Your most obedient servant,
F. Darcy
Outside her room, the house stirred with distant footsteps, Mrs. Bennet’s brisk instructions for dinner, and the faint clatter of pots and china from the kitchen. But in Elizabeth’s quietcorner of the world, there was only ink and truth—and the quick, silent thunder of her heart.
She read the closing lines again, her thumb resting lightly on the edge of the paper. ‘Your most obedient servant.’ Yet he had not written like a servant—no, not even like a gentleman making polite amends. He had written like a man who wished to be known. No flattery, no grand declarations—only the truth, offered plainly and with a steadiness that made her chest ache.
Elizabeth leaned back slightly, the letter resting on her lap, and closed her eyes.
What had she expected? A formality? An apology? She had not expected to feel seen. Not praised or courted, but understood—as if her words had reached further than ink ought to travel.
What had he revealed in return? A man who missed his parents not with display, but with quiet regret. A brother proud of his sister’s small steps forward. A cousin he trusted. A home he loved not for its grandeur, but for its stillness. And a willingness—tentative but real—to let her see that much.
What reason could he have to reveal himself so? She could think of only one. Mr. Darcy was prepared to be known exactly as he was.
Her fingers brushed once more over her name written in his hand. Not stiff with pride, not softened by elegance. Just... careful. As if he feared bruising the page.
She ought to write back. Of course she ought. But what could Elizabeth write that would not sound trite or rehearsed?
Perhaps she did not need to impress him.
Perhaps she only needed to answer him—plainly, and in fair words.
She folded the letter again, more gently than before, and slipped it into the small drawer beneath her writing desk. Her hand lingered there a moment longer before she straightened and looked out the window.
The morning had long ripened into full sun. Light shimmered on the far hedgerow, dancing across the leaves in quiet patterns, while beyond it, the fields stretched toward Netherfield—and farther still, northward, toward Pemberley.
She did not yet know what shape this correspondence might take, nor what path it might set before her.
But for the first time, she allowed herself to hope.
***
Elizabeth reached for her pen—not to impress, nor to compose something polished and perfect, but simply to answer. To meet sincerity with sincerity. To let her thoughts find shape in ink as naturally as breath, as though she were replying to a knock at the heart’s own door. She did not yet know what she would write, only that she must.
At first, Elizabeth longed to write of the joy his letters brought—of the quiet happiness stirred by the thought that someone far away was thinking of her and choosing to write with such honesty. Not to impress, not to dazzle, but out of a sincere wish for dialogue—something that might draw them closer and allow true understanding to grow between them. Gratitude filled her heart, and perhaps even a happiness greater than Jane’s, who saw Mr. Bingley every two or three days. For what mattered more than proximity was the knowledge that Mr. Darcy, from distant Pemberley, thought of her and extended a hope—a silent promise—that her worries might lift. That all might yet turn toward a better, brighter, more joyful future than even her naturally hopeful spirit had imagined.
Yet no—it would not do to write so openly now. Not in a second letter. Such words might suggest expectations, or a deeper reading of his intentions than he had meant to imply byseeking her permission to correspond. That would not be fair to either of them.
She sat in stillness a moment longer. Then, without another breath of hesitation—pausing only to dip her pen—Elizabeth set her thoughts to paper.
Longbourn, Hertfordshire
November 9th, 1811
Mr. Darcy,
There are letters one receives with civility, and others that are read with care. Yours I have kept beside me all morning, not for lack of understanding but because I find myself reluctant to set it aside. You have written plainly and with feeling—and I must now do the same, though I find it no easy task. I do not possess your steadiness of hand or habit of reflection. My thoughts arrive like the wind, sudden and full of wild turns.
It is strange how little we know what words may do, how they may reach a part of the heart not touched by noise or glance or even memory. Yours did. There is a weight in sincerity that cannot be faked, and I was moved—deeply—by your manner of writing. Not because it was elegant, though it was, nor because it flattered, which it did not—but because it felt true.
You spoke of quiet at Pemberley. I wonder if you know how much I long for such places. Not grandness, but stillness. There are days when Longbourn feels like a stage, the curtains never drawn, and every line of speech expected in advance. I walk often in the lanes near here, not to escape my family, whom I love, but to hear my own thoughts again. The hedgerows are still green for the season, and the robins have begun theirbold winter songs. I wish you could see them. I wonder if you would admire the sound as I do—or call it merely cheerful noise.
You mentioned your father, and I will not pretend indifference. I lost no parent myself, but I have known others’ grief, and I think no man speaks so honestly of such absence unless he carries it still. It moved me that you shared it—and I am honoured by your trust.
If it is true that you did not write to impress, then you have done so all the more for it. There is strength in such candour, and gentleness, too.
I do not know what this correspondence will become. I do not ask for certainty. But I will say this—your letter did not fall upon an indifferent mind, and it has not left an indifferent heart behind it.
