The 26th of November, a Pride and Prejudice Comedy of Farcical Proportions

by Elizabeth Adams

  And her letter! How humiliating! He had likely been shocked and disgusted by her audacity. That she would write such a thing, and then go so far as to sneak into his room and leave it on his pillow! What had she been thinking? She never would have done it had she known it would last more than a few hours. He had probably burned it, maybe without even reading it—she partially hoped that was the case—or he might have laughed at it, as she feared in her darker moments. After all, he had never said anything about romantic feelings. It had only ever been tender looks and longing glances.

  Had it all been in her imagination? Had she concocted this elaborate story in her mind when there was nothing there in reality? Had his kindness been only kindness and nothing more? Had all his attention been merely civility?

  She would go mad with this kind of thinking. She told herself it did not matter regardless. She would likely never see him again. Even if he came for Jane’s wedding—and there had been no word that he would—she would be so busy with her family they would have no opportunity to converse.

  She would put him out of her mind. There was no other way.

  ~

  London was a wonderful distraction, as were her Gardiner cousins. They kept her occupied and her mind off things she’d prefer to forget.

  One afternoon, as she was sitting on the floor of the family parlor with baby Margaret, Mr. Bingley was announced. Mr. Bingley had come every day of their visit and the staff had been told to bring him to the small parlor directly. Thus, when he entered, Elizabeth had not had time to rise from the floor, nor to dislodge her young cousin from her skirts. She smiled at her almost-brother and was about to apologize for not rising to greet him when she saw a tall man walking in behind him.

  “Mr. Darcy!” she squeaked.

  Before she could register what was happening, Margaret started screaming for a reason nobody could fathom and Jane was apologizing to their guests for the racket. Elizabeth rose as well as she could with an eighteen-month-old in her lap and left the room with the baby, promising to return shortly.

  She took Margaret up to the nursery and left her with the nurse, then made her way back downstairs. She could hear her aunt and Bingley conversing in the parlor, and not feeling up to company yet, she sank onto the stairs and let her head fall into her hands. To be caught in such an unladylike position! She was so embarrassed.

  Telling herself to calm down and face the situation like a lady, she took a deep breath and raised her head only to meet the concerned gaze of Mr. Darcy.

  Her mouth dropped open and she almost spoke, but she could think of nothing to say. He seemed to have a similar difficulty and they stared at each other for some time. Elizabeth finally recalled she was sitting on a step and rose to her feet.

  “Miss Elizabeth, would you join me for a short stroll?”

  She nodded and said she would inform her aunt. Soon, she was walking down the cold January street next to Mr. Darcy with Bingley and Jane blithely walking ahead of them.

  She was desperate to know if he had read her letter, but she could not bring herself to ask.

  “Miss Elizabeth,” he began, “I want to apologize for leaving the neighborhood without taking proper leave of you or your family.”

  “It is forgiven, Mr. Darcy.”

  “I thank you. Miss Elizabeth,” he hesitated, searching for words, and she hoped he wasn’t preparing to tell her how unwelcome and inappropriate her ridiculous letter had been. She steeled herself for the blow.

  “May I call on you?”

  “Pardon me?” she asked, not believing her ears.

  “May I call on you? Here in London? And perhaps in Hertfordshire as well?”

  “You wish to call on me?”

  “Yes.”

  “In Gracechurch Street?”

  “Yes.”

  “You are not disgusted by me?”

  “Disgusted? How could I be disgusted by you? Why would you think such a thing?”

  “No reason.” She would not bring up the letter if he would not.

  “Then I may call?”

  “Yes, you may call.”

  He placed his hand over hers where it rested on his arm. She told herself to calm and took deep breaths, wondering why he wasn’t flustered at all. Of course, he isn’t flustered. This is Mr. Darcy! They walked to the end of the street and into a small park in silence, somewhere between content and anxious.

  It was Elizabeth who finally broke the silence. “May I ask, Mr. Darcy, what changed your mind?”

  “About courting you?”

  “Yes.” She appreciated that he did not pretend not to know what she referred to.

  “You did.”

  “Me?”

  “Yes. I am a Darcy, the son of a rich man and connected to a powerful family. I am young, and therefore something of value on the marriage mart, much as I dislike it. Many women have tried to show me what good wives they would make, and more than one family has approached me for an alliance.” He looked away with a pinched expression. “None of them were truly interested in me, but in what I could do for them, what I could give them. The status they might attain through me and the lifestyle they could have as my wife.”

  She squeezed his arm in support and he returned her look of sympathy with an almost smile.

  “I was disgusted by it. I understand the merits of a political marriage and those entered into for social or financial advantage. I understood them very well in Hertfordshire. But I did not want to live that way. I knew I should, I knew it was my duty, but, I could not make myself do it.” He was quiet again, and she waited patiently until he was ready to continue. His voice was soft when he spoke.

  “My cousin, Lord Milton, was wed three years ago. Suffice it to say his marriage is not happy. He and his wife are rarely in the same house, let alone sharing a table. They have a son and a daughter and are now happy to have nothing to do with each other beyond what is strictly necessary. They see their children rarely, and each other even less.” He looked at the ground and said quietly, “I want more for myself.”

  “I understand,” she said gently.

  “I do not want to forego Pemberley because I am avoiding my wife. I do not want to seek my fulfillment outside my marriage, and make a mockery of my vows, because my wife cannot stand the sight of me. That is not the way of happiness.”

  “No, it is not.”

  “Your letter—” she flinched and he gallantly pretended not to notice— “was the answer to all my wishes. It taught me to hope, as I had scarcely ever allowed myself to hope before. That you saw me as a man, as a friend, was, is, amazing to me.” He turned to face her and took both her hands in his. “That you saw my attraction to you and did not even attempt to use it to your own advantage—my God, Elizabeth! Do you know how rare you are?”

  She looked at him wide-eyed and open-mouthed. He placed a finger beneath her chin and gently closed her mouth. “Dearest, loveliest Elizabeth. How could I not love such a worthy woman?”

  “But you left!” she cried. She cringed at her outburst, her mind in a whirl of confusion and bliss.

  He flinched and stood a little straighter. “I did. I am sorry. I was more than a little conflicted, and I thought I might forget you with some distance.” She couldn’t hide the hurt in her eyes and he looked back at her sadly. He brought her hands to his chest and held them there tightly. “But I could not forget you, and more importantly, I did not truly want to. What folly that would have been! You are a woman worthy of being pleased, and I have learned what it means to live without you. I do not wish to do so ever again.”

  She gave him a wobbly smile and tried desperately not to cry. He looked back at her sweetly and stroked her cheek, and she leaned into his hand.

  “I have missed you so very much,” she whispered.

  “I am so sorry I stayed away, my love. It will never happen again.”

  She nodded, her throat too tight to speak.

  “Does this mean you will marry me?” he asked.

 
“I thought you were asking to court me.”

  “I was. Now I believe we are beyond that. Will you marry me, Elizabeth? I do not wish to be parted from you ever again.”

  “Yes! I will marry you quite happily, Mr. Darcy.” She smiled brilliantly at him and he returned it with the widest smile she had ever seen from him.

  He raised her hand to his lips and kissed it gently. “Call me Fitzwilliam.”

  ~

  Mr. Gardiner was quickly applied to and his permission readily given. A letter was sent to Longbourn and Mr. Bennet sent a reply a week later—quick by his standards—giving Mr. Darcy permission to marry his favorite daughter.

  True to his word, Darcy refused to leave Elizabeth. Everywhere she went, he accompanied her. He introduced her to his sister, whom she immediately liked, and to his uncle the earl, whom she was immediately wary of. She met his favorite cousin, a Colonel Fitzwilliam, and she wished she had had a brother like him. He was very nearly the male embodiment of herself and she began to understand her betrothed a bit better. His great-uncle Darcy was a judge with a very dry wit. Overall, she was quite pleased with her new relations.

  Darcy attained a special license and though it was quick, it was decided they would share their wedding day with Jane and Charles, only a fortnight away. Charles was thrilled to be gaining his closest friend as a brother and he and Elizabeth quickly began calling each other Charlie and Lizzy. Jane smiled at their antics, and Darcy tried to reciprocate by asking Jane to call him Fitzwilliam, but sweet Jane had seen how awkward it made him and asked if she might simply call him Darcy, as her dear Bingley did. Darcy was terribly relieved and even brought himself to call her Jane on more than one occasion.

  ~

  Mrs. Bennet had never been happier than the day she married off her two eldest daughters in the grandest wedding Meryton had ever seen. The brides were resplendent and the breakfast was a feast fit for royalty. Darcy and Elizabeth left for London two hours into the celebration, but Mrs. Bennet was satisfied by Jane and Bingley’s continued presence. Elizabeth had never been gladder Mr. Bingley had let Netherfield and not Mr. Darcy. It was possible to be settled too near one’s family.

  Two days before their wedding, as he turned pages for her at the instrument while the snow swirled wildly outside the window, Darcy asked Elizabeth what she had meant when she wrote in her letter that she thanked him for sharing so much of himself with her. And for that matter, how had she known so many things before he told her? Like Wickham’s perfidy, or the story about riding with his cousin and avoiding the collapsed well. When he told it to her, she had not seemed surprised at all.

  Her reply was simple. “Do you believe in premonitions, Mr. Darcy?”

  Epilogue

  Pemberley, Six Months Later

  “Is that a letter from your cousin Anthony?” asked Elizabeth as she settled next to her husband on the sofa.

  “Yes. Sarah is expecting a child in early autumn. He is beside himself with pride,” said Darcy.

  Elizabeth smiled and curled up next to him. “Can you blame him?”

  “Of course not.” He was unable to resist kissing her rosy cheek, regardless of their location in the morning room. “You know, it is strange,” he added thoughtfully.

  “What is strange, my dear?”

  “Anthony sent me a letter while I was at Netherfield telling me how he had recently become engaged to a woman in the next parish. He was astounded at his good fortune—that he had found so worthy a woman, that she had an equal affection for him, and that they were able to marry, even though he was but a vicar.”

  “He is hardly a pauper! He is the son of an earl.”

  “True, but he believed she would have loved him regardless of who his parents were. I can admit to you now that I was terribly jealous.” She looked at him in surprise and he continued, “First sons are often pursued heavily, and it is not because they are more worthy. As an only son who had already inherited, I had seen more than enough drawing room machinations.”

  She rested her head on his shoulder for a moment. “You poor dear! How hunted you must have felt.”

  He ignored her tease, as he often did. “As I sat there, reading Anthony’s letter, I couldn’t help wishing that I would know such love, such pure affection for myself. I wished for it most fervently,” he added in a soft tone with a kiss to her hair. “But I could not think how it could happen. When would a woman ever be close enough to me, when would I allow her close enough, to learn to love me? I would have never spent such time with a woman for fear of raising her expectations.”

  Elizabeth raised her head from his shoulder and leaned back to look at him, her face reflecting incredulity and a dawning horror. “You wished for a woman to learn to love you?”

  He touched his finger to her nose gently. “I would say my wish was answered most satisfactorily.”

  Elizabeth burst into laughter.

  The End

  Chapter 15

  The Gentleman’s Perspective

  Darcy fell into his bed, exhausted in mind and body. The evening had been a series of small tortures. Miss Bingley’s flattery, the noise and bustle of the ball, his own confusion and conflicting emotions had all combined to leave him weary and short-tempered. And he had had the strangest dreams.

  He seldom had more than one in a night, but last night was very odd. He dreamt Miss Elizabeth Bennet had kissed him outside Netherfield and said goodbye with tears in her eyes. He had felt so helpless, so very sorry for her distress, and yet, when he tried to go after her, his feet would not move. He had awoken disturbed and anxious.

  He continued to see strange flashes of her in his mind throughout the day. They were laughing as they danced at the ball, talking of everything from feathers to their families and childhoods. He imagined confiding in her and felt the sweet warmth of her trust and trustworthiness. His mind was so muddled he could no longer tell what had been a dream in the night and what was wishful thinking.

  He had been unable to resist asking her to dance. He requested the fourth set. Not as momentous as the first or the last, and not as tempting as the supper set. He wanted to remember her laughing eyes and sweet smile long after this night. He knew it was foolhardy, that the more time he spent with her the harder it would be to leave her, but he had great faith in his self-control, and he would do as he ought. He would not be swayed from his duty by the daughter of a lowly country squire. He could enjoy the dance, watch her skirt swirling around her ankles and the curls on her neck bouncing as she danced about him. He could enjoy her company and her smiles and leave with his dignity intact. He could and he would.

  But he had miscalculated the lady. She had seen through him, as if he were made of glass, and all his pretensions of leaving without encouraging her had been for naught. Her farewell in the library told him as much. She knew. She knew he was fascinated by her and she also knew he would do nothing to act on it. He would leave her, and she knew exactly why.

  To his great surprise, Darcy felt a shadow of shame settle over him.

  He knew he had to be realistic, that he was dealing in real life and not in fairy tales, and that as much as he might care for her, as well as he believed they would do together, he had a duty to his family and to his heritage to advance the family’s holdings and status. Georgiana would make a better match if he married well. If his bride were well-dowered, he could expand his own fortune and enrich Pemberley for his heirs.

  If he married Elizabeth Bennet, his lands would not be expanded, his sister would have no additional support, and the dozen children he was sure he would have with Elizabeth would have less funding from their father.

  He sighed. There was no point in dwelling on what could be. He must focus on what should be. He rolled over restlessly, tired but unable to sleep, and something poked his face. He reached blindly beside his pillow and found a piece of parchment. Curious, he carried it over to the fire and looked at the seal on the back. It was plain. His name was written on the front in a hand he did
not recognize.

  He had thought the letter might be from Miss Bingley, but he knew her hand from the many notes she had sent him while staying at Netherfield. Her letters were much larger and looping. This was a neat, precise hand.

  He lit a candle and settled into the chair by the fire, his curiosity winning over his desire to sleep. By the end of the second sentence he knew who the author was, but he darted his eyes to the end of the page to be sure. In his shock at seeing her name so boldly written, he dropped the letter. He stared at it for a moment, wondering if he should read it (and fearing for his own resolve if he did), until he could bear his mind’s questions no more and took it up once again.

  You have become very dear to me. Good god! He had realized that she knew of his intention to leave Netherfield and why he must do so, but for her to hold him in the same esteem! And she knew they could never be together. She saw the chasm between them as well as he did. Why had he thought they were not a fairy tale? They were a dark tale indeed—a cautionary tale.

  He continued reading, shocked that he had been so transparent. He had felt the danger of paying her too much attention, but she had felt his regard nonetheless. How she saw through his feeble attempts to hide his true feelings! He felt exposed, embarrassed, and oddly relieved.

  Guard your heart—protect it fiercely—as I would do if I had the privilege. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply. She wished him to protect his heart! She wished him to find contentment and true companionship. He dropped his hand to his lap and his head to the back of the chair. Oh, how he wished he could have found that contentment and companionship with her! How he wished the little dreams he had, the visions of their future, were to be a reality.