1
To Court a Lady
1November,1812
Darcy House, London
My Dearest Elizabeth,
I had hoped to complete my business in town in a few days and return to you tomorrow, but events have conspired to delay my return. My solicitor has additional documents for me to review, and the jeweler has not completed the order to my satisfaction, so I must wait for the new settings to be completed. There was an issue with the wallpaper we chose for our sitting room and another must be selected—Mrs. Reynolds spent no less than an hour recommending replacements and my eyes are swimming with images of birds and flowers. I hope you are happy with the new choice. I am told it is similar to the previous one you had liked.
When I thought I had gotten a handle on things, my horse threw a shoe and the farrier cannot see to him until tomorrow morning.
Fate has decreed I stay in town for the time being and I have made my peace with it. My only regret is that I shall not see you for another week at least. My aunt has been badgering me to visit with her for some time, so I joined her for tea this afternoon. My cousin Victoria Downing was visiting at the same time—she is Col. Fitzwilliam’s elder sister—and she had a great many questions about you. She is wild to meet you. She is the only daughter amongst four sons and none of her brothers has deigned to marry yet, and her husband has no sisters either. She is hopelessly outnumbered and excited to have another woman in the family.
I invited her to the wedding, of course, and she has promised to attend. Her brother, the colonel, will escort her. While I was there, she asked if I had written to you yet and I told her I had not, for I had intended to only be away for a few days. She proceeded to tell me I was making a grave mistake, and that the letters her husband has sent her, even when they were only apart a few days, have remained treasured mementos.
I felt properly chastised and determined to write as soon as I could. Now I sit by the fire in my chamber, writing by lamplight, wishing I was in Hertfordshire with you. Better yet, if I am wishing, I would wish we were both at Pemberley, and already wed, and we could sit before the fire, bundled under a shared blanket, and talk into the night.
I have never enjoyed conversing as much as I do with you. I wonder if it has always been in me and you are the only person who has unearthed this previously unknown trait, or if it is a new development in my character. Regardless of the reason, I enjoy speaking with you immensely and I miss our conversations. I dearly wish we were not parted, but the thought of you cheers me.
I will close now and beg you to write to me in return so that you might assuage my longing for you.
Yours,
FD
3 November, 1812
Longbourn, Hertfordshire
My Dear Fitzwilliam,
You poor dear man! How dreadful to be trapped in town on your own with no one to keep you company! Might the colonel come and stay with you? I know he will drink all your brandy, but he would at least keep you from feeling lonesome. I hope everything is concluded swiftly and you may hurry back to me.
I am glad you wrote to me; I quite like the idea of having a stack of letters one day to read through and remember times past. And you do write a very fine letter, as you well know. I have read your only other letter to me more times than I can count. I am in a fair way to knowing it by heart. Oh, I know you asked me to burn it, but how could I when it was the only letter I had from you? Once I have amassed a healthy stack of more pleasant missives, we may burn it together. How does that sound?
As much as it pains me to say it, you are lucky you are in town. My mother has dragged me all over Meryton, crowing about our impending marriage, and when she had called on all our close acquaintances, she insisted we call on those we only saw once a year at someone else’s party.
It has been equally exhausting and mortifying. Perhaps I should allow her this triumph; marrying off her two eldest daughters to good men is no small feat and she is rightly proud (you will make a dashing son-in-law—everyone says so). Though I do wish she could be proud without hauling me all over the county. I do not truly need to be present, for I hardly speak at all. As I suspected, she enjoys speaking of the new Mrs. Darcy much more than she ever enjoyed conversing with her daughter Elizabeth.
I am glad your cousin will come for the wedding. Will she stay at Netherfield? I am happy to speak to Mr. Bingley about it on your behalf. Lord knows he is here from breakfast through supper. And I could use some occupation. I normally have a great deal to do in the still room and I have often assisted with the accounts. Jane and I would visit the tenants at least once each month. Now, mama insists I stay close to home to receive callers, she has decided ink will stain my fingers and ruin the wedding, and the still room is not a fitting occupation for the betrothed of such a grand man. (Thank you for that, my dear. You couldn’t be a simple vicar or barrister?) Every time I try to escape, she demands I go somewhere with her. Either to call on more strangers or to buy more fabric.
She has insisted on an obscene amount of lace with so many of my new gowns they will be unwearable until I have it removed. I told her it does not suit me—my figure or my preference—but she does not care. She is determined the new Mrs. Darcy look as fashionable as possible, even if she is wholly ridiculous. If you arrive at Longbourn and see a walking confection, it is only your bride, trying to escape her mother.
You are lucky to be missing all the fervor.
Have you seen the Gardiners? I am certain they would invite you for dinner if you let them know you are still in Town. I hate the thought of you sitting alone every night and pining for me. (I know you enjoy your own company, but surely you do not wish to be aloneeverynight?)
Hurry back to me, my love. I await you with open arms.
Your Elizabeth
P.S. If you need something pleasant to think of as you sit alone in that enormous house, remember the oak tree at the back of Longbourn’s garden. Do you recall how you pressed me against it on our last walk? And how your hands slid beneath my cloak as you kissed me? I remember it quite well. I cannot wait for your return.
5 November, 1812
Darcy House, London
