The Shade of Pemberley
Prologue
Derbyshire, 1812
Fitzwilliam Darcy opened the double doors to the parlor, unconsciously straightening his cravat as he entered. He was followed by Mr. Bingley, Mr. Gardiner and Mr. Hurst. The ladies were already assembled there. His eyes instantly sought out Miss Elizabeth Bennet's form; he was surprised and pleased to see her dimpled smile when their eyes met.
Miss Bingley approached him directly, her bronze gown shimmering richly in the candlelight.
“Mr. Darcy, do help us to convince Miss Eliza Bennet that she must play for us tonight,” she said as she tucked her arm through his.
Even his annoyance at Miss Bingley's presumption could not diminish his pleasure as Miss Bennet bowed her head graciously.
“Indeed, I would very much like the pleasure of hearing you perform again, Miss Bennet,” he replied warmly. He led Miss Bingley to a seat and took his own near the pianoforte so that he could view Miss Bennet to her full advantage. He was sure that his warm gaze on Miss Bennet was received with pleasure; for although her color rose, she did not avert her eyes or turn away from him.
Although the evening did not end as he had hoped—assured of Miss Bennet's admiration of him—he did at least feel confident that she was conscious of his admiration of her.
Chapter 1
Derbyshire, 20__
Elizabeth Bennet did not know who her parents were. She had been found on a warm April morning on the steps of a church on Bennet Street when she was just hours old, swaddled in a towel with the initials “F.D.” embroidered on one corner. The priests who found her had taken her in and placed her in their orphanage. She was a beautiful baby, with big brown eyes and dark curly hair; but she had an uncanny quality about her. Her eyes were too big for her face, her expression too solemn for one so young. Her eyes seemed to have a world-weariness even at a young age. As a young child she had been passed from foster home to foster home but never found a permanent place. By the time she was two, the priests at the church decided that she was not adoptable and kept her at the orphanage where at least she had some stability.
It was a mystery as to why she was never adopted. She was not a somber child, in fact she was never known to cry beyond infancy; she laughed and giggled like all little girls. She had a fondness for yellow hair ribbons and pictures of horses. Everyone at the orphanage loved her and wondered why she could not be placed; she seemed unable to form a bond with anyone but them. But with them, she was charming; she teased them and made them laugh and took the younger children under her wing. How she came through her childhood so well-adjusted was beyond anyone's understanding.
Elizabeth, in truth, could remember very little about her childhood; it was merely a bridge between birth and adulthood, where she had always wanted to be. She was smart and excelled in school, receiving scholarships with ease. She set about her adult life with a purpose not commonly seen among the young. She did whatever she wanted to do without fear. She sky dived, she walked alone in darkened alleys at night, and she ate unhealthy food. She had a sense that she would know when it was her time to die and it had not yet come.
At the tender age of 18 she made her first million, investing the money she had earned in after-school jobs on a shrewd business investment. She drifted aimlessly from job to job, her main occupation being perusing the stock pages and managing her investments. Some thought she was a business genius, others thought her uncommonly lucky. She knew not which she was; her methods were unusual, to say the least. Her first concern in any investment (and she fully owned that this was a private superstition and never revealed it to anyone) was that the company's name contain the letters F and D. She knew not why, only that it must be. It had never failed her.
Her life seemed to be charmed. She was welcomed into the best social circles without application. She attended the best parties. Her opinions were sought on all manner of topics and she was considered exceedingly witty, exceedingly beautiful and exceedingly charming. Men and women alike clamored for her attentions and affections. Yet she held her heart and mind close to her and shared them with no one.
She had no serious boyfriends; she took lovers when it suited her and discarded them when it did not. She was not touched by jealousies or rivalries. She had never been spurned and so did not know the pain of heartbreak. Nor had she ever felt the throes of infatuation for a man. She felt detached, impenetrable. She had always felt so. In fact, she had always felt like she was holding her breath, waiting to exhale, waiting, waiting…
***
Her Jaguar tore along the dirt road at a reckless speed. She had no destination in mind, only to see where her impulses would take her. She slowed and took a side lane; the road was unpaved, rough and bumpy. Trees grew on either side forming a dark tunnel that at one time had probably been charming, but now felt oppressive to most. The road curved, rose and fell, undulated like a restless snake. It hypnotized her; she steered unconsciously, as if from long habit.
At the end of the road rose a tall sandstone mansion, its stateliness untarnished by the worn exterior, the haphazardly hanging shutters and the unkempt grounds. Slowly, she pulled onto the gravel before the house and switched off the ignition. As she gazed up at the house, she had the distinct impression that it was looking at her. She stepped out of the car and warily approached the steps leading to the entrance. She climbed the steps slowly, avoiding a crumbling stair, running her hand along the cool, rough granite balustrade. She stood before the closed door. For the first time that she could ever recall, she began to cry.
***
“Have you lost your mind?” Roger asked her. She shook her head. The purchase was complete. She had not consulted him. He was angry. “How could you do this without even talking to me about it?”
“Talk to you? About what? Who are you? You are nothing to me,” she said calmly. She stared out the window of her apartment in detached silence as he shouted at her. She did not listen. She did not hear him tell her that he was leaving her; it made no difference to her. She did not notice when he slammed the door behind him. She continued to look out the window.
She had purchased the sandstone mansion. There had been no choice, really. It had called to her and she had to answer.
Her realtor had been surprised. He had tried to discourage her (“The old Pemberley estate has a lot of problems; the heating is awful, the plumbing needs to be replaced and for God's sake, the pond should be drained, it's a lawsuit waiting to happen!”) but she did not care. She told him that she wanted to convert it to a bed and breakfast but in truth she had formulated no such plan. She knew only that she belonged to the house as much as her arm belonged to her.
When her realtor paused for breath from his recitation of the laundry list of problems, she asked,
“Why was it abandoned?”
He sat back and looked thoughtfully at her. He didn't want to tell her that the place had a bad reputation, a gloomy feeling that people seemed to dislike.
“Ah, well, it has been in a steady decline since the early 1800's, I suppose it just became too much,” was what he told her. She nodded again.
“Shall we go take a look?” he asked her eagerly. She shook her head and lied that she had already seen the interior. Her first view of the interior would be a private, intimate moment, to be shared with no one else.
The local librarian was able to provide her with a more detailed history. The estate had been the primary residence of the Darcy family for many, many generations.
“The last person of the Darcy family to live there was Georgiana Darcy, who married Robert Franklin in 1813 and lived in the estate until her death in 1850. She did not have any children and she had been the only heir. I believe the Franklin family tried to hold it down for several years, but their fortune was not so great as it had been and it became troublesome to maintain,” the librarian told her.
Elizabeth learned that the Franklins sold the estate and it passed through various owners over the next 150 years. Each successive owner had made modernizing improvements but none had stayed more than a few years. The property declined, acres were sold off and the western wing fell into disrepair. The last owners, the Ashcombes, had given the place up entirely 50 years ago and it had been empty—lonely, Elizabeth thought-- ever since.
Chapter 3
Derbyshire, 20__
Elizabeth stood before the front door, its faded green paint chipped and tear-streaked with weather. She had yet to set foot inside but felt as if she knew what to expect. Holding her breath in anticipation, she unlocked the door and swung it open.
She stepped into the foyer leaving footprints in the dust. Her eyes adjusted to the dimness as the grimy windows blocked the afternoon sun. Through the layers of dust, the cracked tiles, the dirty windows and faded wallpaper, she could see the understated grandeur that lay beneath. Almost as if she had seen it before, she envisioned the flower arrangements on a side table, the glistening chandeliers and the refined elegance of the furnishings.
She walked slowly through the house with an uncanny sense of déjà vu; she almost knew what was going to be around the next corner but not quite. Looking around her with a eerie familiarity, she entered the parlor. The French windows overlooked the sweeping grounds outside, opening on to a small terrace. She pulled a sheet from a sofa and watched the dust cloud filter through the dim light. When she opened the window, a cold breeze swept by her, stirring more dust.
With her routine deliberation, she unpacked her sleeping bag, flashlight, lantern, and provisions. She had been unable to wait for the electricity to be turned back on; the house beckoned her to stay now.
Her mind made a list of things to do: remove all the dust covers, begin cleaning, and examine all the furniture to see if any of it was useful. As dusk began to draw near, she arranged her provisions in the parlor, intent on sleeping there. She took the cushions from the sofa onto the terrace and beat them until no more dust billowed out. Then she arranged her sleeping bag on the sofa and lit a small lantern. Once she had settled into her sleeping bag, she pulled out a notebook and began to record her mental list. After a while, she turned off the lantern and lay on the sofa. She closed her eyes and soon drifted to sleep.
Her dreams were crowded with flashes of color, noises that resembled voices but no discernable conversation. She awoke with a start, almost as if she had been dragged from the dream by some external force. Her heart pounding, she lay silent and still, listening for what it was that woke her. She could not identify it but could not go back to sleep. She lay awake for some time listening to the wind outside as it rustled the branches, tap-tap-tapping on the windows.
“I shall have to get those branches trimmed,” she thought. “Yes. They should be taken back about three feet.” The answer to her initial thought did not seem to be her own. It had intruded into her mind like a half-heard whisper. She lay still and wondered from what depths of her subconscious she had decided that the branches needed to be trimmed back precisely three feet?
***
Fitzwilliam Darcy opened the double doors to the parlor, unconsciously straightening his cravat as he entered. The scene unfolded before him with a sense of déjà vu. The ladies were already assembled there. His eyes instantly sought out Miss Elizabeth Bennet's form; he was surprised and pleased to see her dimpled smile when their eyes met.
He could not precisely say what Miss Bingley was going to say but as soon as the words came from her mouth, they were familiar to him. The feeling of familiarity did not bother him in the least; indeed, having a vague notion of what was going to happen allowed him the luxury of attending more closely to Miss Bennet's actions rather than his own.
His only distraction was the wind outside that brushed the branches against the window, their tapping a minor interruption to her playing. “I shall have to get those branches trimmed,” he thought. “Yes. They should be taken back about three feet.”
Chapter 4
Derbyshire, 20__
Elizabeth toiled in an upstairs bedroom, carefully airing the room and sweeping, scrubbing and dusting. She wanted at least one room that was suitable for living in immediately. The room she chose was situated with a view of the lake and grounds to the east. The rising sun will wake me, she thought. She had a new mattress delivered and installed in the four-poster bed that was too large to be removed from the room. There was an adjoining dressing room that had been converted into a bathroom by one of the prior owners. Once the water service had been turned on, she was well on her way to having her room.
She stooped and swept out the fireplace, working the flue. As she sat back on her heels and wiped her forearm across her forehead, smearing grime on her face, she heard a dull thunk. She frowned and leaned forward.
A brick had fallen out of the rear wall of the chimney within the fireplace. She had not noticed any loose bricks, nor had she noticed any crumbling mortar. Yet the brick rocked slightly back and forth where it had landed. She reached out and picked it up. Then she put her head into the fireplace to see where it had come from. The hole was at eye-level just before her. She crawled into the fireplace and fitted the brick back into place. It fit in perfectly; it was obviously the right spot. She pushed the brick in and wiggled back out of the fireplace.
She stood and turned, looking for her next project, when she heard the same dull thunk. She whirled back around to the fireplace. The brick was again rocking on the hearth. She had fitted it in snugly; there was no way it had just fallen out. There must be a rat living behind it, she thought with a grimace. It must be a large rat to push a snug brick out of its place!
She crawled back into the fireplace with a flashlight to look for signs of a nest. As she peered into the hole, she saw a flash of white, but could not make out what she saw. She withdrew, pulled on a rubber cleaning glove and returned to the hole. Thrusting her hand into the hole, she fished around until she felt something. She pulled it out.
In her hand was a folded sheet of thick paper, sealed with wax but with no indication of its contents or owner. She tempered her curiosity until she had explored the remainder of the hole, retrieving several similar documents. It was somehow clear to her that they were letters, not mere records. Why else would they be so hidden?
A sense of sadness descended on her as she fingered the thick paper. Who wrote these letters? Why were they never sent? Should she read them? It occurred to her that she was invading someone's privacy by discovering them and she almost put them back in the hole. After a moment, she arranged them into a stack on the table in her room, resolving to decide later whether to open them.
She continued cleaning for the rest of the day but her mind continually wandered back to the bits of paper on her table. She went to town to get dinner but her distraction over the letter led her to get take-out. By the time she returned, dusk had passed into darkness. She did not yet have electricity; the lantern would be her only source of light again. She fumbled with a flashlight from her car, then struck a match to the lantern. Then she took the lantern upstairs to her bedroom and set it on the table. The letters were still there, she noted with relief. Of course they are still there, she thought.
She sat at the little table and fingered a letter. It was no use. She had to open one. She carefully ran her finger beneath the seal and quietly said, “I'm sorry,” to whoever had written the letter, apologizing for invading their privacy. “2 November 1812 … My Dearest Elizabeth…”
***
The letter from F.D. had naturally engaged her curiosity. She did not believe it could be a coincidence that the letter had been signed with those very initials, the ones so important to her. Her curiosity piqued, she began a tenacious investigation of the property. Fortunately, the importance of the property to the local economy in the 1800s afforded many records for her review. She spent countless hours in the library researching the estate. Her determination paid off when she discovered that there had been a Fitzwilliam Darcy who resided at Pemberley. It appeared he died at a rather young age, leaving the estate to his younger sister Georgiana and her husband. Elizabeth felt sure that this was the right F.D., the same F.D. who had written the letter.
Further digging revealed the identity of Colonel Fitzwilliam: he was Richard Fitzwilliam, the younger son of the Earl of Matlock and a cousin to Mr. Darcy. Based upon the letter, there had apparently been a love triangle between Mr. Darcy, the Colonel, and a young lady named Elizabeth.
Her curiosity was tempered with a shiver of apprehension when she found the marriage certificate of Colonel Fitzwilliam: he had married an Elizabeth Bennet. Her curiosity was nearly insatiable.
Nonetheless, she could not yet bring herself to open the remaining letters. This first letter had been such a heartfelt expression of unrequited love that she felt it an unpardonable invasion of his privacy, even if he was long dead. And so, out of respect for three people whom she had never met, she set the letters aside.
Chapter 5
While Elizabeth forbore the temptation to read the remaining letters, she was compelled to discover more about this Elizabeth Bennet. She found that she had a sister Jane, who married a Mr. Charles Bingley. The prominent Bingley family had long ago moved away but some descendents had returned to Derbyshire. She hunted them down and paid them a visit. They were pleased by her interest in their family and especially by the possibility of a familial connection. She did not tell them that Bennet was her adopted name.
They allowed her to explore their attic and to delve into boxes of old papers and objects, a mixed jumble of artifacts from generations past. As she went through a box of old photographs, she came across a journal. She flipped the pages of the journal absently, not expecting to find anything of interest, until a slip of paper fell out. She read it in the dim light of the attic before slipping it into her pocket.
22 November 1812
Dearest Jane,
I know you, as my dearest, most beloved sister, will hold my confidences close and betray this letter to none other. My despair is such that I cannot contain it and must pour it out on these pages. Please forgive me. I am sure I will be quite well after I have done with this letter and we need never speak of it again.
But first, let me assure you that I am well. My dear Colonel has been nothing but kindness and affection since our return to the North after the wedding. His family has settled a generous living on him and he seems well content to live out his retirement from the regiment. We have a delightful abode, though I confess the rain is much colder here than at home. He is as cheerful company as ever and, if he knew of this letter, I am sure he would convey his love to you.
It is supremely ungrateful of me to have such a warm and considerate husband and to feel the strength of sadness that dwells in my heart this day. But I fear I cannot bear the burden of this secret any longer and must impart it to you, who I know will honor my wishes for secrecy and discretion.
You will recall that last April, Mr. Darcy made an offer to me which I refused. Not long thereafter, my own dear Richard began his suit. As you know, I resisted the Colonel's attentions for quite some time but, in the end, found myself harboring a true affection for him.
I know you will also recall my chance encounter with Mr. Darcy at Pemberley some months later. Can you recall my astonishment at how changed he was? He was so altered, so genial, that it was not to be believed. I had not considered that my rejection of his suit had caused him to improve his manners but his attentions were constant during those few days in Lambton. Indeed, I had found myself beginning to return his affections. But all hopes of his renewing those sentiments were dashed by Lydia's elopement with Wickham. For how could he align himself with such a family as would take in and make their own, one who had so grievously insulted him?
After Lydia's elopement, I felt it best to secure myself to my dear Colonel if he would still have me. Lydia's fortuitous marriage eased any doubts Richard may have had and I quickly accepted his proposal. At the time I genuinely believed that I would be content and happy with the arrangement. It was not until later that I learned of Mr. Darcy's involvement in the affair from our Aunt Gardiner.
Last autumn, just after Mr. Bingley—my dear brother—made his offer of marriage to you, I began to know myself. I know you, and indeed mama as well, felt that I attended Mr. Darcy in order to allow you and Charles some moments of serenity during that hectic time. But I confess, I thought not only of you and dear Charles.
Although I had already accepted Richard's offer of marriage, I found that I had feelings for Mr. Darcy. At first, I thought it was gratitude for all he did for poor Lydia. But does one's heartbeat grow faster out of gratitude? Does one blush and forget what to say out of mere thankfulness? Does one eagerly await the arrival of somebody to whom one merely wishes to impart one's appreciation?
No, Jane, one does not. I do not know when it began or how it happened but I had developed a deep and abiding love for Mr. Darcy. And I was promised to his own cousin! I believe you can imagine my guilt and mortification, which continues to this day. And yet, Mr. Darcy remains in my heart as strongly as ever.
I have just received a very warm letter from Mr. Darcy congratulating me on my fortunate marriage to his cousin and I can read it only with bitter tears. Oh, Jane, what have I done? To have ill-used my Richard and to have harbored such feelings for Mr. Darcy? I am a traitor to both. And it is I who must bear the pain of that treachery forever as I look daily upon Richard's adoring face and wish that before me, instead, stood my dear Darcy.
Be assured, the violence of my affection for him shall never be known to any but you nor shall any opportunity to express such affection ever be taken. I know Mr. Darcy can have nothing but sisterly affection for me despite his prior proposal. Fear not, I will never dishonor Richard in any manner.
Thank you, Jane, for letting me pen this letter to you. Please forgive me for burdening you with this trouble but my heart feels lighter having told you. I know I can trust in your complete confidence and, while I would never presume to inhibit any communications betwixt yourself and your own excellent husband, I would hope that the particulars of this letter not be made known to him, as it can bring only pain.
Please, give Charles my love and know how very blessed you are to have made such a happy union.
Your loving
Lizzy.
Chapter 6
Derbyshire, ????
Fitzwilliam Darcy opened the double doors to the parlor, unconsciously straightening his cravat as he entered. The ladies were already assembled there. His eyes instantly sought out Miss Elizabeth Bennet's form; he was surprised and pleased to see her dimpled smile when their eyes met.
Yes, he had definitely been here before. The sense of déjà vu was no longer a mere tease in his mind. He knew that Miss Bingley would implore him to encourage Miss Bennet to play for them. He recited his lines and watched in wonder as the scene played out before him. Yes, Miss Bennet would make a mistake just there. He failed to respond to Miss Bingley's inquiry but it had no effect; the play continued uninterrupted. Finally, Miss Bingley let out a shrill titter and then, somehow, all was gone...
***
Elizabeth woke to the sound of faint music, as if there were a small party in the parlor. She had dreamt this several times but now the dream was waking. The piano tinkled lightly under talented but not expert fingers. Elizabeth padded barefoot from her bed to the hallway. The noises were unmistakable. She could even make out the melody.
She slipped silently down the steps and approached the parlor doors. Inside she could hear muffled voices and, finally, a shrill titter. She flung open the doors. The room was dark and empty, just as she had left it.
***
…all was gone. The room was no longer bathed in warm candlelight, it was dark and cold. Miss Bingley, Mrs. Gardiner, Georgiana, all were gone. Miss Bennet was not here and yet…she was.
Before him stood Elizabeth Bennet in a cotton night dress with her dark hair flowing over her shoulders, her toes peeking from beneath a ruffle. Darcy sat in mute amazement at the ghostly figure before him. Was he dreaming? Had he fallen asleep during Miss Bennet's performance? Had they left him there, prone and humiliated, snoring in his chair? And if so, why was Miss Bennet here? Surely she would have returned to the inn?
“Miss Bennet?” he said. She looked about the room for a moment, his query seemingly unheard. She waved her hand over a fixture on the wall and the room was cast into brilliant light, blinding him…
***
Elizabeth's breath caught. Had she seen something out of the corner of her eye? She flicked on the light, but no, all was as she had left it earlier. She walked across the parlor to a chair near the piano. The piano lid was shut; it didn't matter, the piano was woefully out of tune so it could not have been the source of the music she heard.
Yet when she opened the doors, she could feel the thrum hanging in the air of an interrupted conversation. She felt as if all eyes in a room had turned to her, waiting, expecting her to do or say something. Slowly she lifted the lid of the piano. She ran a finger lightly over the keys, making no sound.
She looked around the room, holding her breath. She could feel it, a heaviness in the air. She put her fingers back to the keys and picked out two notes: F and D. She let the notes hang in the air for a moment, then turned back to the double doors. As she walked toward the doors, she heard a sound from the piano.
The notes E and B.
Her breath stuck in her chest. Elizabeth freely admitted that she could be prone to superstition; her lack of parents and her fortuitous discovery already bred in her a sense of fate and destiny. But was she prepared to believe in this? That she was presently engaged in a communication with something?
It had responded to her notes of F D by thrumming out her own initials. She was convinced that it was Fitzwilliam Darcy who was in this room with her. She dashed back up to her room and retrieved the remaining letters. She returned to the parlor, built a fire, and turned off the lights. Then, by the firelight, she read the remaining letters.
***
Darcy watched this woman who was in his parlor—or rather, the parlor that had been his—with incredulity. At last he understood. He recalled now what his last thoughts had been: he had remembered that evening in the parlor and his love for Elizabeth.
Was this she? How could it be? Could they reach across time and space to find each other again?
He watched as she went to the piano and plucked out two notes. F and D. He felt sure that she knew who he was. She had not heard him call her name, she could not see him; would he be able to communicate with her?
He went to the piano and pressed out E and B. She had turned to the piano in surprise and then fled the room. He sat at the piano bench wondering how he could reach her.
She returned moments later, lit a fire, extinguished that blazing light and sat in a chair. He approached her and sat across from her. She was reading his letters—those letters that were never intended to be read!
At first his mortification was acute; of course, he then realized his situation. If she was his Elizabeth, somehow here and now, then he wanted her to read these letters. He sat in the chair and watched her face as she read the letters and wept.
Chapter 7
11 December, 1812
Dearest Elizabeth,
Once again I find that I must write to you without the intent of your ever reading what I have written. My sentiments are too strong to contain within my breast; they will be expressed.
I love you. I love you more each day. You seem to flourish under my cousin's care, as when I saw you just last week your cheeks were rosy and your smile bright. I confess I imagined that those blushes and smiles were meant for me. I did not fail to notice how becoming you looked in your new yellow frock. Do I dare dream that you know how I favor yellow? I know you will not deny me these small fantasies, you are far too generous.
The inspiration for this letter came from the most unexpected corner. Today I was in London with Georgiana, who prevailed upon me to visit the milliner's with her. As I stood with disinterest, as I am sure you can imagine (for you must know how I detest such chores as choosing lace and buttons), my eyes fell upon a piece of brown velvet ribbon. It was the very color and warmth of your eyes. I purchased a small length and hold it now, smiling at the thought of your gaze.
And now, with such happy thoughts in my mind, I am reminded that those eyes are not to favor mine. That the warmth expressed in those rosy blushes, in those timid smiles, will never be turned to me. What sweet torture it was to see you such. You are generous to bestow such affection and yet cruel indeed to bestow it so often.
I know you cannot join me in my fervent wish that my dear cousin will meet an unfortunate accident! Ah, you know I jest; I flatter myself that you would appreciate my humor, had you had the chance to know me better. As I would have appreciated yours every day, forever.
But now my heart is too full of sadness to continue. Goodnight, sweetest. I will meet you in my dream, as we meet every night.
F.D.
31 December, 1812
My love,
Let me be the first to wish you a happy and prosperous new year. Although this letter will never reach you, know that you are in my thoughts always.
I have good news; my sister Georgiana is to be married to an excellent gentleman named Robert Franklin. I am happy to say that not only is it a good match but it appears to be a love match. I would have her as happy as our friend Bingley.
I was most warmly welcomed by your own dear sister Jane over Christmas, having been invited to spend my holiday at Netherfield. Your sisters and your mother are all well. I was at least spared the indignity of meeting with Wickham, as they have now been transferred to the North. Jane is too generous, for Charles tells me that she has started sending all of her pin money to Lydia. Knowing her husband's disposition, I have no doubt that Mrs. Wickham's money is drunk before it is spent. But upon this, my dear, I shall say no more.
Your mother, Miss Catherine, and Miss Mary were all in high spirits as I am sure you can imagine. Your father spent a good deal of time in the library; I grew quite fond of him during our quiet refuges there.
And now this happy reverie must come to an end as I realize that I can never share these intimate observations with you. Indeed, I confess I spent most of my time at Netherfield imagining that you were there with me, only just in the next room or on one of your walks. With such deceptions of mind I was able to bear your family's happiness quite cheerfully. But now it is at an end as I sit in my room and pen this letter, never to be read again.
Be assured that my love for you is unwavering and true.
F.D.
6 January, 1813
Sweetest,
I do not know what compels me to write these letters. I only know that they bring some release when my heart is aching or overflowing with my love for you. In these letters, at least, I am only a man who loves a woman with all his being.
I have thought of you constantly these past few days. I am ashamed of the lustful thoughts that seem to spring into my mind at every waking moment. Shall I tell you of them?
Shall I tell you how I can imagine you in my arms, as graceful as a nymph? Your figure has always been light and pleasing but more so in its most natural form. I know that your skin is soft under my fingertips and I know that your lips taste like warm honeysuckle. I know that your hair feels like silk in my hands and smells like apples.
I know what it is to have you lie beneath me, embracing me with the same ardor I possess for you. I know what it is to have your arms and legs twined around me and mine around you. I know what it is to lose myself completely in you and to hear my name on your lips as I fulfill your maiden wishes.
I know these things but you do not and that is the sad state of my life. For truly, you must understand, that the fulfillment of such fantasies requires another person present. It is quite enough to make a man lose all humor.
But, with good fortune and better weather, I shall see you in a few short weeks as I have business to attend and hope to impose upon your hospitality at that time. The extent of my imposition, or rather the extent of your hospitality, dare I hope, could restore some of my humor. If only I had the courage to make such an imposition and you to offer such hospitality.
F.D.
9 March, 1813
My Dearest Lizzy,
It was a cruel blow indeed yesterday. I know that my cousin has every right to be proud and yet what bitterness it left in my mouth to make such congratulations to him. I know that you would never have allowed me to endure such pain had you but only known and that you will excuse my cutting my visit short in light of such circumstances. Please accept my sincere congratulations and wishes that the child growing within you was mine.
I do not think I can bear to return to you. These past few months I have struggled to sate my hunger for you with my frequent impositions on your hospitality. My boyish fantasies sustained me while you remained at least, to my self-deceived mind, within reach. But all that has changed. I cannot bear to see you so happy when it was not I who brought that light from within, that maternal joy, to you.
Can you not see it? Can you not see how your smile rends my flesh each time we meet? Can you not comprehend what slow tortures you inflict on me with every blush, every laugh, every impertinence? Do you not feel my gaze caress you? Can you not feel it each time I kiss you in my thoughts? Do you not feel the passion in your body that I feel each night when I dream? Do you receive your husband with pleasure as you receive me in my mind?
Oh, Lizzy, it is too much to be borne! To have lived without spirit or passion, to discover it only with you and then to have you snatched away by a twist of fate!
Once I felt that I could bear the shame to afford you the privilege of my suit; now I would bear any shame to receive the privilege of your gaze. I would degrade myself to love you, I would fall before you and beg that you allow me as your lover and disgrace my family, my name, and engender the enmity of my dearest cousin, my nearest relation, if only you would love me. I would brave the scorn of every strata of society, nay the very angels above, to receive your tender caress. And yet I could not dishonor you in that manner, I could not bear the shame that you would wear. Even if you would allow such liberties, and even if they could go undiscovered, I know you, dear Lizzy. You would be ashamed of your own actions and for that I could never forgive myself.
And so you see, love, I am in quite a bind. I love you so blindly, so fervently, that I cannot live without you. And yet I cannot live with you so near to me. I shame myself by coveting my cousins' wife, I shame you by such thoughts, and I shame my cousin by my disguise. I am a shame and a disgrace to all men. I am a shame to God. Yet I gladly bear that shame, sweet Elizabeth, for the gentle kiss you bestowed on me yesterday as I said farewell. I will tell myself that it was a lover's kiss and I will forget that your husband looked upon us with affection as you gave it. For the kiss I returned was a lover's kiss, tempered only for your husband's benefit.
I will end this letter with my prayer to Dear God in Heaven that He look kindly on me and end this sweet misery by striking me down but not by striking you from my soul.
F.D.
Chapter 8
Derbyshire 20__
Elizabeth was profoundly affected by these letters. She felt this man's torment. He had never known that his love was returned.
Moreover, she identified with the other Elizabeth. Her letter had touched her heart in a way that she had never before experienced. She was not reading the letter from a long-dead person; she was reading a letter written by herself almost two hundred years ago. She did not subscribe to mystical ideas like reincarnation, yet she knew this to be true. This letter was from her own heart, her own old, world-weary soul. She recognized this to be the one universal truth in life: she had loved FD and FD had loved her. Whether that occurred contemporaneously was irrelevant.
After some time, she rose from the chair, shaken with the force of her grief. She returned to her bedroom and sat at her table. As she sat, she was overcome by memories that did not seem to be her own: a walk in a grove with a gentleman; a piano piece that she did not recognize but that seemed familiar; being called “Lizzy” when she had only ever been called “Beth.”
As she sat at the table, she dropped her head in her hands. She sat there for some time until a memory, or possibly a dream, took over her mind.
She was being tended by a lover with sandy brown hair and laughing blue eyes. Yet he was not who she desired. As she lay beneath him, she closed her eyes and envisioned dark, curly hair and somber green eyes. Never before had she taken such measures and never before had her response been so passionate. Her husband had no idea that she did not refer to him when she called “Fitzwilliam” in passion. And just as she knew by some divine instinct that they had conceived a child that night, she knew that in mind and spirit, if not in body, the child was Darcy's.
She pulled out a pen and paper and began to write.
16 September, 20__
My Dearest Love,
I know not how this came to pass. Our lives have ended and begun anew and still we search.
It is not for me to say how events and lives are changed by the whims of fate. I only can say that since time began, I have loved you. Let us not dwell on events that tore us apart, as they were beyond our control. Let us instead reflect on what is the central and universal truth: I am yours and you are mine and so it shall be for eternity.
Take heart, dearest, that my love for you is ever faithful and strong. Know that I wish you to find peace for your soul. When the time is right, we will find each other again.
Your beloved,
Elizabeth
She left the letter in the parlor near the piano.
Chapter 9
Darcy did not need to read her letter. Now that he understood what he was, such laborious communications were unnecessary. If he was no more than a conscious trapped in time, what import could letters have?
He met her in her dream, as he had done in his own dreams so many years ago. He found her walking along the paths of Longbourn.
“Miss Bennet,” he called after her. She turned to face him. He caught up to her. “Will you not walk with me a bit?” He offered her his arm.
“I do not know this place,” she said quietly.
“You do. You grew up here,” he replied as he tucked her hand into his elbow.
“Yes, I know. I am very confused.”
He laughed. “Dearest Lizzy, anything is possible in dreams, do you not know that?”
“Is that what you called me? Lizzy? I am now known as Beth.”
“No, I was never given the privilege of calling you Lizzy. You were always Miss Elizabeth Bennet. Though I fondly wished for the privilege.”
“You may call me Lizzy if it pleases you,” she replied.
“Thank you, Lizzy,” he smiled.
“Did you read my letter?” she asked.
“In a manner, yes.”
“Will you find peace now?”
“Peace?” he asked.
“Yes. Now that you know that I have always loved you, will you be able to rest in peace?”
He stopped along the path and turned to face her. “Do you think that after so long, a simple `I love you' will put me at rest?”
“I think we will find each other again, when the time is right,” she answered.
“Dearest Lizzy, the time is now.” With that, he took her into his arms and kissed her with all the tenderness, longing, and passion that he had held in his heart.
Elizabeth woke with a start, her lips tingling.
***
The time is now, she thought. What can he mean? She lay awake in bed, recalling her dream. Was it only a dream? Had he found a way to communicate with her? Or was her overactive imagination getting the better of her? In the light of day it seemed the latter explanation was the more likely one.
She rose from bed and dressed and set about her tasks for the day. She found that her mind was unusually focused; she was able to make decisions more quickly and with more certainty than ever before. She knew with unparalleled clarity which exact colors that must be used to decorate each room. She notified the roofer of a particularly bad spot hidden under the boughs of the tree. She instructed the landscaper to trim back the branches three feet. She pointed out a hidden passageway to a contractor inspecting the cellars. She did not question how she knew these things.
As dusk drew on, she looked out the window overlooking the pond. At the edge she saw a figure on horseback. Their eyes seemed to meet, although she could not make out his features and certainly he could not see her inside the house as she was. Then he was gone. She did not look away, he did not ride away; he was simply…gone.
She looked away with a shiver.
***
Darcy now had a new concept of time and space. The rules of life no longer applied to him. He could exist in ways that defied human comprehension. He imparted to her information on the improvement of the house. He watched her work with the contractors; people so unlike anything he had ever seen. Their dress and manners were so coarse and yet he knew that she was, in essentials, still the same.
He hovered near her until one especially perceptive contractor looked at him curiously. Then he retired to the parlor to wait for her.
***
“M'am, this house is funny. You sure you want to live here?” one of her contractors said as he was packing up for the evening.
“Funny? What do you mean? It's a lovely house,” she laughed.
“Didn't you ever wonder why it was left abandoned for 50 years?” he replied.
“No, not really. It's a big house. It's a lot of work to take care of. I imagine nobody wanted the burden.”
“Humph,” was the contractor's reply. “You just be careful, things ain't always what they seem,” he said as he picked up his toolkit.
“No, indeed,” she murmured as she watched him walk away.
***
Elizabeth went to the parlor. Darcy was waiting for her.
“Are you here?” she asked into the empty room.
I am right in front of you, he replied.
She could not hear him.
“Don't scare off my workers!” she said with some force.
Darcy laughed and followed her as she walked to the French door leading to the terrace.
She could not hear his laugh but she could sense that he was there.
“Can you hear me?” she asked softly.
Yes, he replied sadly, but you cannot hear me.
She waited in vain for a reply to her question. She looked disappointed.
“Don't you want to talk to me? I thought you were violently in love with me,” she said, annoyed.
He walked to the piano and tapped a key. Her head swung toward the sound.
“Is that you?” she asked. He tapped the key again. She sighed in relief. “Don't leave me,” she said. He tapped the key again.
She turned her head toward the windows of the French doors; it was now dark outside and her reflection was clear to her. As she watched, before her eyes his reflection began to appear on the glass. She stood still, not wanting to disturb him. She could see his dark, wavy hair and piercing green eyes. He was directly behind her; she should be able to feel his breath against her cheek. She put one hand to the glass and watched as his reflection raised a hand to meet hers. After a moment, his image faded away. She put her head down and cried for a moment before collecting herself.
“I am going upstairs for a bath. I will come back down in an hour. Perhaps we can talk then,” she said quietly.
He had been exhausted by the manifestation; visual or physical manifestations were so difficult! It was much easier to enter her consciousness but he could not do that when she was awake and active. He let himself revert to his ethereal form and followed her upstairs.
She had stripped to her panties and undershirt before she began to wonder if he were there. Then she said,
“Mr. Darcy, if you are a gentleman, you should leave now.”
He attended her rebuke and retired to the parlor until she had bathed.
***
With a glass of wine in her hand and a thick terry robe wrapped around her, she made her way to the parlor. How strange that I am convinced that I have a ghost and I am not in the least frightened, she mused. On the contrary, she welcomed him; this was his home, after all. Or else she was completely batty.
She settled in the chair after building a fire, wine bottle close at hand. She re-read his last letter and felt the wine washing over her. Before she knew it, she was in a state of semi-consciousness, just hovering on the edge of drifting off to sleep. She opened her eyes just a crack and saw him seated across from her.
“You're here,” she murmured softly.
Yes. Do not wake up, you cannot hear me when you are awake, he said.
She heard his reply in her own mind rather than with her ears. She nodded drowsily.
“Did you kill yourself?” she asked him.
No, it was an accident. I was thrown from my horse. My wounds were grievous but would not have been fatal had I the will to live.
“You wanted to die?”
Not precisely; I simply did not care to keep living. I did not staunch the blood and my life slipped away in a very agreeable manner.
“I—she loved you very much.”
You are the same person. I do not know how but I do know that you are she. And as you already know, I am he.
“I am not afraid of you,” she mused.
I would never have it so, my love. Nor do I think if our positions were reversed, that I would fear you.
“No, it's a relief to finally find you.”
Yes.
“Can you show me your home?” she asked. He smiled and slipped into her consciousness. In her mind, he appeared as a man in Regency period clothing with a top hat and walking stick. She appeared as herself but in a Regency period dress. She looked down at herself and laughed.
“Is this your doing or mine?” she said as she plucked at the peach dress she was wearing. He smiled at her. Suddenly the dress color changed to yellow.
“Now it is my doing,” he grinned. She laughed and took his arm and they strolled through the Pemberley of their imaginations.
Chapter 10
His presence became common to her. She would often hear her name whispered in the middle of the day. Occasionally she would feel a soft touch, as if he were stroking her arm. She had not seen his full form again save when he invaded her dreams but she sometimes caught glimpses of a flash of white as if he had just turned a corner. He always seemed to be just on the fringes of her vision.
These visitations were not disturbing to her; on the contrary, they brought her comfort. This strange relationship was the most real, most meaningful relationship she had ever experienced. She felt as if she had been dropped onto earth for the sole purpose of this communication. This was her destiny, Pemberley was her home.
Then, for two weeks, she heard nothing at all. She did not feel his presence. He did not come to her dreams. Each night she sat in the parlor and deliberately clung to a state of semi-consciousness in the hopes that he would come to her but he did not. She wondered if he had found peace. The thought perhaps he had found peace, and left her to what remained of her meaningless life, troubled her.
***
“Elizabeth.”
The whisper woke her from a sound sleep. The room was black as pitch; she would not have been able to see her hand if she waved it before her face. Had she heard her name or had it been wishful thinking? She held her breath.
“Yes?” she whispered. Her skin was tingling and the hair on her arms was standing on end. She heard a distant rumble.
“Lizzy.” It was a whispered sigh. His voice held such longing; a lifetime and more of suffering, waiting and wanting.
“I am here with the storm,” he said. Another distant rumble alerted her to the approaching electrical storm.
She could feel his breath stirring on her cheek; he had never wakened her in her bedroom before. She let out a trembling sigh. She was fully awake; he was not in her consciousness, he was *here* with her.
“Will you have me?” he whispered. His voice sounded ethereal and multi-tonal. It had a resonance to it that made her shiver.
“Yes,” she whispered.
As she closed her eyes, she felt the air thicken around her. The atmosphere seemed to sparkle with collected energy. Every nerve ending in her body began to tingle.
Soft, ethereal lips touched hers. Cool arms embraced her and she felt a weight descend on her body. Hands that were not solid caressed her breast. She arched against his presence that seemed at once solid and insubstantial. Her breath quickened as a sensation of effervescence washed over her body. She could not tell in the darkness whether he was visible, but when she closed her eyes, she could see him gazing at her with piercing green eyes.
His swirling energy crackled about her. They were consumed with each other, physical united with metaphysical in a consummation of spirituality and sexuality. The ecstasy felt by each was a lifetime in the waiting but scant heartbeats in the making.
She cried out as the storm descended, lightning flashing and ozone filling her senses. She saw him as the storm lit the windows with light and for a split second she saw on his face a reflection of her own desperation, longing, and despair. His energy scattered, dissipated by the apex of their union, and tears coursed from her eyes as she tried to hold him, sobbing, unable to gather him to her for comfort.
Even as she cried, she tried to compose herself for sleep with the hope that he would meet her in her dreams. He did not fail her.
In her dream, she came upon him sitting on a bench, naked and bent. Sobs wracked his body. She sat next to him on the bench and folded him to her own naked form. They cried together and made love together and promised the world that they could not give to each other. His tear-filled eyes looked into hers and he said,
“God has forsaken us.”
“No, fate has forsaken us. God has allowed us here,” she replied.
***
Elizabeth. The whisper in her ear distracted her. She jerked her head as the hair stirred by his breath tickled her ear. The motion caused the stack of boxes she was carrying to begin to topple. As she tried to look around the stack and keep them from tumbling down the steps, she lost her footing. She fell headlong down the stairs, boxes flying in all directions. She heard the spindles of the balustrade snap as she tried to catch herself on the way down.
She came to just a moment later. She took the hand that was offered to her gratefully and stood, relieved and annoyed.
“Damn, how many spindles did I break?” she asked, thinking of the cost of the craftsmen that would be required to replace them. She heard a soft laugh and turned to see Darcy standing before her.
“That, my darling, was the sound of your lovely neck snapping.”
Elizabeth turned and saw her broken body sprawled at the foot of the steps, her neck twisted at an impossible angle. Contractors had gathered around her to try to revive her but she was clearly beyond hope. She turned back to Darcy.
“You killed me!” she exclaimed.
“I apologize. It was an accident,” he replied with a mischievous smile.
“Did you want me dead?” she asked, affronted.
He pulled her into his arms; he felt warm, solid, and alive.
“Not precisely. I just didn't care for you to continue living. Sometimes, love, one must take fate into one's own hands. And now, we have eternity to map out our own fate together.”
Finis