety that Elizabeth herself seemed to notice. She sat across from me, the candlelight dancing along the fine edge of her cheekbones, and she narrowed her eyes—not at Darcy, but at me. Not cruelly, not coldly, but in curiosity. Elizabeth was too intelligent not to perceive currents shifting beneath the surface.
Later that evening, when the party retired to the drawing room, she approached with her usual mixture of charm and candor.
“You are often in his company these days,” she said lightly, as if commenting on the weather.
I smiled, simply because it was safer than answering. “I suppose that is true. Rosings is a house of few amusements.”
She tilted her head. “And do you find Mr. Darcy… amusing?”
“Rarely,” I replied. “But he is not without interest.”
Elizabeth’s lips curved, but her eyes remained steady. “I had thought him incapable of interest in anyone who did not command a large estate or a handsome dowry.”
The words stung more than I expected. “Perhaps,” I said carefully, “he has begun to look more closely.”
“He is not a man easily understood. But I suspect—” she hesitated, just a moment, “—he is a man desperate to be known.”
I dared not ask her what she truly meant by that. Whether it was warning or encouragement, I could not say.
Mr. Darcy’s change, such as it was, found its sharpest definition in our walks. I had taken to escaping Rosings by foot, under the pretense of gathering wildflowers or sketching, and he had taken to appearing where he was least expected. One afternoon, as the clouds above Kent hung low and expectant, I found him waiting near a crumbling stone bridge. He said nothing of coincidence, merely offering his arm.
“I find it strange,” he said quietly as we walked, “that I have known you for nearly two fortnight and yet know so little of your thoughts.”
I laughed—soft, bitter. “It is not so strange, Mr. Darcy. Most people do not care for them, I have gone unnoticed my entire life.”
He stopped walking. The wind stilled as he looked deep within my eyes in an unmistakable longing.
My heart, ridiculous and untrained, betrayed me then. It beat fast, foolishly hopeful as he was watching me with that same strange, vulnerable quiet I had first seen at the Meryton Assembly.
I wondered—was I simply a comfort now that the bright flame of Elizabeth had burned him? Or had he found something in me that soothed without dazzling, warmed without burning?
Turning now back toward the house, we dared not speak, but his arm was still linked with mine.
---
It was a peculiar spring morning—neither warm nor cold, the sort of in-between weather that matches so well the uncertainty of human affections. I sit beneath the shade of a thin-boughed sycamore, pretending to read a book whose pages refused to hold my attention. For I had seen him that morning—Mr. Darcy—leaving the house with a look of severe determination etched across his brow.
And I had seen Elizabeth follow.
Their absence was not long. When they returned, I noticed at once the tension in the set of Elizabeth's shoulders, the abruptness of her steps, the stiffness in her spine. Mr. Darcy walked some paces behind, his face composed but drained of color.
Elizabeth’s eyes found mine immediately, and I knew—without being told—that the thing between them had cracked again, wider and more irreparably than before.
She approached me where I sat, her hands clasped tightly in front of her.
“Are you very fond of him?” she asked, with no prelude.
My breath caught, face flushing. “I—what an odd question.”
“Forgive me. I do not mean to pry. It is simply that I have just heard mentioned of you.”
I was startled, attention suddenly so awake. “He spoke of me?”
She nodded. “Not directly. But in the midst of speaking of pride, and of learning— he mentioned how easily things that shine quietly can go unnoticed.” She paused. “You shine quietly.”
It was a kindness, but it undid me. My throat tightened, and I could do no more than offer a small nod.
“I think,” Elizabeth added gently, “he would not speak that way of someone he did not feel deeply for. And I think… he is trying to change. That deserves to be seen, does it not?”
Before I could respond, a footman approached, bowing slightly. “A note, miss. Left by Mr. Darcy.”
I took the letter with a hand I tried to keep steady. Elizabeth offered one last, thoughtful glance before retreating.
The letter was not long.
Miss Y/L/N —
I do not know how to begin, except to say that what I feel for you is as unlike what I have felt before as night differs from dawn. There is no blaze—but there is warmth, and it does not fade when turned away.
I was once certain I understood love, but I was wrong. What I felt for Elizabeth Bennet was admiration, sharpened by opposition and pride. What I feel for you is a quiet undoing. I look at you and forget the need to be anything other than known.
If I have been slow to see you, it is not for lack of merit on your part, but blindness on mine.
Should you ever think of me with affection—true, unborrowed affection—I would be most unworthy and most grateful.
Yours,
F. D.
I read the letter once. Then again. Then I pressed it to my chest like a fool from some sentimental novel I would otherwise mock.
And still I could not breathe.
That night, I walked the corridors of Rosings like a restless spirit, the letter tucked in my sleeve, its presence a quiet thrum against my pulse.
I found him—perhaps he meant to be found—alone on the back terrace, looking out into the trees, the stars hidden behind heavy clouds.
He turned as I approached. His face was unreadable, yet the silence between us expectant.
“I should not have written,” he said, almost apologetic.
“You should have,” I whispered.
He exhaled. “Then you have read it.”
“I have.”
A long pause. I could feel the words rising within me, threatening to spill over the dam I had built with years of silence, of being second-best, the afterthought, the shadow behind brighter women.
“Do you know,” I began, “what it means to be second?”
He flinched—slightly. “Yes,” he said. “I do now.”
“And yet,” I continued, the storm inside me breaking loose, “you still ask for my heart, knowing you saw another’s first. Do you know of how cruel that feels?”
He stepped closer. “Cruel only if you believe love is a contest. But I do not come to you with a heart half-beating. I come to you because when she turned from me, I was forced to look at what I had never seen—and I saw you. I see you.”
I closed my eyes, and for a moment, I let the tears fall. Quietly, as I had always done. But this time, he did not let me cry alone.
He reached out—hesitantly—and took my hand.
“You need not reply,” he said. “Though if you choose—know that you would not be as a replacement within my heart."
And though the night was still and no stars shone, I believed him.
If Mr. Darcy’s glances had once been fleeting and shadowed, now forth they became steadier, deliberate—a quiet declaration in every prolonged look, in every conversation that lingered past propriety. It was not that he behaved improperly; indeed, Mr. Darcy was a master of decorum. However, those who know the rules most intimately also know how to bend them without breaking.
This change did not go unnoticed. Lady Catherine, who delighted in the grand performance of condescension, began to watch as one does an insect that has landed upon fine linen—distastefully, but with growing fascination.
“You are much in Mr. Darcy’s company,” she said one morning at breakfast, her voice cutting through the calm like a blade through lace. “He is a man of great consequence. I do hope you are not mistaking his civility for intimacy.”
The other guests, subdued as always beneath the weight of her titles and opinions, remained silent. I lifted my tea to my lips and replied without looking at her.
“I do not mistake Mr. Darcy. He is not a man easily misinterpreted.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Indeed. And yet it would be a terrible misfortune if someone of no rank or connection were to imagine herself more... essential than she truly is.”
Darcy entered the room just then—late, for once. His eyes swept the table and found mine. Whatever Lady Catherine had meant to do with her words, she failed- he saw me, and I him.
Later, we found ourselves alone in the library, which had become our quiet refuge.
“I am sorry,” he said as he stood near the hearth, his hand resting lightly on the mantelpiece. “About my aunt.”
“You are not your aunt,” I replied, though the sting of her words lingered still. “And I have survived far colder things than Lady Catherine.”
His brow furrowed. “She will not make it easy. Nor will others. I am not the man society expects to bend for the sake of sentiment.”
“And I am not the woman society expects you to choose,” I said. “But then, I have never cared for society’s expectations.”
I walked toward the shelves, pretending to study the spines of books I already knew by heart. “Have you considered what you would lose?”
“Yes,” he said without hesitation. “And still I find it worth the risk.”
I turned to him slowly. “Why?”
His eyes met mine, and this time there was no sadness in them, no longing for another life, another woman, another version of love.
“Because you challenge me, Miss Y/L/N,” he said, walking toward me. “Because you see what others overlook, and because, in your presence, I need not be impressive- only truly, completely honest.”
He reached for my hand, so gently I almost did not feel it until his fingers brushed mine.
“I find myself”—he paused, swallowing the weight of the moment—“beginning to need your companionship more than I ever thought myself capable of needing anything.”
I could not reply, for my heart had risen into my throat.
We stood in silence, the air between us thick with all that had not yet been said. There was no need for dramatic confessions, no declarations shouted across rain-slicked moors. There was only this—his steady heartbeat, and the quiet revelation that maybe—just maybe—I could be loved not in spite of being unknown, but because of it.
The world, however, was not content to let such a quiet love bloom untested.
Rumors bloomed faster than roses, whispers passed through the drawing rooms of Kent and Hertfordshire alike: Darcy has turned his attentions elsewhere... to a woman of no fortune, no name…
Perhaps it is a fancy…
Perhaps she caught him when his pride was wounded…
Perhaps she is not as unassuming as she appears…
And Elizabeth, dear Elizabeth, looked at me with a kind of wounded acceptance the next time we met at a gathering in Meryton. She said nothing, but her eyes held something between regret and understanding.
“You care for him?” she asked softly as we stood by the refreshments, both pretending not to notice the watchful eyes of the room.
“Yes,” I whispered, admittedly. “It frightens me.”
She offered me a sad smile. “As it always does.”
And still, he came to me. Each time with more certainty, each with less armor.
And I, still unsure if I was brave enough to bear the weight of being loved truly, began to hope.
---
It was a sharp April morning, the kind that makes even the birds cautious in their song. A strange tension filled the halls of Rosings Park, as though the very walls could sense that something long-buried was about to be unearthed.
I had been firmly instructed to attend Lady Catherine in her private sitting room. The letter delivered to my door bore her unmistakable script: sweeping, angular, and sharp as her tongue.
Mr. Darcy had not come to breakfast.
I entered the room with quiet grace, but my heart pounded like a thing wild. Lady Catherine stood at the window, her figure framed by ivy-covered panes, her hands clasped behind her back in the manner of one preparing to fire the first volley of a well-rehearsed war.
“I will speak plainly,” she said without turning. “My nephew is not free to throw his affections upon whom he pleases. He has duties. Responsibilities. Connections that span generations.”
“I have no doubt of that, Lady Catherine.”
She turned now, her eyes cold with something close to fury. “Then you must know what is expected of him. And what is not. A woman of no name, no consequence, no dowry—what can such a creature hope to offer a man such as Fitzwilliam Darcy?”
I felt the sting, but I did not flinch.
“Only love,” I said. “And perhaps a quiet happiness. If that is not enough, I will leave this house today and never look back.”
Her expression faltered, just for a moment. But then the sneer returned, cold and elegant. “You presume too much. He is not yet yours.”
“No,” I replied, calm despite the quake in my chest. “But I am his, in ways you cannot possibly understand. I love him, Lady Catherine. Not for his fortune, nor his name—but for the man he is beneath. For the man he is when he forgets to be proud.”
Before she could retort, the door opened and Darcy stood, tall and unmoving.
His eyes swept the room, taking in the tension. “Aunt,” he said, and though his voice was even, it held the unmistakable authority of a man no longer willing to be led.
“Fitzwilliam.” She looked almost triumphant. “I was just reminding your guest of the impropriety of her expectations.”
“And I am here,” he said, walking into the room with unhurried certainty, “to remind you, madam, that my expectations are mine to define.”
Lady Catherine gasped as if he’d struck her.
“She is not fit—”
“She is mine to choose,” he interrupted gently, but firmly. “And I have made my choice.”
Silence fell like a sword between them.
His eyes found mine then—not in hesitation, not in uncertainty, with the steady light of a man who had finally burned away all doubt.
“Come with me,” he said. I followed.
We walked through the gardens, neither of us speaking. The wind tugged at his coat and tossed my hair, but he did not seem to notice anything but me.
At last, in the shadow of the wild rose arch, he turned.
“I cannot offer you a life free from judgment. The world will not understand. Many will assume you are merely convenient, a replacement for another. I cannot protect you from that.”
“I never asked for protection,” I whispered.
“I know.” His voice softened. “That is why I love you.”
The air rushed from me at those words.
“I love you,” he said again, slower now, as if it had cost him everything and yet he would pay it gladly, a thousand times over. “Not because Elizabeth refused me. Not because I needed to find someone who made sense on paper. I love you because you see me. And I cannot—will not—go back to a life where I am invisible in plain sight.”
I could hardly speak. I had never been loved like this. Not seen, not chosen. Always second. Always nearly.
I looked at him then—really looked—and thought of how long I had yearned for a place to rest my spirit. How often I had imagined being cherished not for beauty or wealth, but for the weight of my words, the depths of my thoughts, the quiet care I offered like a lamp in the cold.
“Maybe,” I said, voice breaking with both sorrow and relief, “in a parallel universe, I was not betrayed so poetically.”
He smiled softly. “But in this one, I love you. And I am asking you—without pride, without presumption—will you be mine?”
"I've been looking after people my whole life. Holding it together. Holding everyone together. And I've stopped. And I'm exhausted." - Joanna Glenn
The household was never silent. The laughter of younger voices carried from the garden, mingling with the rustling of fabric as maids hurried through the corridors. You moved between rooms with ease, a gentle touch here to straighten a misplaced candlestick, a quiet word there to remind Cook of your father’s preference for a lighter breakfast. The house ran on unspoken expectations, and it was left to you to preside over the household as you had done since girlhood.
At the great dining table, your younger sisters engaged in merry chatter, untroubled by the unseen labors that made their ease possible. Your father read his paper, nodding absently at your greeting before retreating into silence. It was the same each morning, the same small burdens, the same quiet sacrifices that no one saw.
You did not pause for breakfast; there was no time for indulgence in weariness, nor for thoughts of yourself. There never had been. Your mother, prone to fatigue and ever in need of attention, would soon wake with fresh complaints, and there was no telling which of your sisters would require soothing by midday.
It was not until late in the afternoon, when the sun had begun its slow descent beyond the hedgerows, that you allowed yourself a moment’s respite in the drawing room. You sank into a chair by the window, allowing the warmth of the light to settle upon your face. Just a moment, you told yourself. Just a moment to breathe.
The room was in great disorder. A sewing basket lay overturned upon the settee, an unfinished sampler peeking from beneath a cushion. The pianoforte stood open, a sheet of music left upon its stand where it had been abandoned mid-piece. A faint scent of lavender clung to the air, evidence of its frequent use to calm ailing nerves. Unable to keep seated amidst the mess, you stood again abruptly, your gown, a soft shade of blue, rustling, your hands clasped together as though you sought to still their trembling.
Your mother reclined upon a chaise, fanning herself languidly, speaking in the tones of one long accustomed to indisposition, whilst your younger sisters, full of youthful carelessness, laughed in the adjoining room, heedless of your cares. Your father, though not an unkind man, was ever withdrawn, lost in his own musings, and so it was you who bore the burden of the household. It was you who soothed your mother’s complaints, who ensured the servants were not overtasked nor idle, who tended to your siblings' caprices with patience too long tested.
“You fret too much,” your mother sighed, waving her fan with an air of practiced fragility. “Come, sit with me. It wearies me to see you so much in motion.”
You managed a smile, one that had long since become second nature. “I am well, Mama.”
You turned your gaze to the window, seeking some respite in the fading light of the evening, when a movement upon the gravel path caught your attention. A figure on horseback. A gentleman dismounting. You knew that posture, that precise manner of movement. Mr. Darcy.
You did not wish to receive him now. And yet, the butler was already moving to admit him.
“Mr. Darcy.”
You straightened from where you tended to a vase, the scent of roses clinging to your fingertips.
The door opened, and he entered, tall and composed, his dark eyes sweeping the room with quiet calculation. Fitzwilliam Darcy had long since mastered the art of observation. He had been this way even in childhood—silent, brooding, watching while you and Georgiana tumbled through the meadows of Pemberley with youthful abandon. But time had refined him, hardened the edges of his presence.
You had not seen him these two weeks, though you were ever still accustomed to that intent, searching gaze. He had observed you when others had not. When your hands trembled over a teacup. When you turned away for but a moment longer than necessary to gather yourself.
“Mr. Darcy,” your mother greeted with affected warmth, “what an unexpected pleasure.”
His bow was courteous, his words brief, but his eyes—his eyes found you at once.
“Miss Y/L/N,” he said quietly.
You dipped your head, smoothing your skirts. “Mr. Darcy.”
“I had occasion to be in the neighborhood.” The lie was polite, but you knew it for what it was. “My apologies for the intrusion.” His gaze swept the room, taking in the scene—the abandoned music, the overturned sewing. He was no fool. He saw what others did not.
You watched the way his gaze settled on you, not intrusive, not demanding, but aware. Aware of the fraying ribbon at your wrist, the stiffness in your shoulders, the way you had been moving from task to task without pause.
Your mother prattled on, but he was undeterred. He did not sit. Instead, after a pause, he asked, “Might you care for a walk, Miss Y/L/N?”
The words were simple, but they held a quiet insistence, yet carried no force. An invitation, not a demand.
You hesitated, glancing at your mother, at the house that never ceased demanding. You ought to remain. There was always something to do, some task unfinished, some need unattended. But your mother had already waved a languid hand. “Go, my dear. The fresh air will do you good.”
You inclined your head. “If you please.”
The pair stepped into the evening, where the air was cool and gentle upon your face. The gravel crunched beneath your steps as you moved through the garden paths, silence settling between you like an old companion. You did not need to fill it; he had never required such things of you.
“I have observed much, Miss Y/L/N.”
You exhaled, a small, mirthless smile lingering. “You are not alone in that.”
After some time, he spoke, his voice, though ever composed, held an edge of something unfamiliar. “You bear much upon your shoulders.”
A breath of laughter escaped you. “That is an observation, indeed.”
You turned to him fully then, eyes searching. The wind played with the loose strands of your hair, and for once, you let them be. There was no pity in his expression—no condescension. Only understanding.
“I have been looking after people my whole life,” you admitted. “Holding it together. Holding everyone together.” A breath. “And I have stopped. And I am exhausted.”
You did not know why you spoke so freely. Perhaps it was because he had seen it already, without you telling.
His jaw tightened, but not in displeasure. If you did not know him better, you would have mistaken it for restraint.
He was silent for a long moment. Then, softly—so softly you almost did not hear it—he said, “And who looks after you?”
You had no answer. The words had never been spoken aloud, not to anyone.
Another silence. And then, with a quiet resolve that sent something trembling through you, he said, “Then allow me.”
It was with no small degree of discomfort that you met Mr. Darcy's gaze, a gaze so intense, yet so steady, that it seemed to penetrate the very recesses of your heart. A tremor passed through you, though you would have wished to remain composed.
To accept his care was not a mere concession of charity—it was an opening of your soul, a door you had long kept bolted and closed. And yet, in that very moment, the burden of the world seemed to become both heavier and lighter, as though the very weight of his intentions had made your heart beat with a strange combination of hope and apprehension.
"Mr. Darcy, you could not-" you began, but the words caught in your throat. His expression was so earnest, so implacably solemn, as though he had made a resolution far deeper than any to which you could lay claim.
He interjected, sensing your forthcoming ramble. "It is not necessary to give answer now, Miss Y/L/N. Only know that I will be here, should you wish me to."
"I could not impose upon you," you said, your voice quivering slightly. "I have so few moments truly my own, and I must attend to matters...," you trailed off, unable to give full voice to the many tasks that swirled in your mind, waiting for your attention.
"I am no stranger to responsibility," his voice unwavering but softened by a warmth you had not anticipated. "And while you have borne your burdens alone, it is not weakness to seek a respite, nor care in return. If you would allow it, I would wish to offer my support."
His words struck you with an unexpected force, and for a moment, you saw him not as the man who had grown to such dignity and reserve, but as the boy who had shared with you the carefree joys of childhood, running together in meadows and laughing as though the world could hold no greater pleasure. Time, it seemed, had only thickened the walls between your lives, but beneath those walls, the threads of that long-ago friendship were still firmly entwined, like roots stretching out beneath the surface, untouched by the years.
The garden glowed with the golden hue of the late afternoon sun, while the scent of flowers surrounded you like a tender embrace. You felt perhaps too crowded, and yet so very seen.
“Your kindness is not lost on me," you ventured, searching his eyes for the right words. "But must it come amid...such unexpected declarations?”
He paused, clearly deliberating his next words, gathering an inner fortitude. “There is more behind my visit today than mere concern for your well-being. I come to offer a partnership, Miss Y/L/N, should you so desire it.”
A flutter of confusion mingled with a nervous thrill. “A partnership?” you echoed, your heart racing with an urgency to understand his full meaning.
He took a step closer, the air between you charged. “I have spent these past months pondering my affections, despite the silence that has seeped between us over these years. You, Miss Y/L/N, have inhabited my thoughts with a constancy that I find unsettling. I have such admired you since our youthful days, though I dared not to let such sentiment show.”
The world seemed to fall away as your heart thudded in your chest, the magnitude of his admission enveloping you. The past, once so distinct, seemed to merge into this moment, the lines between childhood youth and a mature, longing desire growing faint and uncertain.
“Mr. Darcy-” you began, your voice wavering with emotion, but he pressed on, his words now flowing with a sincerity that left no room for doubt: “I seek not the friendship we once shared, nor merely a union born of obligation, but as something deeper. I seek your hand, and I hope you will consider me worthy of such an honor.”
For a moment, you were stunned into silence, completely unprepared for the direction this conversation had taken. “You seek my hand?” you finally asked, your voice nearly incredulous.
He nodded firmly, his dark eyes never leaving yours. “My feelings are quite sincere and will no longer be suppressed.”
“Mr. Darcy,” you started, your voice quiet but clear. “You are a man of deep conviction, and your admission is a treasure I could never have anticipated. You do me a great honor,” You paused, allowing yourself to consider his proposal. “And while I cannot readily forsake my duties, I am drawn to your offer- I am willing to explore it.”
A smile, faint but resolute, broke across his lips, and a glimmer of triumph lit his gaze. "Then let us proceed with care. I must seek your father’s permission, for I would not presume to engage without his blessing.”
You observed him, marveling at how even in declarations of love, he adhered most strictly to the weight of propriety. “And what will you say, Mr. Darcy?” The question escaped your lips with a mixture of curiosity and trepidation. The gravity of the situation settled over you, as you realized that once he approached your father, the course of both your lives would be irrevocably altered.
“I shall express to your father the truth of my affections, my admiration for you, and the deep yearning I have to make you my wife,” he replied, his brow furrowing slightly.
A soft blush crept into your cheeks at his words. The depth of his sentiments touched you deeply. “I trust in you,” you said quietly, your voice trembling as you spoke the admission aloud. “If you see in me something of value, who am I to argue otherwise? Perhaps it is time to unravel my threads of duty, even if only a little.”
He nodded, his expression resolute yet softening at your approval. “Then I shall take my leave shortly, but allow me to extend an invitation of sorts: let us stroll in the gardens tomorrow as we did in our youth once more.”
As the gold-drenched sky began to darken with dusk, you found yourself shedding the last vestiges of nervousness. A hint of laughter broke the air between you. “It would be rather indulgent, would it not?” you remarked teasingly, allowing a lightness to lace your voice. “When tomorrow beckons with responsibilities yet undone.”
His lips curled in a small, familiar grin, the light of youth still evident in the lines of his face. “Ah, then perhaps we shall keep pace with our respective duties. Yet, I hold fast to my hope that this new chapter shall entice you into a few stolen moments of brightness.”
Mr. Darcy’s resolve seemed unwavering, and as you walked together, an uncertain yet vibrant energy filled the spaces between you. The evening air was rich with promise, and as he bid you farewell, the warmth of his hand upon yours lingered.
---
It was the very next morning, when the sun had just begun to cast a golden hue over the landscape, that Mr. Darcy made his way to your father’s study. The decision had been made, and now the task of formalizing his intentions rested with him.
Your father was seated in his study, papers spread before him as he perused some documents of business in a rare moment of solitude for him.
The knock on the door was light but firm, and he bade the visitor enter without looking up. Mr. Darcy stepped in, his tall figure cutting a commanding presence in the doorway.
Your father received him with the courteous politeness that was his custom, though there was no mistaking the seriousness with which the gentleman entered the room. The two men exchanged pleasantries before your father motioned for him to take a seat, his expression curious but reserved.
"Mr. Darcy," your father began, glancing with an almost imperceptible raise of his brow. “I understand that you have a matter of some importance to discuss. I trust you have been in good health these past days?”
Mr. Darcy stepped forward with measured grace, his gaze steady. “I am in good health, sir,” Mr. Darcy replied, his voice steady, though there was a certain formality to it that betrayed the importance of the conversation he was about to initiate. “And I am grateful for your receiving me so promptly. It is a matter of no small consequence, and I hope you will indulge me as I speak candidly.”
Your father nodded, his eyes narrowing ever so slightly in preparation for what was to come. “I am all ears, Mr. Darcy. What is it that brings you to my study this fine morning?”
Mr. Darcy hesitated for but a moment before he spoke, his gaze steady and unwavering. "Sir, I have come to speak with you regarding your daughter, Miss Y/L/N."
Your father set his pen down slowly, the words hanging in the air between them. He studied Mr. Darcy for a moment, his expression unreadable. “I had hoped this day would come,” your father said at last, his tone deliberately neutral. "But I must ask—what do you seek, Mr. Darcy?"
"I seek her hand in marriage, sir." Mr. Darcy’s words were spoken with an air of finality, though his eyes remained vigilant, searching your father’s response.
He paused, as though gathering his thoughts, and then continued. “I have long admired Miss Y/L/N, from the days of our shared childhood to the present, and over these past months, I have come to realize that my feelings for her have deepened into something far greater than mere affection. I stand before you today with the utmost sincerity, requesting your permission to seek her hand in marriage.”
There was a long silence as your father regarded Mr. Darcy thoughtfully, his fingers tapping lightly on the polished surface of the desk. The weight of the decision pressing upon him as he considered the man who stood before him, a man whose reputation and conduct were known to him but whose heart, until now, had remained somewhat of a mystery.
Your father’s gaze softened, though the gravity of the conversation remained. “I can see that your intentions are sincere, Mr. Darcy. And as you know, I hold your family in the highest regard. Still, this is not a matter to be decided in haste.”
Mr. Darcy inclined his head, acknowledging your father’s words without interruption. “I understand, sir, and I do not ask for your consent lightly. My feelings for Miss Y/L/N are genuine, and I am prepared to make every effort to prove myself worthy of her trust. She has been a constant presence in my thoughts, and it is with the deepest respect and affection that I come before you now.”
"Very well," your father replied, standing. "Then you have my blessing. But know that you must prove yourself worthy of her heart, as it is not lightly given."
With a deep bow, Mr. Darcy turned to leave, "Thank you, sir."
That afternoon, as planned, you found Mr. Darcy awaiting you by the garden, half-hidden behind a flourish of roses, their petals tenderly kissed by the remaining dew. He looked as if time had folded itself, and you were once again that carefree girl, ready to step into a shared adventure.
“Miss Y/L/N,” he greeted with a slight bow, “shall we explore the winding paths together?”
Carnations fluttered their wings in the breeze, and a smile ignited upon your lips, for with him, you dared to dream— a union cloaked not merely in the obligations of society but born of understanding, respect, and a profound affection that tethered your hearts with an unbreakable bond.
As you walked side by side with Mr. Darcy, the unfurling blossoms mirrored the offering of your hearts, bare yet swathed in the tender fabric of love's newfound promise.
"Eyes are full of language." - Anne Sexton, from a letter
It had been Eliza’s idea, her enthusiasm a force too persistent to resist. She had spoken of nothing else but the ball for days, her imagination filled with whispered conversations, stolen glances, and the prospect of encountering Mr. Wickham, whom she had deemed the most charming of gentlemen.
Our aunt and uncle, in their usual indulgence, had approved the outing, insisting that I accompany my sister, much to my dismay. “A diversion would do you good, (Y/N),” my uncle had said, his kindly eyes regarding me over his spectacles. “You spend far too much time reading and far too little enjoying yourself. Besides, I am quite certain you will not be without company.”
His words had been accompanied by a knowing glance, and I had no difficulty in discerning the implication. For weeks, my aunt and uncle had been convinced that a certain gentleman held a regard for me that went beyond polite civility, though I had done all in my power to dissuade such notions.
Mr. Darcy, despite his reserved nature and taciturn ways, had indeed paid me more attention than I had expected. Yet, whatever sentiments he harbored, he had not spoken them aloud, nor had I sought to encourage him. He was a man of great consequence, but one who often provoked more frustration than admiration in me.
Eliza, in contrast, was beside herself with excitement as we made our way to the gardens. Her lively chatter filled the carriage, and I was scarcely able to get a word in. "It shall be a most delightful evening, (Y/N), I am certain of it! The music, the dancing, the company—just think! You must promise me you will not sulk in some corner and refuse every gentleman who asks for your hand in a dance."
"I do not sulk," I replied, though my tone lacked conviction. "Nor do I have any intention of dancing."
Eliza pouted. "You are impossible. If I did not love you so dearly, I would consider you hopeless."
"It is not hopelessness," I said lightly. "Only a preference for quiet over crowds, sincerity over flattery."
Eliza sighed dramatically, as though my words were an affliction upon her senses. "Very well, but at least pretend to enjoy yourself for my sake. And, who knows, perhaps even Mr. Darcy will make an appearance."
My cheeks warmed at the mention of his name, and I could not suppress a sharp exclamation. "Eliza!" I cried, my voice inadvertently rising. I glanced at our aunt and uncle, who were engaged in conversation across from us, and silently wished for this improper subject to be dismissed.
Yet, as fate would have it, Mr. Darcy was not as easily dismissed.
As the carriage approaches, the view of Vauxhall Gardens shimmered with a thousand lanterns, their golden light casting a gentle glow upon the visitors. The air, drifting music that mingles with the scent of roasted almonds and the faint perfume of summer roses, did little to calm the nervous flutter in my stomach as I smoothed the silk of my gown.
The ballroom was awash in golden candlelight, the music a lilting backdrop to the hum of conversation. Elegant figures moved gracefully about the room, their laughter light and carefree. Eliza was immediately swept into the throng, leaving me momentarily alone to observe the scene.
I had little time to gather my composure before I became aware of a presence near me. Turning, I found myself face to face with none other than Mr. Darcy. My breath caught, though I quickly schooled my expression into one of polite indifference.
“Miss (Y/L/N),” he greeted, his voice as measured as ever. “You are well, I trust?”
I nodded, forcing a small smile. “Indeed, sir. And you?”
“Well enough,” he said, hesitating, as if warring over some unspoken thought. “Would you do me the honour of this dance?”
I blinked, taken aback. Mr. Darcy, who so often avoided social gaiety, was asking me to dance? I hesitated, but the quiet intensity in his gaze held me captive.
“I…” The refusal I intended to make faltered on my lips. “Yes. I would be honoured.”
He extended his hand, and I placed mine in his, suppressing the shiver that coursed through me at the contact. As he led me onto the floor, I was acutely aware of the way his fingers lingered just slightly longer than propriety dictated.
The music began, and we moved together in perfect harmony. I had expected awkwardness, a stiffness to our movements, yet there was none. Instead, there was an unspoken understanding between us, a wordless conversation held in glances and fleeting touches.
“You do not enjoy such gatherings,” I murmured, unable to suppress my curiosity. “Yet you are here.”
His gaze was steady, voice strong with all propriety. “And you, Miss (Y/L/N)? Do you enjoy them?”
I hesitated. “I find them… overwhelming at times.”
A ghost of a smile touched his lips. “Then we are alike in that.”
The dance continued, our eyes meeting more often than was strictly necessary. Each glance sent a strange warmth through me, a silent acknowledgment of something unspoken yet undeniably present.
As the final notes of the music faded, he released my hand, though the absence of his touch was immediately felt. He bowed. “Thank you, Miss (Y/L/N).”
I curtsied, my pulse unsteady. “The pleasure was mine, sir.”
Before either of us could say more, Eliza appeared, breathless and beaming. “Oh, (Y/N)! You must come at once—Mr. Wickham is simply the most delightful man!”
I turned back to Mr. Darcy, but he had already stepped away, disappearing into the crowd. Despite the lack of his presence, I felt his gaze on me still, lingering like a whispered promise.
"Do try to look less like a condemned woman, (Y/N)," Eliza whispered, tugging at my sleeve playfully. "Mr. Wickham is approaching! For heaven's sake, do smile!"
I forced my lips into the semblance of a smile, though the effort was a weary one. Mr. Wickham, all handsome and easy charm, was indeed making his way towards us, his eyes alight with a well-practiced flattery that I found patently false. His bow was deep, his expression one of ardent admiration.
“Ladies,” he greeted, bowing low. “Miss Eliza, you are the very picture of delight this evening." he said, his voice smooth as honey. "And Miss (Y/L/N), as captivating as ever.
I offered a curtsey, my gaze drifting past him in search of a more welcome countenance that would offer a reprieve from this tedious performance. It was then that my breath caught. Across the crowd, poised in stark contrast to the revelry around him, stood Mr. Darcy, eyes unwaveringly beholding my own.
His presence was not one that could be overlooked, nor was his gaze. Dark, unwavering, fixed upon mine with an intensity that sent an unfamiliar thrill through my chest. There was no smile, nor a deign to offer any gesture of recognition despite our previous connection. And yet, I could not look away.
A sudden, suffocating need for escape seized me. Inclining my head with the utmost politeness, "Mr. Wickham," I said, voice barely above a whisper, "I believe I see my aunt. Do excuse me."
Without awaiting his reply, I turned and moved swiftly through the crowd, not daring to look back. I did not stop until I found refuge near a fountain at the gardens’ edge, its gentle spray a welcome respite from the unexplainable warmth that had taken hold of me.
I had barely drawn a steadying breath when a voice—deep, measured, and entirely too near—cut through the quiet.
“Miss (Y/L/N).”
I turned, finding him standing before me. Even in the dim glow of the lanterns, his presence was arresting. He appeared, as ever, composed, though there was something in his expression that gave me pause. A tension, a conflict barely restrained beneath the surface.
“Mr. Darcy,” I replied, barely managing a semblance of composure. “I trust you are enjoying the evening’s entertainments."
His silence was measured, his gaze searching. Then, at last, he spoke, his voice a low murmur. "As you have already quite concluded, I find little amusement in such diversions. At least, not in the manner society expects."
There was something pointed in his words, though I could not discern their meaning. “Indeed, sir? And what manner might that be?”
His lips pressed together, as if warring with some unspoken thought and, at length, exhaled, his expression darkening. "Must I be so plain, Miss (Y/L/N)? Must I lay bare the torment , the... damnation that your eyes—unwittingly or not—inflict upon me?"
The audacity! I took a step back, startled by the force of his words. "Torment, sir? I do not comprehend you."
His expression tightened. "No, I believe you do not. And yet, you look at me with those eyes—those damnable, knowing eyes—and I am undone."
I gasped, heat rising to my cheeks. "What impertinence!" I retorted, my voice rising despite my best efforts. "Mr. Darcy, You speak in riddles, and in a tone most unbecoming. I have given you no cause-"
"No cause?" He answered lowly, taking a step closer, the mere breadth of air between us crackling with something unspoken, something vast. "You are greatly mistaken, madam. From the very moment of our acquaintance, you have given me every cause. With your wit, your spirit, your very being—you have ensnared me, and I am helpless against it."
His eyes, dark with emotion, bore into mine, and for the first time, I saw in them not only pride and restraint, but something deeper. As if they were searching for something I was not willing to give.
"Damn your eyes," he repeated, the words now laced with a raw honesty that disarmed me. "They speak of things… things I dare not hope for."
To hear such words, such raw emotion, from Mr. Darcy, the epitome of restraint, was almost unbelievable. He continued to stare at me with such intensity. "Then perhaps you ought to look away, sir," I swallowed, my voice barely a whisper. "Lest your damnation be complete."
He did not look away. Instead, he moved still nearer, the heat of his gaze scorching me to my very core, his voice hushed yet unwavering. "I find, Miss (Y/L/N), that I am not at all sure that I wish to."
The words stole the breath from my lips. In that moment, beneath the flickering lanterns and the distant strains of music, I knew with terrible certainty that whatever fate lay before me, it would be irrevocably entangled with Mr. Darcy and the silent, searing intensity of his gaze.
The moment lingered, suspended between propriety and something far more dangerous. The air between us was charged, yet before I could muster a response, a voice called my name from across the garden. I turned sharply, breaking his gaze, and saw my aunt approaching with hurried steps.
"My dear, we have been looking for you everywhere!" she exclaimed. "Eliza is quite in raptures over her dance with Mr. Wickham, and I daresay she will not cease talking of it for days. But come, it is growing late, and your uncle wishes to depart."
I hesitated, glancing once more at Mr. Darcy. His expression had shifted, his mask of restraint slipping back into place. Whatever raw honesty had graced his features mere moments ago was now buried beneath layers of control. He bowed slightly. "Good evening, Miss (Y/L/N)."
And just like that, the moment was lost.
The journey home was a blur, my thoughts ensnared by the encounter. My heart waged a battle against my reason, and sleep that night was elusive, haunted by the memory of dark eyes and words spoken in hushed fervor.
The carriage jolted against the rutted track, its wheels groaning in protest. Though a discomfort long familiar, after weeks of Longbourn’s tranquil stillness, the motion felt particularly jarring. You clutched a small leather-bound volume of sonnets, Fitzwilliam's letters tucked safely between its pages, and gazed out at the passing landscape.
The view was one of welcome familiarity, yet transformed in the delicate light of early spring. The budding trees stretched forth their limbs, as though to embrace the season, and the sky painted a brilliant canvas of dawn’s first blush. Your thoughts, however, were far from the scenery before you. They lingered upon the last letter you had received, the words of which you had committed to memory as a devotional, a promise of affection written to you alone. Each phrase, each tender sentiment, was a new stroke upon a portrait, capturing the essence of a man you knew, and yet, found yourself discovering anew with every passing moment.
Two weeks had passed since you had penned your last reply, a letter more akin to whispered confessions than mere correspondence. The anticipation of seeing Fitzwilliam again was almost unbearable. In your mind’s eye, you pictured him standing at the grand entrance of Pemberley tall and proud, his eyes, those deep, intelligent pools, seeking yours with an intensity that left you breathless.
The carriage’s wheels creaked as they rolled over the gravel drive, the familiar façade of Pemberley coming into view. A wave of emotion swept over you– a mixture of anticipation, relief, and perhaps, the fluttering of nervousness. You adjusted your bonnet, smoothing the unruly wisps of hair that had escaped during the journey. Though it had only been two fortnights since your departure, the sight of Pemberley stirred feelings as though you had been absent for years. The gardens, with sprawling blooms, the stately columns, and the comforting warmth of its walls, brought a rush of warmth to your heart.
Leaning slightly from the carriage window, your gaze sweeping over the grounds. The roses had just begun to bloom, their vibrant petals nodding gently in the breeze, as if welcoming you home. Then, standing at the entrance, a figure—tall, dignified, and unmistakable even at a distance. There he stood, your Fitzwilliam, as handsome and composed as ever, only his eyes beheld a softness reserved solely for your own.
As the carriage came to a halt, you arose swiftly, feet scarcely grazing the earth before he was before you. His eyes met yours with such tenderness that your breath caught. Without a word, he took your hand, fingers gently closing about yours in a grasp that spoke both of tender support and affection so firm, it seemed to resist relinquishing its hold even once you were upon firm ground.
For a moment, the world faded, the moment still. The grand view of Pemberley, the bustle of servants, and the distant sound of birdsong vanished, leaving only Fitzwilliam before you. A small, knowing smile touched his lips as he began, his voice deep and rich.
"Y/N," he uttered, a tremor of emotion in his tone that sent a rush of feeling through your heart.
"Fitzwilliam," you replied, your voice soft, as though speaking too loudly might break the spell that had settled between you.
“How was your journey, my dear?” He asked, his voice a low murmur, still holding your gaze, “And how does Elizabeth fare?"
"The journey, though long, was quite tolerable," you said, thumbs idly tracing the back of his hand, "And Elizabeth, thank heaven, is much improved. I believe she would be quite delighted to hear that the gardens here have yet to see their full bloom."
A smile tugged at his lips, followed by a gentle chuckle. "Then perhaps a walk will be in order later this afternoon," he mused, before taking on a softer note, "My beloved, I have missed you more than words can say, these last weeks have seemed an eternity."
Heat rose to your cheeks, and with a small, shy smile, you answered, “I, too, have missed you, Fitzwilliam.”
You stood there for a moment, lost in the stillness of his gaze. The unspoken words of your letters hung in the air, tangible, real, and overwhelmingly precious. It was a simple moment, a quiet exchange, but it was enough. Your return to Pemberley, to his side, was all that mattered.
“You are home,” he said softly, voice heavy with the weight of both longing and relief.
“And how I have missed it,” you replied, your voice catching slightly as you met his gaze.
His expression softened in a way that was reserved solely and entirely for you. “And I, you,” he murmured. “Each day without you felt endless, and now, having you here, I find my world whole once more.”
In the warmth of his presence, with the steadiness of his hand upon yours, and the quiet intensity of his gaze enveloping you, the weight of the time you had spent apart dissolved. The letters, though deeply cherished, could never compare to the profound joy of standing by his side once more.
He led you inside, through the familiar, grand hallways of Pemberley, the house itself feeling at once magnificent and comforting. The housekeeper, Mrs. Reynolds, greeted you warmly, and the servants bustled about, but it was Fitzwilliam’s presence that anchored you, his hand lingered gently upon your back as he guided you forward.
When at last you reached a drawing room, he turned to you, expression thoughtful. “I have something for you,” he said, his tone carrying a hint of quiet excitement. From a nearby table, he retrieved a small, beautifully wrapped box and handed it to you.
Curious, you opened it, revealing a delicate gold locket. In it was a miniature painting of Pemberley on one side and, on the other, a small sprig of pressed lavender.
“To remind you,” he said, voice low, “that no matter where you may be, Pemberley—and I—shall always await your return.”
A swell of emotion rose within you, and tears pricked at the corners of your eyes as you traced the locket’s delicate surface. “Fitzwilliam,” you whispered, meeting his gaze. “You always know how to make me feel so cherished.”
“And you, my love,” he said, his voice steady with earnestness, “have made me the happiest of men.”
Without a word more, you closed the distance between you, wrapping your arms around him as he drew you close. In his embrace, the weight of your time apart dissolved, replaced by the certainty of the future you would share.
That evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting the gardens in a golden glow, you strolled hand in hand through the grounds. The air was sweet with the scent of blooming flowers, and the stars began to dot the sky, their light reflected upon the gentle ripples of the lake.
Pemberley had never felt more like home, and in Fitzwilliam’s arms, you knew you had found your forever
Read Part 2 Here
"Writing to you is like kissing you. It is something physical" - Simone de Beauvoir, in a letter to Nelson Algren
March 14th, 1812
Pemberley
My Dearest Mrs. Darcy,
I scarcely know how to begin this letter to you, as I feel the inadequacy of words to capture even a fraction of what rests within me. To write to you is an undertaking that both thrills and overwhelms me, for I have come to realize that this act—this simple pen upon paper—feels, indeed, as if it holds within it some greater intimacy. It is as though each stroke of ink brings me nearer to you, as if, in each word, I might pour my very being into these pages.
I am, I find, restless without you. Every hour without sight of you feels wanting. And here I am, committing thoughts to paper, each line bridging the distance between us. I cannot look upon the sunlight filtering through our windows without wishing you were here to see it with me. Would it be wrong to admit that I imagine how your presence might soften the edges of this house? How each corner of Pemberley might seem warmer, kinder, were you by my side once more?
Your absence has become a weight upon my heart, one I am only able to ease through this letter. Every line I write, my dear, feels like a tangible reaching out to you—something as close to holding you near as I am permitted. Pray tell how everything has gone along in Longbourn, the health of your dear sister and family, and the journey you have had.
Yours,
Fitzwilliam
---
March 18th, 1812
Longbourn
My Dear Mr. Darcy,
Your letter arrived but this morning, and I cannot tell you what comfort it has brought me to hear from you. Truly, I feel the world shifts, becoming softer, warmer, whenever I receive your words. I write to you from Longbourn, where the floral scents of spring begin to awaken the gardens after a long and weary winter. I am here attending to my beloved sister, Elizabeth, who, as you know, has been unwell. It has been a trying period for our family, and I find comfort in writing to you.
Your words—I confess, brought a blush to my cheeks, for they are too dear to me. How strange it is, this sensation, that one can feel so connected to another through mere words! Is it folly, do you think, to feel the press of your presence when I read each line? I should be sensible, but the truth is I wish to bask in this feeling a little longer. When I am without you, my thoughts are never fully here. They are drawn to you with a yearning that is as much of the heart as it is of the mind.
I must admit that while the days grow brighter, my heart feels heavy as I watch Lizzy languish in her sickbed. I fear for her spirits, and my thoughts drift endlessly to your kindness shown when you visited us last. Please, my dear Mr. Darcy, do share with me how you occupy your time during these spring days. I find myself eager for any news of back home.
Write to me, if you would be so kind. I shall be waiting, dear sir.
With all fondness,
Y/N Darcy
---
March 22nd, 1812
Pemberley
My Beloved,
How shall I confess that your letter has left me in a state I am hard-pressed to name? Indeed, writing to you is like an extension of my very self. Each stroke, each line—do you know that I feel it as I might feel the brush of your hand against mine? There is an indelible connection, one that feels as though it must be physical, though there are miles between us.
I trust your sister grows stronger with each day, and you tirelessly remain her watchful guardian. It is a testament to the deep bond of sisterhood, which I have come to admire greatly. Pray send Elizabeth my regards, and inform her that my thoughts of her continued recovery are unwavering.
Though I have been consumed with my affairs in Derbyshire, my thoughts frequently return to our last conversation. I recall the way you spoke of your family with such affection, your voice a melodious balm amidst the noise of society. The image of you walking through the gardens at Pemberley—blooming flowers reflecting in the depths of your attentive eyes—has imprinted itself in my mind.
If I could, I would ride to Longbourn at this very moment, yet I know my responsibilities bind me here. Therefore, I shall write fervently, as though my words are kisses shared between us, the longing amplified with each correspondence.
Until we meet again, I remain,
Yours and only yours,
Fitzwilliam
---
March 25th, 1812
Longbourn
My Dearest Fitzwilliam,
There, I have written your name with all the tenderness I feel, and how bold it makes me to see it before me! Yes, I share in this strange, wonderful sensation. I confess, my love, I feel your presence as keenly as if you were seated beside me, gazing upon these pages as I write. It is a curious thing to be filled with such warmth, such softness, that one’s heart seems always on the brink of spilling over.
I can scarcely bring myself to sign each letter with only my name, as it feels inadequate, almost painfully so. To be yours, my love, is the sweetest privilege I could have imagined, and I find myself yearning, desperately, to be near you in every way.
Your thoughts of the garden fill me with delight. I have taken to reciting poetry aloud among the roses, imagining what your response would be to the verses spoken beneath the bold blue sky. I believe they carry a piece of my heart, much like your letters, which I shall treasure always.
Elizabeth has begun to show signs of improvement, and for this, I am grateful. Each gentle laugh shared between us only strengthens my resolve—the world, with all its trials, seems a bit more manageable when shared with those we deeply care for. It is my fervent hope that soon I may take you by the hand in joyful spirits to celebrate her recovery.
I must confess something, though it brings me to blush terribly—when I write to you, I imagine, quite foolishly, that you can feel each word as a kiss upon your hand, a gentle touch upon your cheek. Do you, too, feel this very sense that our words are not merely words, but a reaching of one soul to another?
My heart is forever yours,
Y/N
---
March 30th, 1812
Pemberley
My Heart,
Your letter has stirred within me a joy so great, I cannot begin to express it. Knowing Elizabeth's health is mending fills me with unparalleled happiness. Continue to offer her your gentle comfort; it is clear that your love sustains her during this difficult time.
To know that you, too, feel this connection, this sensation that each line, each stroke of pen, is more than an arrangement of ink—it is as if our very souls are imprinted upon the page. Yes, I feel it. I feel every word of yours as though it were a touch, a breath, and I read them over and over, savoring each syllable as I would savor the warmth of your embrace.
It is as if I am transported to your side, as if I might reach out and feel the softness of your hand beneath mine, your cheek flushed with warmth. I am lost in the wonder of this, my love. The world feels fuller, richer, knowing that I have you. And yet, it feels far too vast, too lonely, when we are apart.
May I confess to you, without reserve, that I long to hold you, to know you are near, to never again be parted from you? When I close my eyes, I imagine the day when we shall once more not require letters, when you will be here, beside me, and every unspoken thought, every tender feeling can be shared without the need for pen or page.
Until the day of your return, know that I am forever yours, as you are mine, in thought, in body, and in soul.
Yours eternally,
Fitzwilliam
---
April 2nd, 1812
Longbourn
My Dearest Husband,
How blessed am I, to have received such tender words from you. Your letter is a balm to my soul, a quiet reminder that I am loved more deeply than I dared hope. I hold each page close to my heart, feeling the weight of your affection as a physical warmth.
Yes, we are bound by something that defies all convention, something stronger than words and deeper than understanding. Your love surrounds me, fills me, and though miles separate us, I feel as though you are here, as real and as dear as my very heartbeat.
How I look forward to the day when these letters will be mere relics of a time when we were apart, a reminder of a love that sustained us through every distance.
I shall return home to Pemberley as soon as Elizabeth is strengthened enough to rise from her bed, which I am glad to believe will be most promptly. Until then, I am yours, with all my body and with all my soul.
The night had fallen heavy over Pemberley, a thick, impenetrable darkness that seemed to swallow the vast estate whole The air was still, save for the occasional gust of wind against the shutters, echoing like a distant warning. I, Mrs. Darcy, sat by the fire in our private chambers my thoughts drifting, half-lulled by the muted sounds of the estate settling into slumber. A faint unease lay upon me, yet I could not place the cause—an inexplicable feeling that something was amiss.
Fitzwilliam, my husband, had retired to his study after supper, leaving me to the comfort of our room. But something in the night, something in the quiet, had set my nerves on edge. I could not account for it—perhaps it was the bitter cold that seeped through the stone walls, or the ominous clouds that gathered in the distance, promising a storm. Whatever it was, I felt a sense of unease that I could not dismiss.
I stood from my chair, intending to find Fitzwilliam, when a sudden noise—muffled, but distinct—reached my ears. It was distant, coming from somewhere in the lower halls, and yet it sent a shiver down my spine. My hand instinctively moved to my chest, where my heart raced beneath my palm. The unmistakable sound of footsteps echoed down the hall. They were not the soft, padded steps of the servants who often moved through the house in the early hours, but quick, sharp, and unsteady. A chill ran through me. These footsteps did not seem to belong to any familiar figure.
I hesitated at the door, torn between caution and the need for reassurance. Moments later, before I could decide, the door to our chambers creaked open. There, silhouetted in the low candlelight, was Mr. Darcy, his brow furrowed with the same concern that clouded my own thoughts. His dark eyes searched the shadows, lingering on every corner, as though he expected some hidden threat to emerge at any moment.
“Fitzwilliam?” I whispered, my voice trembling. “What is it?”
He crossed the room in three swift strides, and though his tone was calm, his eyes betrayed his urgency. “There has been… an incident, my love. The groundskeeper spotted a figure lurking near the north side of the estate. I came to ensure you were safe.”
My pulse quickened. Pemberley was vast, yes, but its staff was diligent, and no one would be wandering the halls at such an hour without cause. I shivered at his words, the unease that had been growing within me now thickening into genuine fear. He drew closer, and his hand, warm and steady, grasped mine. “Fear not,” he murmured. “I will not let any harm come to you. I shall see to it myself.”
“But what if—” My words faltered, a hundred fears cascading through my mind.
He brought his hand to my cheek, brushing it softly with his thumb, and in that touch, I felt a wave of calm wash over me. “Do I have your trust?” he asked, his voice gentle yet unwavering.
I met his gaze, and the steadfast resolve in his eyes gave me the strength to nod. “Yes, of course,” I whispered.
“Good,” he replied, pressing a tender kiss to my forehead. "Stay here," he instructed, moving toward the door once more. "Keep the door locked, and do not leave until I return.”
I watched him as he moved to the door, his tall frame cast in shadows, his every movement a study in composure. He was both a figure of authority and protection, his very presence a comfort in the face of the unknown.
I felt the cold press of fear return, mingled now with a longing that I had not felt so acutely before. For it was in moments like these, I realized, that I saw the full measure of the man I had married—his bravery, his sense of duty, and, beneath it all, his quiet, unwavering love for me.
A sudden surge of panic gripped me. "No, Fitzwilliam," I protested, stepping forward. "I cannot bear the thought of you going alone."
His eyes softened, and for a moment, I saw the concern he tried so hard to mask. "You need not worry," he said, his voice gentle, though there was a firmness in his command. "I will not be long."
But I shook my head, unwilling to let him face whatever danger lay in wait. "If you go, I must go with you."
There was a brief moment where we simply looked at one another, a silent exchange that needed no words. He knew I would not relent, just as I knew he would not ask me to. And so, with a resigned sigh, he nodded, offering his hand.
Together, we descended the grand staircase, the soft glow of our candle casting long, flickering shadows against the walls. The halls were eerily silent, and the only sound was the quiet creak of window shutters scraping the exterior walls with every gust of wind. My grip on Fitzwilliam’s hand tightened as we moved further into the depths of the house, every step heightening the tension that coiled in my chest.
We reached the lower floor, where the noise had originated, and Fitzwilliam motioned for me to stay close. The corridor stretched before us, a long, dimly lit path that seemed to lead to nothing but darkness. It was then that I noticed the faintest sliver of light spilling from beneath the door to the study, the very room Fitzwilliam had left just an hour before.
We exchanged a glance, and without a word, Fitzwilliam moved toward the door. He pushed it open, slow and deliberate, and what awaited us on the other side caused my breath to catch in my throat.
The room had been ransacked. Books lay scattered across the floor, papers torn and strewn about as though someone had searched frantically for something of value. A cold draft seeped through the broken window, and in the dim light of the remaining candles, I could make out the faint outline of a figure, bent over the desk, their back to us.
Fitzwilliam tensed beside me, his grip on my hand steady but firm. "Who goes there?" he demanded, his voice low and commanding.
The figure froze, then slowly turned, revealing a man, disheveled and desperate, clutching a small object to his chest. His eyes darted between us, wild and fearful, and in that moment, I realized he had not anticipated anyone to catch him in the act.
"You are trespassing in my home," Fitzwilliam said, his tone even but deadly serious. "You will explain yourself."
The man, who looked no more than a common thief, took a step back, his breath quickening. "I—I meant no harm," he stammered, though his grip on the object tightened. "I was merely—"
"You were merely stealing from me," Fitzwilliam interrupted, his eyes narrowing. He stepped forward, shielding me behind him. "You will drop whatever it is you have taken, and you will leave, or I shall see to it that you are dealt with by the authorities."
The man hesitated, glancing between Fitzwilliam and the window, as if calculating his chances of escape. But before he could make a move, Fitzwilliam took another step, his presence commanding, his anger restrained yet palpable.
At last, the thief seemed to realize the futility of his situation. With a muttered curse, he dropped the small object—a gold pocket watch, one I recognized as belonging to Fitzwilliam’s father—onto the desk and made for the window. Within seconds, he had clambered out into the night, disappearing into the darkness from whence he came.
I exhaled a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding, my body trembling with the adrenaline that still coursed through me. Fitzwilliam turned to me, his eyes softening with concern as he took my hands in his.
"Are you unharmed?" he asked, his voice low.
I nodded, though my heart still raced. "Yes," I whispered. "Thanks to you."
He pulled me close, his arms wrapping around me in a protective embrace. The warmth of his body against mine was a comfort in the cold, eerie stillness of the room. I buried my face in his chest, grateful for his strength, for his presence.
"We must alert the staff at once," he said softly, his lips brushing the top of my head. "But for now, you are safe, and all is well. The intruder was no more than a vagrant—a soul who likely meant no harm"
And in his arms, despite the danger that had passed, I knew it to be true. My relief was overwhelming, yet I could not help but reach out to him, my fingers brushing his arm. “Thank you,” I murmured, “for protecting me.”
His eyes softened, and he brought his hand over mine. “There is nothing I would not do for you,” he said quietly. “You are my wife, my… heart.” His voice caught, and he cleared his throat, his gaze holding mine with an intensity that made my heart ache.
In that moment, the walls of propriety and restraint fell away, and I saw him as he truly was—strong, yes, but vulnerable in his devotion, willing to face any danger for my sake. I could not help but step closer, my hand resting against his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath my palm.
“Thank you,” I whispered again, feeling my own heart swell with emotions too complex to name. “Thank you, Fitzwilliam.”
He bent his head, his lips brushing my forehead with a tenderness that belied the strength I had seen in him only moments before. “Let us retire now, my love,” he murmured, his voice a low, soothing balm against my weariness. “I will be here, by your side, to keep you safe.”
I nodded, allowing him to guide me back to our chamber, feeling the warmth of his presence dispel the last remnants of my fear. He stayed with me until sleep finally claimed me, his hand holding mine, a quiet promise lingering between us.
In the safety of that embrace, I felt no fear, no doubt. Only a deep, abiding love, fragile yet fierce, in the heart of our blooming marriage.
"I was oversensitive. I'd been told this my entire life. It was a liability, my sensitivity, but it was also a power," - Suzanne Scanlon, from "Committed; On Meaning and Madwomen,"
The Netherfield Ball shone with a brilliance that seemed to linger in the very atmosphere, casting a warm, golden hue over the assemblage, and creating an ambiance that was both lively and intimate. As you traversed the room, a delicate lace ribbon woven into your hair and a faint blush gracing your cheeks, the festivities blurred around you, transforming into a mere backdrop for your reverie. Laughter and chatter wafted through the air like gentle petals, yet you remained quiet, acutely attuned to each subtle expression and whispered remark, observing with a depth that few would suspect.
Your fingers, delicate and restless, played with the laces of your gown, as if seeking to untangle the weight of both joy and melancholy that enveloped you. Throughout your life, you had often been informed that this very sensitivity—this exquisite responsiveness to the beauty around you—was a liability. It rendered you vulnerable, laid bare to the world’s harshness. Your mother had frequently chastised you for it; your companions had teased you; and even the society pages, in which your family sometimes featured, alluded to your “delicate sensibilities.” Yet, how could you so easily alter your nature? How could one harden a heart that was fashioned to feel so deeply?
Even yet, you perceived this sensitivity as a gift. You were attuned to the subtlest shifts in countenance, catching the gentlest inflections in tone, and at times, it seemed as though you could decipher hearts through the briefest exchanges of glances. Though this heightened perception brought its own trials—many deemed you overly sensitive, prone to fervent emotion—you had gradually learned that such sensitivity might be a strength, albeit a quiet one.
The room whirled in a kaleidoscope of colors and laughter, yet your gaze was inexorably drawn to a solitary figure in the dimmest corner. Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy stood apart from the merriment, his brow contemplative as he surveyed the assembly. His dark, penetrating gaze roved over the room, seemingly detached yet unmistakably watchful.
It was nearly impossible to overlook him throughout the evening, for his presence bore an undeniable weight, stirring emotions within you that you would scarcely confess to another. Each time you caught sight of him, your heart fluttered, your breath quickened, and a warm blush bloomed upon your cheeks, betraying the depths of feeling you endeavored to conceal. There was an ethereal quality about him, a bearing that combined pride with a silent yearning, and tonight, the shadows that surrounded him appeared less forbidding and more inviting.
A mixture of curiosity and trepidation fluttered within your heart. You had overheard whispered accounts of Mr. Darcy—tales of his aloofness and unyielding pride. Yet, beneath every account of disdain, you sensed a complexity that hinted at a soul wrestling with his own sensitivity.
“Would you care for a dance, Miss Y/L/N?” A familiar, cheerful voice broke through your reverie. It was Mr. Bingley, his warm smile and outstretched hand a welcome distraction. You accepted his invitation, though your gaze lingered on Mr. Darcy, who appeared both intrigued and reserved.
As you twirled across the floor, laughter echoed around you, yet the world felt faintly distant. Your thoughts remained entangled in Mr. Darcy’s presence, swirling like the fabric of your gown
When the dance concluded, you excused yourself from the vibrant room. Constrained by the jangling energy around you, you slipped into a quieter nook of the manor. Here, the air was still, and the shadows seemed intimate rather than isolating. You leaned against the windowsill, relishing the cool air against your flushed cheeks.
“Miss Y/L/N,” a deep voice, rich and resonant, emerged from the doorway, startling you. You turned to find Mr. Darcy, his tall figure imposing yet regal. He approached with a gravity that both intrigued and unnerved you, his earnest gaze disarming.
“Mr. Darcy,” you replied softly, your voice trembling slightly beneath the weight of his scrutiny. You curtsied, your heart fluttering like the ribbons entwined in your hair.
"Forgive my intrusion,” he said, his tone low and measured. “I find myself in need of a moment’s reprieve from the festivities.”
“Indeed,” you replied softly, wishing he could see the heart behind your words. “I too prefer quieter moments, where the laughter seems to echo rather than drown out contemplation.”
For a moment, neither of you spoke, the lively sounds of the ball fading into a distant hum. You sensed a hesitancy in him, an uncertainty that only made you more attuned to the flickers of emotion in his expression. He glanced away briefly, as though collecting his thoughts, and when he spoke again, there was a sincerity in his tone that caught you off guard.
“So it is with sentiment that you exist," he began, his gaze searching yours as though grappling with the right words, “I have… noticed in you a sensitivity, a kindness, that I do not often see in others.”
Your cheeks warmed under his attention, the delicate blush deepening at his words. “I… I have been told it is my weakness, Mr. Darcy,” you murmured, evading your gaze to avoid the intensity in his.
His dark gaze pierced the veil of propriety. “If it is a weakness, Miss Y/L/N, then it is one I find myself quite… affected by.” He paused, his words lingering in the air. “I believe sensitivity, in your case, is not a liability. It is…” He hesitated, his voice lower to a tone almost reverent. “It is a strength. A rare strength.”
At his pronouncement, your heart swelled, a gentle fluttering sensation filling your chest. “That is too kind of you, Mr. Darcy,” you managed, glancing back up to meet his gaze. “Though I fear many would not agree with you. Sensitivity is, in the view of society, rather inconvenient.”
He held your gaze with an intensity that seemed to dissolve the distance between you. “Then society does not deserve such a gift,” he replied, his voice laced with a quiet conviction that stirred something deep within you. “To care deeply, to feel so keenly… it is not a burden. It is a virtue.”
A smile played at the corners of your lips, a soft, genuine expression that seemed to reach into the depths of your heart. “I never thought to hear you speak so, Mr. Darcy,” you admitted, your voice scarcely a whisper.
He exhaled softly, his eyes unwavering. “Perhaps… perhaps I find myself saying things I did not know resided within me,” he said, stepping a fraction closer. “I fear I have often allowed my own sensitivity to manifest as pride and disdain, hiding behind a façade of strength.”
“Perhaps there is strength in vulnerability,” you suggested gently, an empathetic pulse boldly urging you onward.
In that moment, a connection blossomed that transcended the words shared between you. It enveloped you both like the warmth of a gentle sunrise, fostering a sense of understanding that needed no further elucidation. Mr. Darcy had seen you—not as others had, but with an awareness that acknowledged both your strength and your fragility.
With a soft smile, you began to share the beauty you discerned in colors and emotions—the way a sunrise could evoke hope, or how a simple gesture could convey volumes. As you spoke, you noticed how the gravity that adorned Mr. Darcy seemed to dissipate, leaving only a man hungry for connection, wary yet intrigued by the spirit you displayed.
As the night unfolded, you found solace not only in your own thoughts but in Mr. Darcy’s burgeoning interest. He listened with an intensity that both unnerved and fascinated you, his dark brows furrowed and lips tugged into a faint smile. Moments of warmth blossomed between you, weaving a connection that tethered the softness of your heart to the fortress of his.
When the night drew to a close, you stood along the grand staircase, illuminated by flickering candlelight and the murmurs of departing guests. He regarded you with a newfound softness, as if the unspoken echoes of your conversation lingered in the air.
“You have opened my eyes,” he said, his tone rich with sincerity. “To perceive the world with such tenderness is a gift I wish to understand more fully.”
A blush crept to your cheeks. “Thank you, Mr. Darcy. Perhaps we can learn of sensitivity together.”
A rare, almost imperceptible smile broke through the walls that surrounded him, illuminating his stern features. “I would welcome that very much.”
As you exchanged promises of future conversations, a connection tethered you in that fleeting moment—one bound not by societal expectations but by the power of the sensitivity you both shared, a bridge spanning between a gentle heart and a complex soul.
And in the soft glow of Netherfield, amidst the swirling dance of life, you both began to discover that embracing your true selves might just illuminate the path to something beautifully profound.
"It is dusk. I want to know how to be close to you. Closer." - Else Fitzgerald, "Everything Feels Like the End of the World"
The quiet, descending dusk blanketed Pemberley’s grounds with a veil of stillness, painting the evening in gentle shades of lavender and silver. The great hallways and rooms of the house had settled into a warm hush, as if honoring the twilight hour with a reverent silence. You were standing in one of its more intimate sitting rooms, your gaze fixed out the window where the last traces of daylight lingered, softening the grand gardens and the rolling hills beyond. Yet you found yourself only half-aware of the scene before you, your thoughts a quiet storm within, disturbed only by the sound of a familiar footfall approaching.
Gazing beyond the glass at the twilight landscape, you felt your husband’s presence behind you, a warm shadow enveloping your form. He was a man who commanded both respect and admiration, and in his company, you had found a sense of belonging. But tonight felt different. An electric tension laced the air between you, thick with unspoken truths and desires.
Mr. Darcy paused in the doorway, observing you for a moment before he spoke.
“Do forgive the interruption,” he murmured, his deep voice breaking the silence in a way that felt altogether too lovely. You turned to meet his intent gaze, where the fading light caught the depths of his dark eyes, illuminating his features in a halo of romance. “I wondered where you had gone off to.”
“I needed a moment to myself, I suppose,” you replied softly, though the truth was that you had found yourself unexpectedly restless, seeking solitude in hopes that your thoughts might settle. Yet even alone, you had found yourself unsettled, a gentle but undeniable yearning that you could not name stirring within you.
He stepped closer, his movements as measured and deliberate as always, yet tonight there was a different air about him—a gentler softness, a kind of intimacy in his quiet regard. You could almost taste the anticipation that hung heavily between you, igniting your senses. For a moment, you simply looked at one another, a silent conversation unfolding between glances. He looked as though he wished to say something, and the weight of his gaze filled you with a warmth that spread from your cheeks to the very tips of your fingers.
“It is dusk, and the hour invites contemplation,” he murmured, finally breaking the silence, his voice a little rough, as though he struggled to express what lingered in his heart. “I find myself wishing to know…” He paused, his gaze unwavering. “How it might be to be close to you. Closer.”
His words hung in the air between you, tender and vulnerable, and the sheer honesty in his voice made your heart ache. You felt your cheeks warm, and a soft smile touched your lips as you absorbed his meaning, allowing the quiet beauty of his words to wash over you. It was a declaration cloaked in the language of the heart, and as the twilight deepened, the world beyond faded, leaving only the two of you suspended in a moment that demanded all of your attention.
“Mr. Darcy,” you began, your voice a hushed murmur, “do you not see? You are close to me now, in ways words cannot fully express.”
A shadow of a smile passed over his lips, and he moved nearer, his presence enveloping you in a way that felt safe and thrilling all at once. The room around you faded, the encroaching night dimming all but the soft glow in his eyes.
“And yet,” he whispered, his hand reaching tentatively for yours, “I cannot help but wish, selfishly… for more.”
His fingers brushed against yours, hesitant, as if uncertain of his right to ask for what his heart clearly desired. Your hand moved to meet his, fitting into his grasp as though it were the most natural thing in the world. His hand was warm, his grip firm yet tender, and the contact made your pulse quicken. He looked down at your joined hands, his eyes tracing the shape of your fingers as though they were the most exquisite thing he had ever seen.
“There is a closeness of hearts,” you murmured, your voice scarcely more than a breath, “that transcends mere touch.”
He looked up, meeting your gaze, and in his eyes you saw the depth of feeling he carried, feelings that words could never capture, yet here, in this quiet, sacred moment, were laid bare.
“Then permit me,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion, “to be close to you in every way, to share in your heart’s every joy and every sorrow, to be… wholly yours.”
Your heart swelled at his words, and without thinking, you reached up to trace your fingertips along his cheek, feeling the warmth of his skin beneath your touch. He closed his eyes briefly, as if savoring the sensation, and you felt a gentle shiver pass through him.
“Dearest,” you whispered, your heart overflowing, “you have been mine since the very moment I came to know you.”
His eyes opened, filled with a tenderness that made you feel as though you were the center of his world. Slowly, reverently, he lifted your hand to his lips, pressing a soft kiss to your fingers, a gesture so tender it made your heart ache with love.
As the last vestiges of twilight surrendered to the deep indigo of night, you stood together, hands entwined, closer than words could convey, bound not only by touch but by the quiet, steady promise of shared hearts and lives intertwined.
"- You don't love me?- Yes, but in torment." - Marina Tsvetaeva, from "Poem of the End,"
The day had arrived—a day woven into the very fabric of society with threads of duty and obligation. The grand halls of Pemberley resounded with echoes of laughter and the rustle of silken gowns, yet within your heart, an unwelcoming silence loomed. You were to wed Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy, a gentleman of considerable fortune and esteemed lineage. Yet the illustrious love story that society had envisioned for you felt more akin to a gilded cage.
You stood near the grand fireplace, the light flickering on the intricate carvings of the mantelpiece, while guests strolled by, exchanging amiable conversation and admiring the estate’s beauty. A part of you wished to dissolve into the warmth of the flames and vanish, but you could not escape the inevitable fate that awaited. Mr. Darcy had consented to this union—both of you condemned, bound by expectations by family and society.
As the appointed hour for the ceremony approached, a sudden hush descended upon the gathering. Your heart quickened at the sight of him. Mr. Darcy stood tall, an embodiment of aloof elegance wrapped in a heavy cloak of reluctance. His dark hair fell tousled over his forehead, and beneath his serious demeanor lay a pair of stormy eyes that seemed to harbor sentiments unknown.
“Mr. Darcy,” you curtsied, the ritual of respect mingling awkwardly with the ache in your chest.
“Miss Y/L/N,” he replied curtly, his voice a low rumble, formal and devoid of warmth. Yet his eyes—those penetrating eyes—whispered of something deeper. As your gaze lingered, the moment stretched between you, an unbroken tension hanging in the air, a whisper of emotions you dared not to name.
The ceremony became a blur of solemn phrases, promising a bond that felt like a curse. Despite the necessity of this union, it was evident that the essence of your marriage lay within a chasm filled with expectations rather than affection.
As the weeks unfolded into months, you found yourself at odds with the man you now called your husband. You felt as if you were an unwelcome guest in his world—every conversation hovered just above genuine connection, maintained only for the sake of social propriety. Your marriage, arranged with all the requisite formalities that society demanded, had bound families together and secured a future defined by lineage, property, and duty. A union forged for strength, not sentiment. Love, as proclaimed by society, was not a necessity in such an arrangement; it was merely an embellishment for the fortunate few.
For months, you occupied these spaces as strangers bound by name alone. You exchanged pleasantries, upheld every propriety, and kept the balance of your lives in perfect order. Yet the reality was fractured, marked by nights spent in separate chambers and days passed as actors on a stage, forever performing a part. There was no anger, no outward bitterness—only a vast emptiness that had grown between you, made sharper by silence.
One stormy evening after yet another dinner accompanied by strained silences, you sought refuge in the solitude of the library. It was there, amongst the novels filled with words of passion and heartache, that he found you.
“Why do you take refuge in these pages?” he asked. His tone imbued with a mix of curiosity and irritation, for he had grown used to your quiet retreats. The tension hung heavy, a string pulled too tightly, liable to snap. It was as though the weight of every unspoken word, every glance that lingered too long, had at last pressed upon Darcy’s shoulders until he could bear it no longer.
“Because these stories speak of love,” you replied, turning away from his penetrating gaze. “Something I fear we may never attain.”
He approached, hands resting against the bookshelf as he leaned closer, “Are you so certain that I am entirely indifferent?”
Your heart raced as you met his gaze. “Indifferent, no. But you carry a weight that pushes us apart rather than together.”
The silence between you thickened, the air shimmering with unspoken truths. He turned sharply, hands clasped behind his back as he gazed into the rainy gardens of Pemberley from the grand window. Finally, he spoke without turning from the window, resolute yet harsh with the weight of his internal torment. “You misunderstand me; it is not a care that could ever bring you happiness. It is torment.”
With that, he made his swift exit from the drawing room, affording you neither the opportunity to digest his words nor to respond in kind. You were left in a state of profound astonishment, your heart fluttering yet drowning with a sentiment that had long been confined within the recesses of your soul.
Finding yourself unable to continue with the book that had occupied your hands, you returned it to its place upon the shelf and resolved to take a turn in the fresh air.
The night air was thick with the scent of rain, and the moon cast a pale glow over Pemberley’s grounds, bathing everything in silvery light. Wandering through the garden paths, the chill of the evening dampening your skin as you clutched your shawl tighter around your shoulders. The shadows stretched long, whispering secrets you could not bear to listen to nor escape. Each step seemed to echo with a sorrow that had taken residence in your heart, a sorrow you had tried to bury deep but could not silence.
Startled by the sound of footsteps behind you, you turned to find him once again there—his figure partially cloaked in shadow, yet his presence unmistakable. He wore an expression of searching intensity, his eyes dark mixed with agony.
"Why must you roam here alone in the night, when the chill could easily have you in fever?" he asked, his voice low, a blend of reproach and concern.
You looked away, unable to meet his gaze, your heart in turmoil with unspoken words. "I cannot find peace within these walls any more than I can out here," you murmured
Without moving any closer, he spoke, his voice quiet yet laden with a pain that had never been expected from him. “You do not love me.”
It was not a question. It was a statement, plain and devastating, hanging in the air like the last echo of a funeral bell.
You took a slow breath, trying to find the words that had eluded you since the day of your arrival at Pemberley as his wife. “Yes,” your voice in a trembling whisper. “Yes, but in torment.”
He turned then, his dark eyes meeting yours, revealing a vulnerability he had never dared to show. He had always remained a man of duty, pride, and quiet resolve. But tonight, there was a longing in his gaze, an undeniable plea.
“In torment?” he echoed, his tone sorrowful and unsteady. “Is that what this marriage is to you?”
You nodded, feeling the sting of tears welling in your eyes. “It is… a love caught in a prison of duty,” you whispered. “We were bound together for reasons neither of us could refuse, and yet I have found myself…” You trailed off, searching for words, but all you felt was the ache of every moment endured in quiet suffering.
“A torment, indeed,” he replied, his voice wavering. “To love and be loved, yet find ourselves lost in shadows, as though happiness were an illusion we glimpse but never grasp.”
He stepped closer, hesitating as if fearing to come too near, yet not looking away. “I had hoped,” he murmured, his voice barely audible, “that there might come a time when such duty would become… more than a burden. That, perhaps, we could find solace in one another.”
You felt the tremor in his words, the unspoken admission of his own struggle, breaking down a barrier within you that you had not even known existed. “And I, too, hoped that I might come to find peace in your presence,” you confessed. “But each moment, each silent dinner, each formal conversation… it has been like a wound that does not heal, a reminder of all that should be and yet is not.”
Darcy’s expression softened, and he took another step forward, his gaze filled with a yearning you could feel echoing in your own heart. “Do you think, perhaps,” he said slowly, as though the words themselves were painful, “that love born from such torment might still be real?”
A tear slipped down your cheek, and you could only nod. “I think it must be real,” you whispered. “For I feel it more keenly than anything I have ever known.”
His hand reached out, hesitant yet filled with a tenderness you had longed for since the day you became his wife. You felt his fingers brush against yours, and though it was the faintest of touches, it sent a warmth through you that thawed the coldness of the months you had spent apart, though you had always been so near.
“I am sorry,” he murmured, his voice rough with emotion. “I am sorry that I could not offer you the freedom to choose, that I took from you a life that might have been different.”
You shook your head, stepping closer, allowing your hand to fully rest in his. “No, Fitzwilliam,” you said softly, using his name for the first time since your marriage. “It is not you who should bear this guilt. We were both bound by the expectations of others, by a world that did not care for our desires or our dreams.”
A silence stretched between you, heavy yet somehow comforting. In that moment, with his hand in yours, you felt the bitterness of your shared pain dissolve, replaced by something quiet and hopeful.
“Then let us choose, here and now,” he said, his voice steady but laced with a tremor of vulnerability. “Let us choose to love each other—not for duty or for society’s sake, but because we desire it, because we have found something worth cherishing in the midst of this torment.”
You felt your heart swell, a warmth spreading through you that you had scarcely dared hope for. “Yes,” you replied, your voice choked with emotion. “Let us love—if in torment, then willingly, for it is far better to love and ache than to live without it.”
Darcy lifted your hand to his lips, pressing a gentle kiss against your fingers, his eyes closing as if savoring the moment, as if he feared it might be your last. You felt the stirrings of a love that was both fragile and fierce, a love that had survived the cold isolation of duty and was all the more precious for it.
In that fleeting moment, you stood together, not as strangers bound by obligation, but as two souls who had found each other in the depths of their own suffering. And though the road before you would not be easy, though the world would press upon you once more, you knew that you would face it together, bound not by society’s expectations, but by a love you had chosen—even if that love was born in torment.
The carriage wheels rumbled softly beneath you as the vast countryside unfurled beyond the window, its green hills rolling gently toward the horizon. You sat comfortably beside Mr. Darcy, your husband, who had been reading for most of the journey. The sight of his profile, strong and dignified, brought a familiar warmth to your heart.
A handkerchief embroidered with a delicate ‘D’ rested neatly on your lap—a token of your union and a reminder of the life you had built together. It had been months since the wedding, and though Pemberley had become your beloved home, this was your first real excursion together as husband and wife.
The carriage was well-appointed, its plush seats a luxury only the Darcys could afford, and the rhythm of the journey was soothing. You gazed out at the landscape, allowing your mind to wander as you contemplated the days ahead. Mr. Darcy had suggested this journey—a respite from the demands of society and an opportunity to spend time together in a quieter, more intimate setting. The Lake District, renowned for its breathtaking views and tranquil beauty, had always been a place of contemplation and solace, and Darcy had insisted it was the perfect destination for your first travel together as a married couple.
“You are awfully quiet, my love,” Darcy remarked, breaking the peaceful silence that had settled between you.
You turned from the window, meeting his gaze with a smile. “I am merely enjoying the landscape. It is quite unlike Derbyshire, yet there is a certain charm to these hills, is there not?”
Darcy closed his book, a slight smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “Indeed. The Lake District is renowned for its natural beauty. I confess, I have not traveled here in many years, but I believe it will be a welcome escape.”
“It is hard to imagine any place more beautiful than Pemberley,” you replied softly, thinking fondly of your home, though eager for the adventure ahead.
A flicker of pride passed across Darcy’s face, though his expression softened. “Pemberley has its merits, I admit. But I believe you will find something unique in this place. The tranquility it offers… it reminds me of how I felt when I first found peace with you.”
His words, though quietly spoken, stirred a familiar warmth in your chest. Your hand rested gently on his arm, and for a moment, the only sound was the steady creak of the carriage wheels and the faint breeze drifting through the open window.
“Shall we stop for a brief walk?” Darcy suggested, glancing out toward a wooded path that wound its way up a nearby hill. “I believe the horses could use a rest, and we might stretch our legs.”
You agreed eagerly, and soon the carriage came to a halt. Darcy stepped out first, turning back to offer his hand as you descended. The air was fresh, filled with the scent of pine and damp earth, and the path before you beckoned with the promise of quiet solitude.
As you began to walk, Darcy offered his arm, and you gladly took it. The two of you strolled at a leisurely pace, the sounds of nature all around. The rustle of leaves underfoot, the distant chirping of birds, and the soft murmur of a nearby stream created a peaceful symphony that made you feel as if you had left all the cares of the world behind.
“I daresay we might not return to Pemberley at all,” you teased, casting a sidelong glance at your husband. “This place has a certain magic to it.”
Darcy chuckled, his voice deep and rich. “If you wish to stay longer, we shall. I have no desire to rush our return.”
A comfortable silence fell between you as you continued to walk, your hand resting gently on his arm. The path led up to a small rise, and from the top, you could see the expanse of the countryside stretching out in every direction. Below, a sparkling lake reflected the blue sky, framed by tall trees and the distant outline of a mountain range.
You both stood for a moment, taking in the view. Darcy’s expression was contemplative, his gaze focused on the horizon, but you could sense the quiet contentment that radiated from him. It was rare to see him so relaxed, away from the pressures of his estate and the expectations of society. Here, he was simply your husband, a man who cherished your company above all else.
After a time, Darcy spoke again, his voice thoughtful. “Do you recall the day we first walked together at Pemberley?”
You smiled at the memory. “How could I forget? I believe I was still recovering from the shock of seeing you again after all that had passed between us.”
Darcy turned to you, his eyes softening. “And I was still recovering from the thought that I had lost you forever.”
You reached out, taking his hand in yours. “Yet here we are, my love. Married and happier than I could have ever imagined.”
A tender smile spread across his face, and for a moment, you simply stood there, hand in hand, the beauty of the landscape reflecting the quiet joy of your union.
As the sun began its slow descent toward the horizon, casting a golden hue across the land, Darcy gently led you back toward the carriage. The rest of the journey awaited, but you knew that wherever you traveled, as long as you were by his side, you would always feel at home.
“I look forward to all the places we shall see together,” you said softly, as you settled back into the carriage.
Darcy smiled, his hand resting lightly atop yours. “As do I, my love. Wherever the road may take us, it will be an adventure shared.”
With that, the carriage resumed its journey, the wheels crunching softly against the gravel with each rhythmic turn. Inside, you exchanged glances filled with unspoken understanding, knowing that this journey marked not just a physical excursion, but a deepening of your bond—a transition into uncharted territories of your shared life.
The days that followed your initial stop were filled with a quiet, serene happiness that came from the simplicity of traveling without urgency. Each morning, the two of you rose early to catch the first light of dawn spilling over the hills, its golden rays painting the countryside in soft hues. After a leisurely breakfast, you would explore a new part of the Lake District, always hand in hand, always with that comfortable silence that only comes from the deepest of affections.
One afternoon, Darcy had arranged for a small rowboat to be prepared at the edge of the lake. The sun hung high in the sky, its warmth a pleasant contrast to the cool breeze that swept across the water’s surface.
As you stepped into the boat, Darcy offered his hand, steadying you as you took your seat. “Fear not, my love; I shall keep you safe from the depths,” he laughed, though you sensed an undertone of solemnity. He was always protective—not just of your physical safety but of your heart as well.
He had insisted on rowing, and though you protested playfully, saying you could manage, he simply smiled and took the oars.
The boat glided smoothly through the water, the only sound being the gentle dip of the oars and the soft ripple of the lake. You leaned back against the cushioned seat, watching the way the sunlight danced on the water, and how Darcy’s strong, steady hands moved with purpose, guiding the boat farther from the shore.
“There is something peaceful about being out on the water,” you mused aloud, the gentle lapping of the lake adding to the tranquility.
Darcy glanced at you, his expression soft. “It is one of the few places where one can truly escape the noise of the world. No matter what weighs upon the mind, here… it fades away.”
You nodded, understanding well the weight of responsibility that Darcy so often bore at Pemberley. As master of such a grand estate, there were always decisions to make, people to oversee, and obligations to fulfill. But here, in the quiet of the lake, it was just the two of you, with no expectations, no demands.
As the boat drifted into the center of the lake, Darcy paused, resting the oars across his lap. He let out a soft sigh, and for a moment, he simply watched the water, his brow unfurrowed, his demeanor as relaxed as you had ever seen it.
“There are moments,” he said quietly, “when I wonder how I was so fortunate as to find you.”
The sincerity in his voice made your heart flutter, and you reached across the space between you, your fingers grazing his hand. “And I wonder how I ever thought I could live without you.”
A slow smile spread across his face, and he brought your hand to his lips, pressing a soft kiss to your knuckles. The simple gesture spoke volumes, a reminder of the depth of his affection, which was always there, even when unspoken.
The afternoon sun cast a warm glow over the lake, and for a long while, neither of you spoke. It was enough simply to be together, to feel the soft breeze and the warmth of the sun, to be enveloped in the peacefulness of the moment.
Later, after returning to shore and enjoying a light lunch by the water’s edge, the two of you took another walk, this time along a path that led to the base of a nearby mountain. The landscape here was rugged and wild, a stark contrast to the manicured gardens of Pemberley, but you found a certain beauty in the untamed nature of it all.
As you walked, Darcy’s hand resting lightly on yours in the crook of his arm, he spoke of his childhood, of trips he had taken to the Lake District with his parents before the weight of his responsibilities had settled upon him.
“I was a different man then,” he said, his voice thoughtful. “The world seemed much smaller, less complicated.”
You smiled up at him. “And now?”
Darcy glanced at you, his eyes filled with warmth. “Now the world is larger, more complex, but infinitely more beautiful, because I share it with you.”
You felt your heart swell at his words, and you leaned into him slightly, savoring the feeling of closeness that had grown between you in the months since your marriage. It was not just the grand gestures or the declarations of love that made your relationship so special—it was the quiet moments like these, the walks taken in peaceful companionship, the shared smiles, the comfortable silences.
As the path wound its way up a small incline, you reached a clearing that offered a stunning view of the valley below. The sun was beginning its descent, casting long shadows across the land, and the sky was painted with hues of pink and gold. Darcy paused, and you both stood in silence, taking in the beauty of the scene.
After a moment, he spoke again, his voice low and steady. “Do you know, I never imagined marriage would bring me such happiness.”
You turned to him, surprised by the admission.
He shook his head slightly, in pension. “I had once believed marriage to be a matter of duty—an arrangement that must be made for the sake of family, of society. But with you… it is not duty that binds us, but love. And that… that is something I did not expect.”
His words touched you deeply, and you felt tears prick at the corners of your eyes. “I feel the same,” you whispered. “Every day with you feels like a gift I never thought I would have.”
Darcy stepped closer, his hand gently cupping your cheek. “I have been many things in my life,” he murmured, his eyes locked on yours. “A master, a brother, a gentleman. But being your husband… that is the greatest role I will ever play.”
With that, he leaned down, pressing a soft tender kiss to your temple. The world around you seemed to fade, leaving only the two of you standing together, wrapped in the warmth of each other’s love.
As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting the world in twilight, you knew that wherever your travels might take you, the greatest adventure of all was the one you had begun together.
Synopsis: telling your dear friends and family you are to be expecting a child
In the soft glow of the morning sun filtering through velvet-curtained window, you sat in the drawing-room of Pemberley, a lovely estate nestled in the rolling hills of Derbyshire. A sense of peace enveloped you, the crisp green landscape beyond the glass promised the arrival of spring—a season of new life, mirroring the changes that were unfolding within your own heart.
Your fingers absentmindedly grazed the delicate embroidery on the cushion beside you as you gazed out at the lake, where the distant trees shimmered with the reflections of sunlight. The estate, though vast and grand, felt most alive in those quiet moments when you could let your thoughts drift toward the future.
“Mrs. Darcy,” a familiar voice called from the doorway, drawing your attention. You turned to see Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy himself, a tall figure clad in a simple but tailored morning coat that accentuated his broad shoulders and noble bearing. The corners of his lips quirked up in a slight smile that warmed your heart, one that seemed to light up the entire room. Together, you shared a secret, one that had brought a quiet, radiant joy into your days and softened Mr. Darcy’s eyes each time he looked at you.
“Mr. Darcy,” you replied, your voice soft and melodic. You could not help but feel your spirits lift at the sight of your husband—a man so often portrayed as cold and distant by society, yet one who had given you every reason to believe in a different truth. Here was a man who adored you beyond measure.
Darcy crossed the room with purposeful strides, kneeling before you to take your hands within his own. His brow furrowed ever so slightly as he inspected you closely, his gaze searching for any sign of discomfort that might be hidden behind your gentle smile.
“Are you well, my dear? Shall I call for the nurse?” he inquired, his voice laced with tender concern. Ever since the morning you had shared the news with him, there had been a brightness in his eyes that hinted at an emotion he rarely displayed so openly—a quiet joy, tempered with the gravity of the new responsibility that lay before him. There was no greater balm for your spirit than the depth of his affection, his worries proving that you had stilled his heart.
“I am well, Fitzwilliam,” you reassured him, squeezing his hands. “The baby is moving often today, but I suspect it is simply their way of announcing their presence.” A grin danced upon your lips as you shared this delightful news with him.
At this, his eyes brightened, and a glimmer of unrestrained joy ignited in his expression. “I shall not be surprised if we have a future scholar of the arts or a talented ambassador,” he chuckled, his voice rich and deep as it harmonized with the atmosphere of the room.
“You are already a remarkably doting father, Mr. Darcy,” you teased gently, deciding to lean into the warmth of the moment. “I am certain our child shall feel thoroughly cherished long before they shall even take their first breath.”
Darcy smiled, though there was a hint of seriousness in his demeanor. “I could wish for no better gift than the love of my wife and the child we are to bring into the world. I promise to be not just a father, but a confidant, a guide—however limited my knowledge may be.”
Waves of affection washed over you, his warmth was a comforting embrace, and you reveled in the sense of safety that only he could provide.
The silence between you was as comfortable as it was profound. You were still savoring the memory of his reaction, how his hand had so gently rested upon yours, and the quiet intensity with which he had spoken: “You have made me happier than I could have ever hoped, my dear.” It was a moment you held close to your heart, warming you even now as you anticipated sharing this news with those closest to you.
Later that afternoon, your family were to arrive, along with Georgiana and a few dear friends. The gathering had been long planned as a simple spring visit, but now it held a far greater significance—a revelation that would be cherished by those nearest and dearest.
As the hour of their arrival approached, Darcy, as ever, noted the slight trembling of your hand with a tender awareness that only he possessed. Placing his own hand over yours, he said, “There is no need for apprehension, my love. They will be overjoyed.”
You smiled softly, grateful for his words, but you could not help the flutter of excitement and nervousness that quickened your heart. How dearly you had anticipated this moment, when you would share this joy with those you loved.
Just then, there arose the faint sound of rustling skirts approaching the room. It was Bingley and his new bride, Jane, who entered with laughter spilling from their lips. You stood, pulling away from Darcy, determined to share the lightness of those moments with them.
“Oh, do not let me interrupt this tender display!” Bingley called out in jest, his bright eyes reflecting the light of mischief. “I hope you shall forgive me for intruding upon your idyllic scene?”
“Not at all, Charles,” you replied warmly. “Your presence always adds to the shine of our home.”
As much as you enjoyed the banter, you could sense that Darcy preferred much quieter, more intimate gatherings. Still, in the company of friends, there was joy to be found in sharing your news.
The sound of carriage wheels on gravel drew your attention, and shortly after, the drawing room was filled with the warm greetings and familiar faces of your guests. Elizabeth, her gaze ever-perceptive, embraced you warmly, her eyes narrowing slightly in that sisterly way, as though she suspected you were keeping a secret.
“My dear sister,” Elizabeth remarked with a knowing smile, “I declare there is something different about you today. I am determined to discover what it is before the day’s end.”
You shared a conspiratorial glance with Mr. Darcy, who simply raised a brow with an expression of amused indulgence.
The arrival of your family and dearest friends had filled the house with laughter and warmth, and you had been waiting for this moment, to share the news with those closest to you. At last, the moment came when you gathered your family and friends in Pemberley’s sunlit dining room. The Darcys and the Bingleys, the Gardiners, and even your mother, father, and sisters—all were here, filling the air with lighthearted conversation as the meal commenced.
Georgiana, ever gentle and full of affection, approached you with an earnest smile. “Dearest sister,” she murmured, taking your hand, “how very lovely it is to see you so well. I do believe you have been glowing of late.”
“Well,” Mr. Darcy began, his voice warm with pride and an almost uncharacteristic tenderness, “I do believe my sister and Miss Bennet have guessed it near enough.” He paused, and you felt his hand reassuringly upon brush upon your own.
When the plates had been cleared, Mr. Darcy rose, a quiet but commanding presence which gathered the room’s attention. “If I may, my dear friends and family,” he began, his gaze warm and lingering on you before shifting to the others.
The room quieted, every face now turned toward him in anticipation. You looked up at him, a fond smile spreading across your face as he squeezed your hand.
“It is with the utmost joy that my dear wife and I share that we are soon to be expecting a child,” he continued, his voice rich with pride and affection.
For a moment, the room was silent, as though the world itself paused in reverence for the words that had been spoken. Then, in an instant, it was filled with delighted exclamations and warm embraces. Elizabeth’s face broke into a radiant smile as she rose to embrace you, her eyes alight with excitement. “Oh, my dearest sister! Such wonderful news—how happy I am for you both!” she cried, her eyes glistening.
Georgiana, with tears of joy in her eyes, took your hands in hers. “A new addition to Pemberley… Oh, how dearly I shall cherish this little one, dearest sister,” she said softly, her gaze full of affection and wonder.
Your mother clasped her hands together, her expression a blend of awe and pride. “A grandchild!” she exclaimed. “A grandchild at Pemberley! My dear, this is a blessing indeed!”
Mr. Bennet, reserved as ever, shared a subtle smile with you, the hint of affection in his eyes unmistakable. “My dearest girl,” he said quietly when he reached you, his tone a gentle contrast to the excitement in the room, “I had no doubt you would bring such joy into all our lives.”
Jane’s soft, knowing smile met yours, her own happiness shining in her eyes as she embraced you. “You will be a wonderful mother,” she whispered, her voice filled with sincere affection. Mr. Bingley beamed by her side, offering his heartfelt congratulations as he clasped Mr. Darcy’s hand, his easygoing manner warm and genuine.
Through all the embraces and exclamations of joy, Mr. Darcy remained close to you, his hand never straying far from yours, his eyes finding yours as he shared this treasured moment with the family. You could see the pride and joy brimming in his gaze—an expression you had rarely seen in him, yet one you felt honored to have inspired.
As the afternoon wore on and conversation flowed effortlessly, you felt a blissfully serene weight upon your heart. Here, amidst those you loved, your future felt bright and full of promise. In every exchanged glance with Darcy, you saw his unwavering love—his steadfast support as you prepared to bring a new life into the world, a reflection of both your hearts.
As the room settled, he leaned close, his voice soft, meant only for you. “It is only a small thing, my dearest love, but seeing you carry our child… I cannot express the happiness it brings me.”
His words stirred something deep within you, a warmth that spread from your heart to every part of you. “And I, Fitzwilliam,” you replied, your voice just as soft, “cannot imagine a greater joy than this—to bring a child into the world with you by my side.”
He brought your hand to his lips, his kiss a quiet vow, a promise of devotion and care for the life you were creating together. And in that sunlit room, surrounded by family and friends who shared in your joy, you felt truly blessed—content in the love that bound you and in the future that awaited you both.
Later that evening, as twilight cloaked the estate in a gentle veil, you found yourself alone in the peaceful confines of the drawing-room once again. The conversations of the day lingered in your mind, and you leaned back into the soft embrace of an armchair, contemplating the joy of your life with him.
Soon enough, Darcy joined you, having indulged in a moment of solitude to collect his thoughts. He took a seat beside you and rested his hand upon your growing belly with utmost reverence.
“Have I told you today how profoundly grateful I am to share this life with you?” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper, yet it resonated deeply within you.
“Not quite,” you teased, a smile dancing upon your lips in response to his charming sincerity.
“Then allow me to be so bold,” he said, turning to face you fully. “I cannot imagine a world or a future without you at my side. You have breathed hope into my life, and now you carry a piece of that hope within you. I am yours, now and always.”
You wanted to tell him that the feeling was mutual, that with each passing day, your love for him deepened, intertwining in ways you never thought possible. Instead, you leaned closer, resting your head against his shoulder, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat, as sure and constant as the stars emerging one by one in the night sky.
“Together, Fitzwilliam. Always together,” you responded, as the warmth of his embrace surrounded you, making you feel like the most cherished woman in the world.
In a tranquil moment beneath the gently flickering candlelight, you and Mr. Darcy shared a perfect silence that spoke more words than any grand proclamation ever could. The journey ahead was uncertain, filled with the thrill of new beginnings, but you knew that with him, every moment would be filled with love, laughter, and cherished companionship.
Synopsis: "I'm glad it cannot happen twice, the fever of first love. For it is a fever, and a burden, too, whatever the poets may say" - Daphne du Maurier, "Rebecca"
The early morning light filtered gently through the curtains, casting delicate patterns across the room. Outside, the winter frost continued to shimmer, casting its delicate, crystalline lace over Pemberley’s grounds. A quiet stillness lay over the estate, a stark contrast to the tempest of emotion that had overtaken our hearts.
The echo of Darcy’s footsteps in the hall below signaled he was already awake, likely having spent yet another night in restless solitude. Our sorrow had formed a bond of its own, a silent yet unbreakable link—a testament to the love that had brought us together and, now, the grief that deepened that connection.
As he entered the room, our eyes met, and I could see in his expression the same understanding, the same ache that had filled my own heart. “You are up early,” I murmured, managing a faint smile as he came to stand beside me, his gaze drifting to the landscape outside, though I felt his attention was wholly fixed upon me.
“Yes,” he replied, his voice low and thoughtful. “I could not find rest. It seems that the very peace of Pemberley conspires to unsettle me.”
We shared a silence, one that held more understanding than words could convey. “I, too, find that sleep is often elusive,” I confessed softly, my gaze returning to the window as I clasped my hands in my lap. “Do you think, Fitzwilliam, that this feeling of love—this fever—could ever be endured twice?”
His expression softened, and a sadness passed over his features, barely perceptible, yet unmistakable to one who knew him so intimately. “No, my dear,” he replied after a pause, his voice laced with a quiet resignation. “Love as we have known it—such fever, such joy and pain—cannot happen twice. It is a fire that consumes, once kindled, leaving behind something forever changed, though not easily named.”
I turned to him then, a hint of sorrow in my smile. “It is strange, is it not? To think that poets would call this fever a joy, that they would praise the intensity of first love without ever admitting the weight of it.”
He reached for my hand, his fingers wrapping around mine with a gentle but resolute firmness. “They have never felt it as we have,” he murmured, his gaze intent. “For true love, a love that knows the depth of grief as well as joy, is indeed a burden. A blessing, yes—but a burden that presses upon the heart and, in doing so, changes it forever.”
A deep sigh escaped me, and I leaned into his touch, closing my eyes against the wave of emotions that his words had summoned. “I find myself glad, then, that this fever cannot strike twice, though it pains me to say it. For I do not think I could bear to live it again.”
The words seemed to touch something in him, for he grew still, his gaze searching mine with an intensity that nearly stole my breath. “Nor could I,” he admitted softly, his voice unsteady. “For this love has been a fever, yes—a fever that has tested every part of me. To bear it again would be beyond even my strength.”
There was something in his tone, a quiet sadness that hinted at regret, and yet it was not regret for the love we shared. No, it was a regret for what had been surrendered, for the simplicity of the days before we had been bound by this grief-filled love, before it had filled our lives with both profound joy and an equal measure of grief.
I touched his cheek gently, feeling the warmth of his skin beneath my fingertips, and in that moment, I realized the truth of it—ours was a love that had bloomed too fervently, too deeply, and yet I could not bring myself to wish it otherwise. “We have loved greatly,” I whispered, a trace of a smile crossing my lips. “And though this fever may leave its mark, though it weighs heavily, I am grateful.”
A flicker of sorrow passed over his face, yet he nodded, his hand closing over mine. “Yes,” he said, his voice barely above a murmur. “For it is a love that has, in its way, saved me, even as it has bound me. It is my greatest joy…and my greatest sorrow.”
We remained like that, bound in silence, our hearts speaking in a language all their own. And in that moment, I understood that our love, though it was a fever and a burden, was also the thing that bound us together irrevocably. Whatever pain it had brought, whatever grief it had carved into our souls, it had also given us a strength we had not known we possessed. We had shared a fever that, though it burned deeply, was ours alone, and though it might never come again, it had left us forever changed.
As he drew me into his embrace, the weight of our love settled upon us both, heavy yet comforting, binding us in a love that neither time nor sorrow could undo. And though we knew that this fever of first love could never happen twice, there was solace in the knowledge that we had been consumed by it once, and that it had been ours, for better or worse, even until the end.
Fitzwilliam’s embrace formed a shelter against the weight of loss. Together we sat, drawing strength from each other’s presence, as if each heartbeat might steady the other’s, making our shared grief somehow more bearable.
“Do you remember,” I murmured after a time, my voice a mere whisper, “the summer evenings he would run through the halls, laughing as he hid behind the curtains, believing himself hidden from even the sharpest eyes?”
A faint, bittersweet smile softened Darcy’s features, though his eyes remained solemn. “Yes,” he replied quietly, his gaze drifting as though he could still see our son darting through the room, full of life and laughter. “I often felt his joy was so boundless that no place could contain it. He made Pemberley feel… alive, in a way that no grand hall or fine furnishing ever could.”
I leaned against him, the warmth of his touch a balm to the ache that threatened to overwhelm me. “It was a happiness so precious it frightened me,” I admitted, the confession slipping out like a secret too long held. “To love so completely—how could one not fear its loss?”
He turned to me, his expression softened by a rare vulnerability. “Yes,” he murmured, “I feared it, too. I was unaccustomed to such joy, and yet, once it was mine, I could not imagine life without it. Nor did I ever think I could lose so much.”
We fell silent, and the stillness enveloped us, but this time, it was a gentler sort of quiet, as though in speaking of our son’s joy, we had momentarily revived it, bringing a warmth to the study that even the fire could not provide.
After a moment, he spoke again, his voice steady but filled with a deep sorrow. “I have often wondered if there was more I could have done—some way to protect him, to shield him from fate.” His hand tightened slightly, a small movement betraying the anguish he had tried so hard to contain.
I reached for his other hand, holding it between my own. “We did all we could,” I whispered, my voice firm but tender. “We loved him with all we had to give. There are forces beyond us, Fitzwilliam, and while we may wish otherwise, we cannot command them.”
He looked down at me, his gaze searching, as though he were seeking some reassurance he could not quite find within himself. “I know you are right,” he murmured, almost reluctantly. “Yet it is difficult to accept—to know that, for all our love, we could not keep him.”
A tear slipped down my cheek, and I let it fall, unashamed. “There is a part of me that will always search for him,” I said, my voice barely more than a whisper. “I will look for him in every laugh, in every quiet corner. I cannot help it.”
He pulled me closer, his embrace tightening as though he could shield me from the endless ache that had taken root within me. “Then let us look together,” he replied, his voice filled with a fierce, unyielding tenderness. “For as long as there is love in us, he will never be lost.”
In that moment, I realized that the pain, though it would never vanish, had bound us even more deeply. The grief we bore was a reflection of the love we had shared, and in that, there was a kind of beauty—a fragile, heartbreaking beauty that held its own worth.
The fire crackled softly, casting a gentle glow across the room as dusk settled over Pemberley. And there, in the warm light of the hearth, I could feel a quiet resolve growing within us both. We would carry our son’s memory, not as a wound but as a gift, as something precious that had been ours and would forever remain so.
“We will endure,” I whispered, more to myself than to him. “We will carry him with us, always.”
Darcy looked at me, a glimmer of hope in his dark eyes. “Yes,” he replied, his voice barely audible. “Together, we shall carry him—and in doing so, we shall keep him close, always.”
And so we remained, holding each other as the night descended, the silence now softened by a love and a resolve that would see us through even the darkest of days. We were bound, as we had always been, by the love that had sustained us, and now, by the grief that had brought us even closer. And in that unity, we found the strength to face whatever lay ahead, for we knew we would do so together.
The afternoon sun cast a gentle warmth over the grounds of Pemberley, gilding the lake’s surface with a glistening sheen that danced in the light. The peaceful surroundings were filled with the soft sounds of nature—birdsong from the nearby trees, the gentle rustling of the wind through the leaves, and the faint murmur of the lake’s water rippling against the banks.
You had been invited to tour the gardens by Mr. Darcy’s housekeeper, Mrs. Reynolds, whose friendly manner had done much to ease any lingering hesitations. Yet, as you strolled along the garden paths, your mind often drifted to the elusive master of the estate himself. His image lingered in your thoughts, his tall, proud form and quiet intensity ever-present in your memory from your previous, fleeting encounters.
You had nearly reached the edge of the lake when the silence was broken by an unexpected sound—a loud splash, as if someone had entered the water. You halted, heart quickening, and turned in the direction of the noise. The lake stretched out before you, serene and expansive, and just as you squinted to look closer, you caught sight of him.
Mr. Darcy emerged from the lake’s surface, droplets of water clinging to his dark curls, his face set in an expression of utter concentration as he moved toward the shore. His clothing clung to him, wet and glistening in the light, accentuating the strong lines of his shoulders and the lean, noble figure you had only glimpsed beneath layers of fine coats and waistcoats.
Startled, you instinctively stepped back, glancing around in case anyone else might have witnessed the impropriety of the scene. But the grounds were empty, and there was no one but you to see him as he pulled himself out of the water, seemingly unaware of your presence.
The sight of him—so unguarded, so thoroughly unmasked—caught you wholly unprepared. You found yourself rooted to the spot, your gaze drawn to the droplets of water that traced down his face, catching in his eyelashes, rolling over the sharp line of his jaw, until his dark eyes found yours.
He froze, eyes widening as he registered your presence. A deep, fierce blush spread across his cheeks, mirroring your own, the warmth of it almost visible beneath the droplets that still clung to his skin.
“Miss Y/L/N,” he managed, his voice hoarse with shock. “I… I was not expecting… anyone…” He trailed off, clearly caught off guard by the situation.
You tried to find words, any words, that might excuse both your intrusion and his predicament, but all sense and propriety seemed to have fled your mind. “Mr. Darcy,” you finally replied, hoping your voice sounded steadier than you felt. “I—” But you faltered, and then, despite yourself, you felt a small, humored smile tug at your lips at the irony of the situation of which the two of you had found yourselves in.
“Pray, forgive me,” he stammered, glancing down at his soaked attire. “I hadn’t anticipated—well, clearly, I had no notion that….” He broke off, a flustered breath escaping him as he struggled to find his composure. His hand went to the back of his neck in a gesture that seemed uncharacteristically uncertain, his dark gaze finally meeting yours once more, holding your gaze with an intensity that made your breath catch.
The corners of your mouth lifted, and before you could stop yourself, a soft laugh escaped your lips, lightening the tension that seemed to hang between you.
At the sound, something softened in Mr. Darcy’s expression, his eyes studying you with an unguarded curiosity. His lips curved ever so slightly, almost invisibly, into a smile—tentative, yes, but genuine. He took a step closer, his gaze still fixed on yours, and there, in that unspoken space between you, the atmosphere seemed to shift.
“Miss Y/L/N,” he murmured, the lingering humor in his tone almost as surprising as his earlier discomposure. “You seem… unfazed by my unfortunate state.” His voice held a trace of amusement, his smile deepening just a touch, revealing a side of him you had rarely glimpsed.
“On the contrary, sir,” you replied, feeling a warmth that had nothing to do with the sun spreading through you. “I fear I have trespassed upon your privacy most unseemly.”
He shook his head, his gaze unwavering. “No, please—though perhaps my attire is a bit… unconventional,” he admitted, a faint hint of self-deprecation entering his voice. “But if I am to be honest, I find myself… oddly pleased by your presence.”
Your cheeks flushed, but you held his gaze, feeling a thrill of warmth and something akin to courage as you met his eyes.
“Then I am grateful for your magnanimity, sir,” you replied, a lightness filling your chest as your mutual understanding deepened. “Though I should perhaps apologize, for I certainly had not intended to surprise you thus.”
“Then we are both to blame, Miss Y/L/N,” he replied, his voice softening, “and I could not imagine a more fortuitous surprise.”
In that moment, a silent understanding passed between you. There were no words left that could capture the feeling that simmered between you both, a feeling born not of convention or polite society, but of something truer, more honest, like the quiet ripples on the lake behind him.
With a final look that left your heart fluttering, Mr. Darcy inclined his head, his expression holding a quiet reverence. And as he turned to return to the house, the soft smile he left you with lingered, resonating like the warmth of the sun on your skin, an unspoken promise lingering in the air.
---
As you made your way back to the house, your heart was still racing, your mind filled with the image of Mr. Darcy—unarmored, vulnerable, his gaze softened by the surprise of finding you there. That gentleness he had left you with lingered in your thoughts, its warmth resonating in a way you could scarcely describe.
It was hardly proper, you knew, to find such pleasure in the memory of a gentleman in such a state of undress. And yet, you could not deny the feeling of warmth that spread through you at the thought of his unguarded smile, the vulnerability in his eyes as he had looked upon you. It was a side of him you had never seen before, a side you found both startling and intriguing.
Meandering through the gardens on your journey back, you found yourself approaching the lake once more. The water still held the memory of his form, the ripples slowly fading as the surface returned to its glassy calm. You stood there for a moment, lost in thought, before turning to make your way back to the house.
You heard the soft footfall of approaching steps, and you looked up instinctively, your heart quickening as Mr. Darcy emerged from a nearby path, his fresh attire dry and proper, the memory of his wet clothes before replaced with the familiar sight of his well-tailored coats and waistcoats. He was ever composed, yet there was a subtle difference—something in the way his eyes searched the garden and softened the moment they found you.
With a slight hurried pace, as if you would disappear before him, he made his way over, his steps masked yet deliberate, stopping mere few feet away, he nodded, a quiet greeting that stirred an inexplicable warmth in your chest.
"Miss Y/L/N," he greeted, his voice holding a note of genuine pleasure. "I trust you are well?"
"Indeed, Mr. Darcy," you replied, a soft smile on your lips. "I find the grounds of Pemberley most soothing. I believe I could easily lose track of time here."
"I am glad to hear it," he replied, offering his arm. "Would you do me the honor of joining me for a walk? There is much I wish to show you."
You hesitated for a moment, your fingers hovering over his arm. It was hardly proper, you knew, to be walking unchaperoned with a gentleman. But there was something about Mr. Darcy, about the way he looked at you, that made you feel at ease. And so, you placed your hand on his arm, feeling the warmth of his body beneath the fabric of his coat.
As you walked, he spoke of Pemberley, of its history and its beauty. His words were unhurried, his voice soft, as if he were sharing a secret with you. You listened, enraptured, as he spoke of his love for the estate, his pride in its legacy.
He looked at you, his eyes meeting yours, and for a moment, you felt as if you could see straight into his soul. It was a soul filled with pain and pride, with love and longing. It was a soul that resonated with your own, a soul that spoke of a connection deeper than propriety, deeper than society.
And then, just as quickly, the moment passed, and he looked away, his gaze fixed on the horizon once more.
"I hope to do it justice," he replied, his voice soft. "I hope to ensure that Pemberley remains a place of beauty and tranquility for generations to come."
As you continued your walk, you found yourself lost in thought, your heart filled with a warmth and a longing you could not quite understand. Mr. Darcy was a man of pride, a man of duty. He was a man who had been raised in a world of propriety and decorum.
And yet, in that moment by the lake, you had seen a different side of him, a side that had touched your heart in a way you could not quite explain. It was a side that had made you see him not as a distant, proud gentleman, but as a man, a man with fears and dreams, with joys and sorrows.
It was a side that had resonated with your own soul, a side that had spoken of a connection deeper than society, deeper than propriety.
And as you walked, arm in arm, through the beautiful grounds of Pemberley, you could not help but wonder what the future held for you, for Mr. Darcy, for the connection that had blossomed between you.
For in that moment, you knew that you had found something special, something rare and beautiful. You had found a connection that transcended propriety, that defied society's rules. You had found a connection that was akin to the beauty and tranquility of Pemberley itself.
And you knew, deep in your heart, that no matter what the future held, you would cherish this moment, this connection, for the rest of your days.
