Love Letters from Mr. Darcy: A Pride and Prejudice Novella Read online

  A Pride and Prejudice Novella

  “Love Letters from Mr. Darcy” Copyright © 2016 by Joy D. King

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems – except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews – without permission in writing from its publisher Joy D. King.

  This is a work of fiction. The characters, locations, and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Excerpt from Pride and Prejudice, Book 2, Chapter 34, by Jane Austen.

  Cover Design: JD Smith – Design

  Cover Photography: © Richard Jenkins 2016

  Interior Formatting: Sarah Johnson, Peculiar World Designs

  Published by: Quiet Mountain Press

  I cannot imagine taking on a project of this size, well of any size, without help. Thank you to my beta readers, Debbie Fortin, Angela Dale, and Betty Madden for your input and close inspection. Especially, thank you to my daughter, Jennifer Joy, for pushing, prodding, erasing, cutting and pasting, and championing me especially when I needed it.

  Two extraordinary readers saw me through one of the most trying times of this process—Sheila and Gail. Kind words, encouragement, and brownies helped me successfully reach “The End”.

  Finally, to all the readers who were waiting impatiently for another chapter of Mr. Darcy’s Mail-Order Bride while I finished this, blame it on the muse.

  To my Mr. Darcy, my husband of over 36 years, John. I still have every single one of the letters you sent me. They are my most cherished possession. I love you!

  Acknowledgments

  Dedication

  Pride and Prejudice Excerpt

  Pride and Prejudice Quote

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Bonus Preview

  Other Books

  “In vain have I struggled. It will not do. My feelings will not be repressed. You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you.''

  Elizabeth's astonishment was beyond expression. She stared, coloured, doubted, and was silent. This he considered sufficient encouragement, and the avowal of all that he felt and had long felt for her immediately followed. He spoke well, but there were feelings besides those of the heart to be detailed, and he was not more eloquent on the subject of tenderness than of pride. His sense of her inferiority -- of its being a degradation -- of the family obstacles which judgement had always opposed to inclination, were dwelt on with a warmth which seemed due to the consequence he was wounding, but was very unlikely to recommend his suit.

  In spite of her deeply-rooted dislike, she could not be insensible to the compliment of such a man's affection, and though her intentions did not vary for an instant, she was at first sorry for the pain he was to receive; till, roused to resentment by his subsequent language, she lost all compassion in anger. She tried, however, to compose herself to answer him with patience, when he should have done. He concluded with representing to her the strength of that attachment which, in spite of all his endeavours, he had found impossible to conquer; and with expressing his hope that it would now be rewarded by her acceptance of his hand. As he said this, she could easily see that he had no doubt of a favourable answer. He spoke of apprehension and anxiety, but his countenance expressed real security. Such a circumstance could only exasperate farther, and when he ceased, the colour rose into her cheeks, and she said,

  “In such cases as this, it is, I believe, the established mode to express a sense of obligation for the sentiments avowed, however unequally they may be returned. It is natural that obligation should be felt, and if I could feel gratitude, I would now thank you. But I cannot -- I have never desired your good opinion, and you have certainly bestowed it most unwillingly. I am sorry to have occasioned pain to anyone. It has been most unconsciously done, however, and I hope will be of short duration. The feelings which, you tell me, have long prevented the acknowledgment of your regard, can have little difficulty in overcoming it after this explanation.''

  Mr. Darcy, who was leaning against the mantle-piece with his eyes fixed on her face, seemed to catch her words with no less resentment than surprise. His complexion became pale with anger, and the disturbance of his mind was visible in every feature. He was struggling for the appearance of composure, and would not open his lips, till he believed himself to have attained it. The pause was to Elizabeth's feelings dreadful. At length, in a voice of forced calmness, he said,

  “And this is all the reply which I am to have the honour of expecting! I might, perhaps, wish to be informed why, with so little endeavour at civility, I am thus rejected. But it is of small importance.''

  “I might as well enquire,'' replied she, “why, with so evident a design of offending and insulting me, you chose to tell me that you liked me against your will, against your reason, and even against your character? Was not this some excuse for incivility, if I was uncivil? But I have other provocations. You know I have. Had not my own feelings decided against you, had they been indifferent, or had they even been favourable, do you think that any consideration would tempt me to accept the man, who has been the means of ruining, perhaps forever, the happiness of a most beloved sister?''

  As she pronounced these words, Mr. Darcy changed colour; but the emotion was short, and he listened without attempting to interrupt her while she continued.

  “I have every reason in the world to think ill of you. No motive can excuse the unjust and ungenerous part you acted there. You dare not, you cannot deny that you have been the principal, if not the only means of dividing them from each other, of exposing one to the censure of the world for caprice and instability, the other to its derision for disappointed hopes, and involving them both in misery of the acutest kind.''

  She paused, and saw with no slight indignation that he was listening with an air which proved him wholly unmoved by any feeling of remorse. He even looked at her with a smile of affected incredulity.

  “Can you deny that you have done it?'' she repeated.

  With assumed tranquillity he then replied, “I have no wish of denying that I did everything in my power to separate my friend from your sister, or that I rejoice in my success. Towards him I have been kinder than towards myself.''

  Elizabeth disdained the appearance of noticing this civil reflection, but its meaning did not escape, nor was it likely to conciliate, her.

  “But it is not merely this affair,'' she continued, “on which my dislike is founded. Long before it had taken place, my opinion of you was decided. Your character was unfolded in the recital which I received many months ago from Mr. Wickham. On this subject, what can you have to say? In what imaginary act of friendship can you here defend yourself? or under what misrepresentation, can you here impose upon others?''

  “You take an eager interest in that gentleman's concerns,'' said Darcy in a less tranquil tone, and with a heightened colour.

  “Who that knows what his misfortunes have been, can help feeling an interest in him?''

  “His misfortunes!'' repeated Darcy contemptuously; “yes, his misfortunes have been great indeed.''

  “And of your infliction,'' cried Elizabeth with energy. �
�You have reduced him to his present state of poverty, comparative poverty. You have withheld the advantages, which you must know to have been designed for him. You have deprived the best years of his life, of that independence which was no less his due than his desert. You have done all this! and yet you can treat the mention of his misfortunes with contempt and ridicule.''

  “And this,'' cried Darcy, as he walked with quick steps across the room, “is your opinion of me! This is the estimation in which you hold me! I thank you for explaining it so fully. My faults, according to this calculation, are heavy indeed! But perhaps,'' added he, stopping in his walk, and turning towards her, “these offences might have been overlooked, had not your pride been hurt by my honest confession of the scruples that had long prevented my forming any serious design. These bitter accusations might have been suppressed, had I with greater policy concealed my struggles, and flattered you into the belief of my being impelled by unqualified, unalloyed inclination -- by reason, by reflection, by everything. But disguise of every sort is my abhorrence. Nor am I ashamed of the feelings I related. They were natural and just. Could you expect me to rejoice in the inferiority of your connections? To congratulate myself on the hope of relations, whose condition in life is so decidedly beneath my own?''

  Elizabeth felt herself growing angrier every moment; yet she tried to the utmost to speak with composure when she said,

  “You are mistaken, Mr. Darcy, if you suppose that the mode of your declaration affected me in any other way, than as it spared me the concern which I might have felt in refusing you, had you behaved in a more gentleman-like manner.''

  She saw him start at this, but he said nothing, and she continued,

  “You could not have made me the offer of your hand in any possible way that would have tempted me to accept it.''

  Again his astonishment was obvious; and he looked at her with an expression of mingled incredulity and mortification. She went on.

  “From the very beginning, from the first moment I may almost say, of my acquaintance with you, your manners, impressing me with the fullest belief of your arrogance, your conceit, and your selfish disdain of the feelings of others, were such as to form that ground-work of disapprobation, on which succeeding events have built so immoveable a dislike; and I had not known you a month before I felt that you were the last man in the world whom I could ever be prevailed on to marry.''

  “You have said quite enough, madam. I perfectly comprehend your feelings, and have now only to be ashamed of what my own have been. Forgive me for having taken up so much of your time, and accept my best wishes for your health and happiness.''

  And with these words he hastily left the room, and Elizabeth heard him the next moment open the front door and quit the house.

  The following morning…

  Though her tortured mind had kept her awake the whole of the night, the beauty of the day soothed Elizabeth Bennet. Early morning dew kissed the newly-opened flower petals and the air was fragrant with the smell of damp earth and narcissus. It was a heady aroma wafting through her muddled mind as she walked away from her friend’s home at Hunsford Parsonage. In the distance, she caught a glimpse of the monstrous edifice of Rosings Park and immediately turned her head away. He was there; somewhere in one of the one hundred twenty rooms her host, Mr. Collins, had spoken of repeatedly during the three weeks since her arrival in Kent.

  Had she known he would be visiting this part of England, she would have stayed in Hertfordshire. She sighed for all the good it would do to wish it differently. It was what it was.

  A bed of blooming daffodils greeted her as she started down her favourite path. Small stones crunched beneath her walking boots as Elizabeth traversed the trail to the loveliest glen she had found on Lady Catherine de Bourgh’s extensive property. The field was encased by tall, leafy-green trees on three sides with a babbling brook to the east. The soil was carpeted in lush grasses and the ground was level—perfect for an equestrian to run at a full gallop, but not her. She feared horses, though she loved the dream of riding them.

  Out of habit, Elizabeth chose the west fork of the footpath ending at the forest edge. Squeezing between two aged oaks, she stepped onto a grassy field. The blue of the sky made the verdant landscape look as if it had been painted on canvas by a skilled artist. Puffy white clouds were scattered across the heavens and she could not help but lift her face to the sun and smile at the sight. One particular billowy mound resembled the pile of hair Lady Catherine’s maid habitually fashioned on top of the great lady’s head. It seemed precariously perched and Elizabeth had an intense desire to anchor it down, but inherently knew the matriarch of Rosings Park would be horrified at the thought.

  An undignified giggle burst forth from deep within Elizabeth, and she could not keep herself from lifting her arms in unholy obeisance and twirling in place, laughing louder with each turn.

  Fitzwilliam Darcy stood at the edge of the clearing entirely mesmerized by the sight in front of him. Her brutal rejection of the night before had filled him with torment and doubt. He failed to comprehend how his love could have moved so quickly to its antithesis—hatred. Yes, he hated her with a passion stronger than his tender affections had been. At least he had until he saw her again.

  Vibrant was the only word fitting for someone who radiated joy to such a degree. Instantly, he was angry again. Had she not the empathy to have been unsettled, even minimally, by his proposal? Was she so pleased to have woken from her bed to find herself completely unattached to him? How could she face the day without pining for the ache pounding in his heart?

  The letter he had anguished over the night before, which explained his dealings with her sister and his friend Charles Bingley, felt like a leaden weight in his pocket. Or was it the descriptions of how George Wickham had acted the cad that summer with his young sister that burdened his soul to a ponderous degree?

  How could he rob her of even one second of happiness by reminding her of the bitter words they had shared the night before? He could not. He was powerless in the face of her overwhelming beauty and delight.

  He blew out a puff of air and relaxed his fisted hands at his sides. All the words he had carefully chosen to justify his proposal of the night before seemed unduly harsh in the daylight. Should he ignore his desires of wanting to offer clarity to Miss Elizabeth and return to Rosings, casting the missive into the fire so it would never be read by the woman who needed the information the most? No. Wickham was a danger to her and her family. His silence on this matter could lead to a much more serious crime if the scoundrel was allowed to continue associating with the Bennet daughters. Honour and prudence forbade it. He would give her the letter and then leave Kent immediately for the safety of his home in Derbyshire. He doubted he would ever see her again.

  Darcy cleared his throat. The sound resonated across the glen, and he knew the exact moment she became aware she was no longer alone.

  “Mr. Darcy!” She clutched her hands to her chest as if she could calm her pounding heart by doing so. He was the last man in the world Elizabeth wanted to see—or hoped ever to see again.

  He gingerly took a step towards her and realised the woman in front of him held all the power to determine his future in her petite hands. She had control. The master of Pemberley, who had hundreds of people and many properties in his care, had long felt comfortable with the mantle of oversight, wearing responsibility like his favourite greatcoat. With her, he had no supremacy at all.

  There was only one thing left for him to do. Removing the letter from his pocket, he held it out to her.

  She cautiously approached, her curiosity appearing to override the abhorrence he had stirred by his offer of marriage the prior evening. She stopped within reach, though she did not lift her hand to take the missive. Instead, her fists tightly clasped the fabric of her dress.

  He could not guess what she was feeling.

  “Pray accept my apologies for interrupting your enjoyment of nature, Miss Elizabeth.” He swallow
ed back the bile threatening to make its presence known. Never had he been so nervous. “I only ask that you read this.” His eyes dropped to the letter.

  When he looked up, her eyes continued to focus on the paper in his hand. He sensed her apprehension.

  “Do not be afraid that I have renewed my sentiments of last night. I will forever keep silent on the subject.” Darcy gulped air and continued before his own nerves paralysed him into silence. “However, there is a matter contained within of which you need to be aware so the reputation of your sisters can be protected. I failed to do this for Georgiana and she suffers to this day.”

  “Mr. Darcy?”

  He heard the hesitation in her voice.

  “The threat to you and yours far outweigh the need for decorum under these circumstances. Were we still in Hertfordshire, it would be your father I would have approached. As we are not, I would appreciate your setting aside propriety so you know how best to inform Mr. Bennet.”

  At this, Elizabeth’s hand reached out and touched the end of the folded paper closest to her. He thought he felt a jolt travel from her fingertips across the parchment to his own, though it could have been the anticipation of the moment.

  “Sir?”

  Her head tilted and the brow above her right eye lifted slightly in a look he had come to cherish during the six weeks he had spent at Netherfield Park in Hertfordshire. Each time he had spied the aforementioned expression, it was immediately followed by an observation so witty he immediately sought conversation so she would do it again. He was not disappointed.

  “Since your grip is still firm on the missive, I can only wonder if you truly want me to read it. Or are you hoping I will comment on the elegance of your penmanship for the three words I am able to see?”

  He looked down to find Miss Elizabeth Bennet staring back at him from the outer face of the paper. Darcy knew he was blushing as the blood rushed to his face and ears, and he felt the added warmth. Instinctively, he let go.