Prologue
Hampstead Hall, in the county of Middlesex, late June 1812
“Wherein lies our fault?” Mr Darcy asked at last, his face averted, his eyes fixed upon some vague and distant point.
At another time, Elizabeth might have laughed and taken his arm; she might have replied with her accustomed light sarcasm that their acquaintance had been fashioned, from the outset, by errors and misconceptions—beginning with that first evening when he had declared, with chilling frankness, that she was not handsome enough to tempt him. But no such words arose now. She remained silent, her heart beating so violently that it seemed as though it must betray her distress. The sorrow which had taken hold of her banished all trace of levity and bent her countenance into an involuntary expression of grief.
It was only then, after a long and motionless pause, that he turned and looked at her; and in his eyes she beheld the same sorrow, quiet and profound.
The morning was unseasonably cold, though June was at its close. A week of steady rain had altered the familiar pond beside which they sat; veiled in a thick mist, its edges were lost to sight, so that it appeared wider, deeper, almost boundless—as though beyond that grey veil lay not the accustomed landscape, but some unknown world wherein all things might yet be possible.
There was little use in answering his question aloud; the truth was already too plain within her…within them both.
“Let us go to…” Darcy hesitated to complete the sentence, though in those circumstances it was perhaps the only chance they might ever possess.
“To…?” Elizabeth whispered, but instantly a deep flush rose to her cheeks, for she comprehended the meaning of his silence. Had he utteredLet us elope away to…, she would have known at once that he spoke of Gretna Green—the place where two might be married without banns or inquiry. Yet the gentleman, in his delicacy, could not bring himself to ask her to elope, though in his heart he longed for nothing more than to journey with her to Scotland and be wed, far from every constraint and expectation, even if it meant dishonour in London, Hertfordshire, or Hampstead for ever.
“The colour upon your cheeks has given me your answer,” he said, a faint smile crossing the sorrow that yet lingered in his countenance; for in all her desperation, Elizabeth placed the promises they had made above their own happiness.
“We are not the kind of people who go away…who flee, leaving behind…the obligations,” she said softly and delicately, for ‘obligations’ implied leaving behind a lady who had no fault, and a commitment she had taken not so long ago.
“Indeed, I know it,” he answered, with a slight inclination of the head. He loved her not only for her beauty and her manyaccomplishments, but no less fervently for her honesty and the quiet steadfastness of her devotion.
“But…you must leave now,” she said at length, very gently. “Georgiana is waiting for you…to depart for Pemberley.”
“Can we not remain here—just here—for ever?” he asked. “I would wish for nothing more than to sit beside you at the edge of this pond and forget all else.”
“Pray…do not speak so,” she murmured, her voice scarcely rising above the mist itself.
“Forgive me; I am the cause of our unhappiness,” he spoke in the same low tone. Yet somehow his words lingered in the air longer than they ought, or so it seemed to her troubled spirit.
“We both made mistakes. We must forgive one another,” she replied after a pause, her voice steadier though still touched by sorrow, “and find the strength to go on.”
“And yet I discern no path forward. Not while I am still here, beside you. The world offers no future that does not hold you in it, Elizabeth Bennet.”
Elizabeth turned her face away. She, too, could not conceive what lay ahead, save that it must proceed without him. And yet it must proceed; though here, by the shore of that mist-laden pond, no future could clearly be discerned. The anguish of parting pressed heavily upon them both.
“Fare you well,” she whispered. And as she spoke, he took her hand and pressed it to his lips—gently, reverently. Only then did she raise her eyes to his. It was a final look, clouded by tears; but when at last he turned and walked away, the tears she had so long restrained fell freely down her cheeks. The future without him had already begun, and it was empty and cold.
Chapter 1
Kent, Mid-March 1812
Elizabeth and Charlotte stood before the Parsonage, their gaze fixed upon the carriage, still uncertain whether they ought to enter the house, as though the peculiar visit had not yet reached its conclusion—still expecting, perchance, that the carriage might return and Miss de Bourgh descend, to accompany them to the tea awaiting in the drawing-room, as any young lady of breeding would have done.
“What can be the matter with Miss de Bourgh?” Elizabeth at length inquired. “She appears more ailing than you had described her, and it seemed exceedingly odd that she did not alight from the carriage.”
“Eliza,” whispered Charlotte, turning to her with sudden alarm; she raised a finger to her lips, imploring silence.
Elizabeth shrugged her shoulders with an indifferent air, while the rumble of the carriage bearing Miss de Bourgh towards Rosings arose about them, rendering it impossible that their words could be overheard. Mr Collins was already at somedistance, intent, it seemed, upon reaching Lady Catherine’s door at the precise moment the carriage arrived.
“I do not comprehend why you are so very cautious. I have said nothing that we have not spoken of before—Rosings’s heiress is a sickly creature…unless she be merely whimsical—”
“Elizabeth!” exclaimed Charlotte, this time in a tone of unmistakable reproof, rarely used with her friend in former days. She cast an anxious glance towards the house, where they had left her sister, Maria, on setting out to meet Miss de Bourgh, who had announced her arrival through her companion but had not descended for a single instant, preferring to address them from the open door of the carriage.
“And whom do you fear now—the angels in the sky?” Elizabeth’s voice retained its touch of irony. Yet, it was the same tone they had so often employed when Charlotte had dwelt in Meryton and their long friendship had known no interruption or clouds.
“Maria,” Charlotte answered, unmoved by the jest, her mind fixed upon one idea only—that of giving no offence to her illustrious neighbours. “Though she is near your age, she remains a child in understanding and cannot discern what may be spoken abroad and what must be held in reserve. I am ever fearful that she might commit some indiscretion before Lady Catherine, repeating something heard within our household.”
