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Chapter Text

It is not easy to recall the moment in which someone is born into your world. Perhaps it was when he first saw her at the ball, and her bright dark eyes caught his. Or maybe it was when she first refuted what he had to say, or maybe it was when she arrived to Netherfield on foot with her face radiantly flushed. Fact remains—she was born out of nothingness into his world, and her presence only continues to grow.

Picture this. They are at dinner, and someone describes something that should be of the utmost importance to Darcy. He is suggesting what books to purchase for the county’s boarding houses to promote literacy. And though Darcy would ordinarily consider this tip as a primary concern, it is only secondary to the fact that in his peripheral vision, Miss Elizabeth is munching on a piece of asparagus. Now she ate a carrot. He missed the remark on when children should have the alphabet committed to memory. Now she sampled a single pea.

This is absurd. Later at night he undid his cravat as if it suffocated him all day, but it did nothing to alleviate the tightness in his chest. Any conversation he instigated with her, she has taken the opportunity to construe his words and tease him. He could do nothing right.

Only when he is silent and looks at her, and she returns his gaze, does he feel like something is passing through both directions of the channel. That she, too, is studying him with some kind of awareness. Could it be interest? And if so, then what of it?

That night he slept poorly, woke up disgruntedly, and listened to the chirping of the birds unenthusiastically. It was much too early to go for breakfast, he was much too irritable to go back to sleep, and thus he resolved to go to the library and write to Georgiana.

He wrote about everything he could think of save the one topic he actually thinks of. He told her of the rooms of Netherfield, the grounds it resides on, the events of the last ball, the pesky little morning birds, and then paused. If he does not lean into his newfound obsession with Georgiana, does not indulge it even in the slightest, then what outlet does he have?

He dove right in. He told her how last night, when Mr. Bingley joked that women traded in hoop skirts for empire waists because they love the novelty of rotating fashion, Miss Elizabeth reminded him that men have retired wigs at the same time women gave up these skirts. This, she insisted, was a direct result of the revolutions, which brought on a taste for a simpler, more natural style. She asserted that fashion is a manifestation of political shifts that both men and women are subjected to.

And only when Darcy finally gave into his growing obsession, did its subject walk into the room. He was so absorbed in his writing that he hasn’t noticed Miss Elizabeth arrive, and she took the opportunity to study him. He was hunched over the table with an expression that was uncharacteristically eager, almost boyish. And though his presence was originally an unwelcome discovery, she found herself softening to the sight of him.

He looked up and she realized she hasn’t announced herself. She sought something to say.

“You are awake.”

“Yes, as are you.”

“You are writing a letter to your sister, I gather?”

“Yes,” he gave a small smile at the reference of his little sister. She assumed that the recipient must be Georgiana given his happy disposition in writing and how fondly he speaks of her. His brotherly affection is one of the few virtues she found in him.

“And your handwriting, is it uncommonly even?” She teased, referencing a praise Miss Bingley showered upon him.

“I’m afraid not. When my mind outruns my hand, it is viscerally apparent in my letters. Georgiana says she perceives the state of my temperament by the shape my sentences make on the page, well before she has to make out any individual word.”

How lovely, Elizabeth thought, to receive such letters, so emotionally-constructed that you can catch their meaning without even processing their diction. It spoke to her nature as an open being. Yet she couldn’t make sense that Mr. Darcy, usually so pompous, was their writer.

Darcy continued, “Your handwriting, meanwhile, is always even and elegant."

She halted. A compliment? And when has he ever seen her letters?

“When have you ever seen my letters?”

He flushed, “I caught you writing once or twice, when we were all in the library together.”

This was an unusual conversation indeed. Elizabeth was not prepared for his compliments or his confessions. Not knowing what to do, she side-tracked,

“I am afraid I gave Mr. Bingley offense last night by rejecting his notions of fashion.”

“I would not worry about that. Mr. Bingley does not have it in him to hold a grudge. But in the future, if you wish to exert more influence on him, you should know that he is someone that takes sugar with his medicine.”

“You mean to tell me to soften my stance?”

“Merely to change its delivery.”

“Being headstrong is too much?”

“With him. I prefer it your way.”

“You do not like sweetness?”

“Not particularly.”

“You do not like receiving it or dishing it?”

“Neither.”

“So why are you getting sweet on me?”

He smiled, or more accurately, he smirked,

“The compliment about your handwriting? Do not worry. I’ll refrain from dishing one again.”

There was a pause. This isn’t how things usually are. She was standing, he was seated, but somehow she felt like he was towering over her in this conversation. She turned around, seeking something to do. She went to the bookshelves and allowed her eyes to gaze over the titles. She could feel his eyes on her.

How amusing. For days he has attempted to engage her attention with speculations on nature or intellectual commentary, which he believed she desired, only for her to outpace him with her quick tongue. But when he presents unguarded honesty, she is destabilized. How strange, that the honest disposition she prides herself in, she is unable to fully receive.

On the top shelf, she spied a title that interested her. She stood on her toes but could not reach it. He smirked when she began a pathetic little hop.

She could hear his chair screech against the floor as he stood up. Steady, measured steps grew louder.

Then there was an undeniable heat radiating her back, a breath at her ear. She couldn’t hear her own breathing, as in her perfect stillness she struggled to do so altogether. Without speaking, he raised a hand above her. He grabbed the book and placed it into her open hand. He remained behind her for one, two, three long pauses.

Then the heat behind her was gone. She hugged the book to her chest, still curled towards the bookshelves, before daring to turn around. She hoped to skewer him with her eyes. But, to her embarrassment, she barely managed a peek before lowering her gaze once more.

Darcy’s whole body was aflame, but he knew that to succeed (succeed in what?), he had to proceed with great caution. It was clear that this was new to her, having her perimeters broached by a man. Beckoning her would require the slow, steady approach of a wildcat following the liquid movements of a woman’s form. But he allowed himself one more startling delivery of honesty,

“Your hair smells of rain.”

Her eyes could not guise her shock. He continued,

“Oh, did I betray my promise already? Do not worry, this isn’t sugar. It is merely the truth.”

He left her there.

And later, she would wonder if this is the moment he was born out of nothingness into her world.

The next morning, well before breakfast, she again found him at the library. They both seemed surprised, as if meeting was not a scenario each one of them imagined when they woke in the solitude of their bedchambers.

“Did you enjoy a Midsummer Night’s Dream?” He looked upon the book he procured for her yesterday.

“I have.”

“Allow me guess. They get married at the end?”

She rolled her eyes,

“I do not wish to spoil the ending for you.”

“It always goes one of two ways.”

“Are you one of those contemporaries who believes himself to be above Shakespeare?”

“Not at all. I just believe there is more to life than either marriage or death.”

“The focal point of his plays has never been marriage nor death. It is about what unfolds until such finale.”

“But is it not a dishonest polarity? If marriage, then a comedy. If death, then a tragedy. Our own lives will not be so black and white. They will have marriage followed by death, in a ridiculous tragic comedy or freakish comedic tragedy.”

“Not all of us are destined for such fates.”

“Miss Elizabeth,” he smiled, “do you plan on immortality?”

“I would not turn down a leap above the grave, but you know very well that’s not what I mean.”

He considered her words more seriously, “you won’t marry?”

“I am not promising I won’t,” she found herself answering honestly, “but I won’t relent to it if it’s merely an expectation. If a real connection has formulated, I would welcome the surprise, but otherwise, I am all right as I am.”

He mulled over her words.

“You said,” he started, “that Shakespeare is about what unfolds ‘till the finale. But what unfolds if there is no finale in sight?”

“Do you require a sense of an ending?”

“It is a guiding light.”

“Do you want to know a secret?”

She leaned forward in her chair, and he did the same in his.

Her reply came in a whisper, “I do not know.”

“You do not know?”

“With no marriage in sight, I do not know. I suppose what is in store for me is a second act, another second act, another second act, until an abrupt death.”

“And who are the players in these second acts?”

“I do not know,” she giggled, “but that is how it is, is it not? Each one of our plays is acted out only once, grand opening on the main stage, with no rehearsal. I do not know what is written out for me.”

He smiled, but soon his smile faltered once he considered his own situation. He announced,

“It is not the same for me.”

“I suppose not.”

“My position, estate and commitment to my family has solidified expectations for me.”

“And I suppose you are expected to marry a woman who is truly accomplished?”

“Absolutely.”

“Of the gentry?”

“Irrefutably.”

“In a position of as high a consequence as your own?”

“That was never explicitly declared, so much as subliminally affirmed in every conversation that was had with me on the matter.”

“And will you love this accomplished, genteel, highly-ranked woman?”

“I would welcome the surprise,” he threw her own words back at her, “but I am to marry her either way.”

“I cannot laugh at you about that,” she added, “you have somehow written a tragedy that ends with marriage.”

“As I said, a freakish comedic tragedy.” He attempted a lighthearted laugh, but she only returned a sad little smile. It irked him. He did not mean for the conversation to evolve into pity.

He stood up from his chair and walked towards the window. The sky released a purple hue as night turned into day.

“We are attempting too much logic,” he asserted, “a futility, as you know, ‘Reason and love keep little company together nowadays.’”

“You have read a Midsummer Night’s Dream!”

“How could I not? I myself sometimes dream.”

His back was still turned to her, facing the window. She found it difficult to remain sitting still. She walked over to the bookshelves to select her day’s reading. When he heard the pattering little hops of her reaching towards the top, he smirked.

Again he walked towards her, stood behind her, and reached for her destination. Once he placed the volume of Rosseau essays in her hands, he stayed there for one, two, three, four, five beats this time. Then the warmth dissipated.

Did he smell her hair? She wondered, as if she hasn’t tied her plaits especially loose today with yesterday’s statement in mind.

When she turned around, he was already gone.

Now that conversation has ballooned between them in private, it disappeared altogether when they were in the company of other people. He was determined not to speak to her, and she, in reaction, was determined to undermine whatever he had to say, whenever he is ready to say it.

Miss Bingley and herself were on an obligatory walk, incited only when Jane from her sickbed insisted the ladies enjoy the beautiful weather without her. Two men came into their view,

“Mr. Darcy,” started Miss Bingley, “are you and my brother going for a ride?”

“That would explain the boots and the horses.”

“Oh, you tease me. Miss Elizabeth, how should we punish him for teasing?”

“Ignore him altogether.”

An ironic suggestion, given that throughout this whole encounter, he has not once acknowledged her. No word or gaze was scrappily tossed in her direction, and she grew irritated at herself for anticipating they might be.

Miss Bingley persisted, “that will be very difficult indeed, as Mr. Darcy is such as masterful rider.”

“I will not trouble you on your endeavor to ignore me. Good day, Miss Bingley.”

And he was off. Elizabeth exerted all her energy to avoid noticing that he is, unfortunately, a masterful rider.

It will not be, she thought to herself, walking towards the library in a determined stride. She will not meet him privately and have him shower her with attention, only to deprive her of any for the remainder of the day. She will arrive to the library first. And when he arrives, she will be the one to ignore him. To not show up at all never even crossed her mind.

So when Mr. Darcy arrived that morning, she was already furiously writing a letter at the desk. She refused to look up. He approached her. In her ardor, a lock of hair has fallen from her plait.

He reached forward and brushed the tendril away. He grazed the top of his fingers against the delicate flesh behind her ear. He allowed his hand to trail lower. When he reached the junction between her neck and shoulder, he stopped, and in a controlled fashion, withdrew his hand back to his side.

For the whole encounter, she sat in perfect stillness. Only the gooseflesh that appeared on her arms revealed she was not a porcelain doll. He walked away slowly, again aware that in order to succeed (succeed in what?) he must practice caution as to not scare her away.

But she was scared. That was apparent when she stood up abruptly and almost fell backwards. He took a step back as well, giving her space. She looked at him, intending to be defiant, but her eyes were much too open for the effect to hold. She moved behind the loveseat, he slowly moved in front of the loveseat. Still holding his gaze, she moved to its side, he moved to the other side. They slowly circled the furniture in a ridiculous orbit.

“What do you want?” He asked softly. She did not answer, her eyes still wide, but succeeding in maintaining his gaze.

“Would you like to leave? Here.” He stepped aside, leaving the path to the doorway wide open.

She did not leave. But she did not know if she wished to stay.

In some stupid charade as if yesterday is still today, she walked to the bookshelves. She turned around and reached for some cover at the top. He smiled and moved towards her. He grabbed the book she thoughtlessly reached for (a thesaurus—this second act’s props were especially weak), and handed it to her. She did not take it. He stayed behind her, and she allowed herself to feel his breath on her cheek.

He asked again, this time in a whisper, “What do you want?”

She moved around him. There was a blush across her face, neck, and the top of her breasts.

“I think I’ll go for a walk!”

She announced, stumbled over her feet, and then was out the door.

She walked for miles now and honestly could not recall where she was. She missed breakfast. Her feet ached. She paused. She remembered him touching the flesh of her neck. She moved onwards.

In the distance, a horseman appeared. She did not have to make out the features to know that it is Darcy. He came nearer into view and paused before her.

“There you are.”

She said nothing. He continued,

“A storm is brewing. Your sister is anxious to have you back, given that this is precisely what lead to her current bout of illness. She asked that I or Mr. Bingley fetch you.”

“And you decided that it should be you?”

“I have been told I am a masterful rider.”

She had nothing clever to say. He appealed,

“How about you go on horseback, and I walk beside you?”

To do so seemed like some terrible admission of guilt. If a man and a woman appear on horseback right before a storm, the act would be forgiven as a matter of circumstance. But if he walked beside her, slowing them down, subjecting them to miss the window of sunlight and be drowned by rain, the inconvenience of it all would read as evidence of an attraction one is desperate to deny.

This is, at least, what she told herself.

“No, it is all right.”

He hopped off the horse and lifted her by the waist to help her mount. The warmth of his hands was paralyzing. Then he mounted himself, and she once again felt his heat on her back as an encore to this morning’s events.

He moved the horse along, holding the harness on either side of her body. Though she felt his warmth, they did not touch. What transpired today has already surpassed the pace he intended, and he does not wish to have her scurry away.

And at the very thought of scurrying away, the act was then demonstrated in nature. A rabbit propelled desperately out of the bush and landed right in front of them, a fox following at its tail. The effect was immediate: his horse leaped into the air on its hind legs.

Later, when Elizabeth turned over the events again and again in her head, she did not know how quickly it all happened. Darcy circled one hand around her waist, over her breasts, and placed his palm on the junction of her neck to push her downwards on the saddle. The horse leaped several times, and Darcy’s hold on her remained strong. Finally, the horse calmed. Darcy’s hold remained.

So there they were: her back fully flush to his chest, his thighs holding hers on either side, his arm pressing her tightly to his body, his palm still at her neck. By instinct, he moved ever so slightly, nuzzling his face into her hair and breathing in. She wondered if she smelled of rain.

She could feel him, and she means all of him, and later at night she flushed to remember where. His riding breeches tightened and she felt the shape of him behind her.

She did not know how she could come back from this.

He moved behind her and reintroduced the distance between them. She instantly felt the cold. The cold was not helped by the fact that it soon began to rain.

He brought her back to Netherfield, into the stables, and helped her off the horse. Her clothing was drenched, and she wondered when she would get the chance to strip the wet layers off, and afterwards, whether she could manage to strip her skin off, and afterwards, if her skeleton could disappear completely.

He stood in front of her and she looked up at him. He moved a hand to the wet strands of hair on her forehead and brushed them away. For a moment, her mind quieted.

Then his hand was gone, and he too was out the door.

Here is an honest take on Miss Elizabeth Bennet’s sexual education.

One: she ran to Jane at age thirteen and cried that she was dying, bleeding out from a gash between her thighs. Jane quickly but calmly fetched their mother. Mrs. Bennet explained that this was perfectly normal, and it is to happen every month, and one day, when she is married, a baby will come out of the very opening from which she bleeds.

This was, of course, morbidly horrifying. Elizabeth sobbed for the remainder of the afternoon over her bloody female fate. Then she demanded to know how the baby will get in there. Her mother simply elaborated that her husband will “plant a seed” that will grow into a baby and refused to say anything further.

Two: she guiltily read a sensationalist novel in which the heroine was “deflowered” when her lover “joined her body with his own.”

Three: she found an anatomy book in her father’s study, which pictured a highly realistic faceless silhouette of a man in his full form. It stated that “upon sexual excitation, blood will circulate through the penis until semen is ejaculated.” Meanwhile, her womanly gash would “self-lubricate.”

So, somewhere between the frilly poetic euphemisms of the novella and cold medical terms of the anatomy book, was Darcy.

Darcy, Darcy, Darcy.

Out of nowhere, like the image was incepted by a foreign force, she projected his face onto the anatomical silhouette. Suddenly, something came to life. She imagined him in this room, his steely eyes holding her gaze, crawling towards her on this bed. His steps these days have been slow and measured, and she imagined that this is how he would approach her in here. Slow, steady movements. On all fours, moving towards her, his shoulder blades would undulate under the flesh of his back as he crawled forward. She felt heat pool at her core.

She reach down and lifted her nightgown, trailing her hand upwards. She toyed with the hair above her lower lips, delaying the decision. Finally, she made an attempt to know herself. She flinched. The skin of her lips was more sensitive than she foresaw. Experimentally, she grazed a finger up and down her slit, familiarizing herself with the sensation. She dipped a finger further in, and gasped when she felt how wet it was. She tentatively reached her hand upward, and felt an overwhelming jolt when her finger brushed against a nub above her opening.

She quickly snapped her hand away. She remembered the first thing her mother said: a baby will come out of that opening. How could she endanger it, being unmarried, and siring a child into being to be exposed to the world’s cruelty and ridicule?

She tried to reason with herself, but down below, her opening continued to leak at the memory of him. She could not handle the contrasting sensations in her own body, and broke down in a frustrated sob, almost as if by brushing her nub she managed to conceive a bastard baby.

Across the estate, in another bedchamber, an indulgence of a very different kind was taking place.

Darcy, with no reservations whatsoever, gripped himself and charged into fantasies of today’s events. How wonderfully easy it was to press his palm against the crook of her neck and onto his body. He could only imagine, that when naked in the same position, he could use this grip as leverage to push her opening up and down onto his shaft.

He continued his stroking. Her eyes, usually twinkling with a humored gleam, were wide and off-guard today. Would she look at him with the same expression when he undresses her? He liked the feeling of her bosom against his wrist when he held her to him. How easy would it have been to push the lace of her dress downwards and reveal her breasts to him?

He erupted. He grabbed the handkerchief by his bedside and cleaned himself. With the cobwebs now cleared from his mind, he reasoned his next steps.

She is inexperienced, that much is clear. He himself is not so pure. He had a few tumbles with a ballerina during his university days, and in the time between then and now, he sometimes visited a widow who desired diversions. Oh, and there was the visiting American heiress, who believed their circles to be too removed for rumors to swim overseas.

But he never took a woman’s virginity and was never responsible for compromising her position. In all honesty, he never really seduced a woman before, having always been the target of his previous lovers’ fancies.

Could he go through with this? Lure a woman, a genteel one at that, to his bed?

He resolved that he has no resolve. He is a selfish man, and if she chooses to cast away her own chastity, he will take no extra measure to protect it. He does know, however, that he was able to stomach his previous liaisons because he was received so ardently. As she stands to lose more than they endangered, he needs to be certain that she wishes to give herself fully.

So that settles it. He will take whatever she is willing to give him, as long as she does so freely.

He waited for her in the library the next morning. He rolled up his shirtsleeves. Then he changed his mind and rolled them back down.

Time dribbled by and the sky turned increasingly lighter. Suddenly, a most terrible thought occurred: she will not show up. He imagined she might lecture him, yell at him, reject him. But he has not imagined that she will condemn him to the ultimate humiliation of ignoring him.

He paced about the room. She wouldn’t leave him, would she?

He heard a noise behind him, and turned around quickly. She looked as equally surprised at her own presence as he was, almost as if she levitated towards him against her own volition.

His face broke out into a boyish grin. She softened. This was the same expression he wore in the library when she first came upon him writing, the day he was born into her life.

“You came,” he rejoiced. Tactlessly, he admonished himself.

She did not know what to say, having not planned on arriving herself, and began to fidget around the room. She found herself backing against the bookshelf. He moved closer to her, keeping a few feet between them.

He asked her softly, “what do you want?”

“The Plato,” she answered.

He smiled and moved forward, stopping a mere inch away from her. She continued facing him, never turning around, never breaking her gaze. He reached his hand upwards and found the Plato above her head. He moved the book to a lower shelf, placed it down, and brought his hand to cover her own.

He began to skirt his lips on the shell of her ear, and whispered almost inaudibly, “what do you want?” His trailed his lips across her cheek, hovering for a moment above her lips, before continuing onwards to her other ear, “do you want this?”

He returned to her mouth, holding his lips just above her own. He inhaled every breath she released.

Her eyelashes cast an alluring shadow across her cheekbones. Her breasts barely grazed his chest at her every intake of breath. He stood there waiting. He could feel her opening up to the concept of this, and with any word of affirmation, any minuscule upwards tilt of her lips, he would seal the kiss. But none came.

He stepped backwards. This was not the willingness he promised to throw it all away for.

The tension that rolled off her body, was it relief or disappointment? Not knowing, she chose to provoke him,

“Do you like towering over women, Mr. Darcy?”

“That statement is an overgeneralization, Elizabeth.”

She startled at the use of her Christian name and the suggestion that his attention is singularly hers. She sat on the loveseat. He continued,

“I do like to tower over you. But I suspect I would also like your proximity eye-to-eye.”

He sat next to her, and announced,

“There. My theory stands.”

His thigh pressed against the side of her own. They met each other’s gaze. He waited for a more firm indication, but still none came.

He turned his face away. The sun was rising behind them, casting their shadow on the rug in front of them.

“Have you read Plato’s Allegory of the Cave?”

“Not yet.”

“In it, Plato describes how we are all prisoners, shackled with our backs turned away from the sun. All we see are each other’s shadows, never the figures directly, and all we can presume about one another is what we project onto silhouettes. But,”

He turned to face Elizabeth once more,

“Every once in a while, a prisoner is released from his shackles, and he can see things directly, as they really are. And when his eyes adjust to the light it is painful, painful. But given the chance to go back in time, to reverse the pain, to un-know what he now knows, the prisoner would never choose to do so.”

Darcy stood up and walked away. When he was at the door, she looked at her twiddling thumbs, and called out,

“What do you mean to imply by this, Darcy? Please, tell me straight. No sugar.”

“It means, Elizabeth, that you and I—we cannot reverse what we now know.”

She met his gaze, as he whispered,

“We cannot go back.”

Chapter Text

But Elizabeth and Jane did go back. Jane, alarmed that their mother’s scheming is becoming increasingly transparent, asked Mr. Bingley to borrow his carriage to take them home.

When she announced her plan to Elizabeth, what was she to say? That she is expected elsewhere, at the wee hours of the morning, to be pressed by a man against a bookshelf?

She went along with it, packing the Plato in her trunk.

Jane announced their plan at breakfast. Mr. Bingley and Miss Bingley effusively expressed their sadness in seeing them go. Mr. Bingley uttered these words while leaning towards Jane, never taking his eyes off of her. Miss Bingley uttered these words while leaning towards cheese scones, never taking her eyes off the scones. Except, of course, when stealing glances at Mr. Darcy. To Elizabeth’s shame, she and Miss Bingley met eyes when they were both trying to catch a glimpse of Mr. Darcy.

And Darcy, of course, looked right past them. His jaw was clenched throughout breakfast.

So he tells her it is impossible for them to go back, and now she attempts to go back?

Elizabeth, for her part, cannot make out her feelings. She supposes she should feel relief. She knows very well she is skirting on the edge of ruin, and as she clearly lacks self-preservation, she requires this external influence to force her away. It is all for the best.

Why would he not meet her eyes?

The scones were eaten, the trunks were packed into the carriage, and all gathered at the door to say their goodbyes.

How strange it is to have a verbal life totally divorced from a mental stream of consciousness. Elizabeth threw around the niceties expected of her, curtsying and waving as needed, all while her fixation was floating wordlessly about.

She bowed to Mr. Darcy, then to Mr. Bingley. As she stepped into the carriage, she felt his hand on hers. She looked back, and, there, he met her eyes. Then he was gone.

From something to nothing. Back home was a flurry of ribbons and books and quarrels and the chirping of the most pesky birds. This life was delightful to her just days ago, and now, well she supposes it is still delightful, but now, well, what happens now?

She was on a trip to Meryton with her sisters when they made a new acquittance. Mr. Wickham, with his blue bright eyes, Mr. Wickham, with his pearly white smile, Mr. Wickham—

“With the strongest calves I’ve ever seen on a man,” whispered Lydia. Elizabeth hushed her. The comment is improper, and also, inaccurate. She witnessed a stronger pair of calves on another man.

She felt her cheeks redden. Ever since Darcy forced his way into to her awareness, it is like he opened a floodgate to all such thoughts. Her days were riddled with invading memories of his figure and his touch. And now, seeing another handsome man, there is a knowledge that come with it. In the past, a charming smile was just a charming smile, but now she knows lips can trace the shell of her ear. And, looking upon a handsome stranger, her newfound knowledge of touch placed a focus on hands, lips, chest, stature. They are no longer simply fine features, but tools for intimacy. Can she imagine the hands of another man on her?

In the distance, they saw two riders. Mr. Bingley and Mr. Darcy came into view. Finally, from nothing, back to something!

She cannot describe exactly what transpired next. While Mr. Bingley was chatting his way into oblivion, Mr. Darcy was clearly seething beside him, the object of his fury being none other than Mr. Wickham. He rode away.

Elizabeth felt a guilt, as if she was personally responsible for the inexplicable workings of black magic. In trying to transfer her affections from Darcy to a new man, she manifested Darcy out of thin air. Is this how the game is played?

“You would not imagine,” Mr. Wickham told her later, “given our cold greeting this morning, that me and Darcy grew up together.”

He proceeded to tell her the most sorrowful tale, of Mr. Darcy cheating him out of his inheritance all due to the envy caused by his father’s love for Wickham. How could it be, that a man who grazes her neck so softly is capable of such cruelty?

But though his touch was soft, was his intentions towards her likewise gentle? He does not mask his desire, but makes no promises regarding their future. No matter how tenderly he wishes to kiss her, how gently he would lead her to bed, fact remains: he wants to ruin her. Is she surprised that if he would seduce a poor, lowly-ranked gentlewoman, he would also abuse the steward’s son?

Later, in bed, she considered this Mr. Wickham. She reached her hand under her nightgown, crawling upwards. Little by little, she has eroded the guilt that comes with exploring her body. She still could not reason it, but found that pleasure has a wonderful way of blanketing reason.

So, Wickham: his eyes twinkle with brilliancy, and she likes the crinkles that appear in their corners. His nose is straight, Grecian, and his lips are rosy. Could she imagine kissing these lips?

Something was off. It is like there is a line that cuts his face at the halfway mark. His smile, when examined closely, has a smugness to it that does not quite connect with the brightness of his eyes. His expression is not cohesive, and she cannot imagine kissing disparate, disconnected lips.

She withdrew her hand. Another night of nothingness.

If she wanted more nothing as a side to her nothing, a master of nothing miraculously appeared. Mr. Collins, her cousin and the inheritor of her father’s estate, managed to speak full passages and say nothing. He could receive a comment with gravity and spin it into nothing. He could absorb a hearty expression and bounce back an eyeful of nothing. Really, it is a talent, and maybe he is a genius of sorts.

But tonight, finally there is something. The girls were dressing for a ball at Netherfield, and Elizabeth felt like she was expanding much too much energy in pining up her hair. Tonight, she will see Wickham again, and maybe his smile would meet his eyes, and maybe this will inspire a wish to kiss him. Some other man will also be there, but she has decided to abscond any thought of kissing him.

Now, they are at the ball—a big grand affair bustling with well-dressed people looking to flirt and fight. The punch is bodied with rum that warms her veins. The second cup of punch also does the trick. Jane lets her know Wickham is gone as he is trying to avoid a certain someone, who she likewise resolved to avoid.

But against her resolve, Darcy appeared. And, for the first time since their meetings in the library, he spoke to her whilst among other people,

“May I have the next dance?”

And as if black magic has struck a second time,

“You may.”

The dance was slow and tense. His hands felt large and firm when they encased her waist. To repel these thoughts, she brought up a subject she knew will not be well-received,

“Mr. Wickham was been so unlucky as to lose your friendship.”

“I concur. Has he been lucky in gaining your own?”

“What do you mean to imply?”

“I may ask the same. Where does your own question tend?”

“I am merely trying to illustrate your character.”

“How innocuous. Allow me endow you with transparency you are withholding from me. My own question, I confess, probed something else entirely.”

“And what would that be?”

“Please answer me first. What success have you had in making out my character?”

“I have yet to learn. I hear such different accounts—“

“—but what is your account, Elizabeth?”

She startled, and looked around to make sure no one heard her Christian name. Facing him once more, his eyes challenged her to answer.

“I do not know,” she confessed, “I do not know you well enough.”

“But you could know me better, if you wished.”

She was saved by the song’s end. After the slightest of bows, he immediately turned away and disappeared into the crowd. In his sudden absence, the numbing, familiar sensation of nothingness engulfed her. The ruckus of the party heightened the funny feeling of her physical world being totally divorced from inner one.

Black magic struck once more: she just about levitated towards his direction.

She found him at the front door. He gave her one long look and walked outside. She followed.

There was a crowd of three man boisterously drinking on the staircase. To any curious eyes looking out the window, this happy gathering could appear as chaperones to their conversation. Darcy and Elizabeth perceived that this was far from the truth. One drunken fool has fallen asleep against a pillar, a second one confused the sleeping figure for his long-deceased father, and the third man was announced gleefully how much the second man resembles his childhood sweetheart.

Darcy sat on a nearby bench, and Elizabeth sat next to him. He fired,

“So you know Wickham? Does Wickham know you the way I know you?”

The affront came like a punch. But then she caught a quiver of his lower lips. She realized that he is hurt by the thought—she is capable of hurting him! For a moment she felt a wicked satisfaction for being able to evoke his feelings in the manner he evokes her own. But she caught herself—her heart can quickly thaw when realizing its power to move another.

“He does not.”

His shoulders seemed to relax, but his hands were still fidgeting in his lap. He looked at her,

“Elizabeth, what do you want?”

This was not the silken tongue that has spoken these same words to her before. Now, the words trickled out delicately, shyly, and they seemed more honest somehow.

“What do you want, Mr. Darcy?”

And as if a trap door just swung shut, he seemed to compose his hands,

“First,” he began, “I want you to call me Fitzwilliam. We are too far gone for the formalities. And second,”

He placed a hand on her thigh. Her breath hitched, and she whipped her head behind them to where the drunks were now singing a slurred tune. Is their bench sufficiently guarded from the window? She thinks so. Is Darcy still looking at her? She knows so. Is she still alive? She does not have a clue. She turned back, returning his gaze.

“And second,” he repeated, “I want everything you are willing to give.”

He paused, studying her face. It is as if he transferred his case of fidgeting hands to her. She could not keep them still.

This will not do. Again and again, they find themselves at this impasse, and she is not able to let go. If only he knew her mind. What is on her mind?

“What is on your mind?” He found himself asking.

She found herself answering,

“I do not know. My thoughts are longwinded and inarticulate.”

“Why don’t you try to put them into words?”

“They have all been whirling around my head,” she insisted, “I cannot seem to grab onto a single one. But together they are congealing and taking shape, undergoing some form of transfiguration. I do not know what shape they will take.”

“Try to pull on just one strand. Maybe you can unravel a single line of thinking.”

“All right,” she started, “if you must know. I had a funny thought when I discovered two rabbits coupling.”

He lifted his eyebrows and smiled.

“I suppose, all my life, I was taught that there is something that separates us from animals. Some law or doctrine that convinced us we are above them. But is that so? I recall our barn cat tending to her kittens. A wild dog came by, and she jumped in front of her babies, faced the beast, and hissed in full readiness to be mauled. Or, when our horse died, his mate could not eat properly for weeks in mourning. I have been replaying these memories perpetually.”

“Why is that?”

“People talk as if it is some great offense to act as animals. We are afraid to stoop so low. But what if we acknowledge that, in fact, animals actually rank high? They love and protect and care with the same ardor we aspire to. Perhaps we are equals. And maybe if we know this, we would not fear stooping to their level.”

“Why do you believe yourself to be in danger of stooping?”

She blushed,

“You know.”

“I only suspect.”

“Why make me say it, when you already know?”

“What matters to me is what you know, Elizabeth.”

“Why?”

“Because a thought that rises to consciousness is one that could be acted on. I will not go guessing what you desire in your subconscious, only to leave us both wondering after the act whether I was on the mark.”

“Give me your best guess.”

His hand traveled further up her leg and stroked a line on the inside of her thigh. She was mute.

“Elizabeth,” he leaned forward with a boyish grin, “you cannot evade voicing what we both know. Tell me, is this where your coupling rabbits play in?”

“Do not,” she whispered furiously, “do not toy with me.”

“I do not wish to toy with you.”

“What do you want from me?”

“I already said, I want everything. Everything you are willing to give.”

She gave no answer. His demeanor changed once more. Again and again she is surprised that despite his upright posture, his confidence seems to ebb and flow.

He removed his hand.

“Do you think about me, Elizabeth?”

“What do you mean?”

“Do you ever think about me, when I am not there?”

He could barely meet her gaze. Then, in a whisper,

“Yes.”

A retched sound of puking broke out behind them. The smell must have turned the stomachs of the remaining drunkards, because soon enough, there was what could only be described as a symphony of barfs.

Their time was up.

“Where do you have these speculations, of sweet barn cats and coupling rabbits?”

“By the chestnut tree.”

He nodded, willing her to go on. She breathed deeply and continued,

“If you walk along the stream, look behind the trio of apple trees, there is a half-beaten path. A mile down, there is a chestnut tree. I am often there midday.”

He must be floating,

“Thank you,” he whispered.

A couple of partygoers came to help the struggling drunkards. Darcy tapped her on the knee,

“Go.”

She was off.

The three drunks at the staircase must have been an appetizer to a five-course meal, because what he found upon reentering the estate is an unending stream of drunken buffoonery.

And Darcy, never having been a happier man, rejoiced at the sight of it. Mr. Collins transformed from a pest to a jester, Miss Bingley turned from a rumormonger to a coatrack of fine silks, and Miss Mary Bennet’s piano playing sounded like Mozart with sufficient champagne.

Only one event caused him to furrow his eyebrows. Bingley was whispering to Miss Jane a tale, his eyes so irrevocably open. Miss Jane listened politely with her hands folded neatly on her lap. She always bore the same expression, whether she was talking to a servant or a pet corgi or his bewitched dearest friend. Are his friend’s affections never to be mirrored?

And to compound his suspicion, an entrance was made by a drunken fool his mind simply could not transfigure,

“We are expecting the most advantageous match. To think that in a few short months, my dear Jane will be mistress of this very estate!”

It was impossible for him not to sneer. He wished for Mrs. Bennet to disappear, but she was determined that her family be the very last to leave. Oh, never mind. He will handle Mrs. Bennet, Mr. Bennet, and the three little Bennets invading his vicinity if he could keep one Bennet near.

Finally, the partygoers were all gone. He was ready to retire to his bedchambers, strip off his clothing, get under the covers, and indulge in a necessary fist-fuck.

He was stopped right on his tracks. Across the hall, was Bingley. His eyes were red and moist,

“Fitzwilliam,” his voice began to crack, “does she care for me?”

Darcy could not find it in him to answer. Bingley broke down into a sob. Quickly, Darcy led him into the parlour,

“Caroline is convinced,” he began between cries, “that her family is full of social climbers and fortune hunters. She has no shortage of quotes by her mother to lay as evidence.”

He looked at Darcy, who could only admit,

“Her mother dropped commentary here and there.”

“And Caroline keeps underscoring,” he continued, “the impropriety displayed by the family.”

“By the mother, the three youngest sisters, and occasionally the father. Yes.”

“And she cannot stop reminding me of the dowry I will certainly not receive, and the rank I certainly will not attain.”

“You do not need me to confirm what is obviously true.”

“Do you want to know what I think?” Bingley challenged.

“Charles, it is much more important to me what you think than what Miss Caroline thinks on the matter.”

He leaned in and whispered, “I don’t care about any of it.”

“You do not care?”

“I don’t!” Charles laughed almost maniacally, “I don’t! I don’t!”

He plopped down on a chair with a sigh, and continued,

“I never thought much of my rank. It was as if dice were thrown to determine if I be a gentleman or a farmer.”

“Well,” Darcy began, feeling his resistance to the idea, but knowing not how to refute it, “even if you do not believe in the inherent value of your title, surely you at least acknowledge there is a superiority that continues to grow as one receives worldly exposure and higher education.”

Bingley waved his hand away, “if I was absorbent to such education, perhaps I’d be biased as to believe you. But you know very well I was never the most receptive of of pupils. Didn’t you try all week to engage me in your frivolous little intellectualizations of your reading?”

He gestured to the four books on the desk, and Darcy could do nothing but blush. Displayed was a Shakespeare, a Rousseau, a Plato, and, yes, a thesaurus. All week, reflecting on Elizabeth’s stay, he reread the writers she has chosen. It was as if their eyes glazing over the same page is some form of touch.

He could not disagree with his friend. Charles was kind, bless him, and loyal, bless him, but he was not the sharpest of minds.

“All right, Charles. Say it does not matter. Does apathy not assist you in justifying your attachment?”

His friend’s eyes moistened once more,

“None of it would matter to me, Fitzwilliam, if only she cared for me. Does she care for me?”

And again, Darcy did not have it in him to answer. Bingley buried his face in his hands.

“You don’t know what it’s like,” he quaked through his fingers. He fisted them through his hair and then leaned back on the chair. Looking at Darcy, he described,

“She lives in my awareness at every moment. If she is not in my direct vision, then she is in my peripheral vision. My eyes orbits around her being.”

Darcy shifted his weight from one foot to the other, then shifted it back.

“When we are apart,” Charles continued, “I am keenly aware she walks the Earth. I wonder where on Earth that must be. I start conspiring to be there, too.”

Darcy realized his finger are gripping and twisting the hem of his coat.

“You don’t know what it’s like,” finished Bingley.

Is this is what it is like? Darcy stood up, and fetched him and Charles a bottle of Scotch. Scotch at sunrise.

Elizabeth talked of longwinded, inarticulate thoughts congealing in the mind and taking shape. How could he not notice that this is the shape his own mind was taking? How could he not notice that it grew into a mass that could bombard and shatter all he designed for his future?

Charles always had his own feelings checked. When they met, Darcy was a painfully quiet child. He was shy by nature, and his behaviors were exacerbated by playing with Wickham, who proved to him that every emotion revealed could later be weaponized against him. But Charles was wide open: eyes wide open, heart wide open. His friendship coaxed vulnerabilities out of Darcy.

Several Scotches later, Charles announced,

“We must leave immediately.”

Darcy said nothing.

“If she is compelled to marry me to do right by her family, I’m ruining her chance of loving someone else.”

Darcy realized he would similarly ruin Elizabeth. Not by Charles’s vision of a loveless but respectable marriage, bless him. He has not even allowed his mind to graze against the concept of marriage. No, if he moves forward with his own designs, he is a midday walk away from a fresh fuck on the forest floor.

What would he ruin for her if he proceeds? A future love? Something in him revolted at the thought of her with another. Charles interrupted this thread,

“Fitzwilliam, please. I want to do the right thing.”

Darcy swallowed. Charles has an intuition for these things, after all.

They were gone by noon.

Elizabeth laid on the ground, watching the branches of the tree above her. They released auburn leaves as they bristled.

A season passed, and it was as if everything around her is inching towards a quiet, beautiful death. As soothing as a lullaby.

Charlotte is gone, having chosen a life of greyscale security. Jane was abandoned. Her ethereal face so masterfully masks any pain, even as every neighbor and acquittance whisper their derision at her disappointed hopes. Now she is fading away as gently as autumn foliage.

As for Elizabeth, no one discovered her inner world. Only here is it in the open that she, too, was abandoned. She would have laid down with him here. She would have allowed him to undress her here. She would have given it all, freely, if he were here to take it.

She tried, in vain, to project an attraction onto Wickham’s charm. He held her hand once to help her skip over a puddle—the touch was purely mechanical. Day by day, she confronted that she could not transplant desire onto another heart.

She denied the reality that she was willing to give herself away when she first heard of their departure. She believed she feared a ruin. Now she knows that what she should have feared was nothingness. Something has awakened within her, and as the weeks unfolded, she found that her hungry heart had no nourishment. Nothing to keep it alive.

She lifted her hand up her skirt and reached upwards. She pressed against the nub above her opening, the way she likes it. Any shame has dissipated long ago. She saw him: his steely eyes, strong shoulders. She imagined he’d cage her down with arms on either side of her body. She imagined his thrusts were strong.

She does not want him tender. She understand this now: she likes him pushing at her boundaries, opening her up. She wants to be spread out, cleaved from the inside, opened wide. She wants him to open her up. He is not gentle. And she would not have it another way.

She shot up. She is not dead yet, and for the years before she is due for the grave, she will not allow this awakened body to be lulled to sleep. If she sees him again—if she detects the shimmers of his spider’s web—she will not grapple. She will fly her full body into it.

Chapter Text

It is a marvel how heaviness on the chest could disappear completely at the sight of a familiar smile. Charlotte absolutely shone when Elizabeth arrived to Hunsford Parsonage.

“Oh Lizzy. You don’t know what a pleasure it is to be mistress of my own home. It has been such a delight,” she explained on their walk, Mr. Collins leading the way, just out of earshot,

“And Mr. Collins, bless him, he is kind. He, like me, simply wishes to maintain peace in the home. And,” she shone once more, “I have a friend. A real friend. Miss Anne de Bourgh has been a true companion to me.”

“Charlotte, I could not have wished to see you any happier.”

Rosings Park stood before them like a boulder amid grass. They were heading to the estate for what is, as Mr. Collins put it, the most generous of invitations from the Ladyship herself.

And if a familiar smile could ease the heaviness at the chest, there is no description for what a familiar gaze of a former flame could do.

Across the room, looking straight at her, was Darcy.

Darcy, Darcy, Darcy,

“Do you know my nephew?” Lady de Bourgh interrupted any line of thinking that is good and true.

“Yes, a little.”

A man stepped forward. He was of Darcy’s height, but of a thinner stature,

“My cousin,” offered Darcy.

“Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam,” he gave a bow and shot her a dazzling smile. Upon inspection, he shared some features with Darcy, but the delicacy about his nose and jaw evoked a prettiness oftentimes ascribed to women.

As they dined, she was keenly aware every time Darcy’s eyes were on her. His cousin snuck looks at her as well. Darcy caught Richard, who delighted in the tension with a sly smile. Charlotte caught the exchange of nuances, and furrowed her eyebrows. Anne perceived Charlotte’s concern, and proceeded to follow the trail of glances.

So this is how it unfolded: an unspoken orchestration of side-eyes unendingly bounced around the table. Lady de Bourgh talked. Mr. Collins ate soup.

Without Elizabeth fully engaging in it, the scene changed. Now they are at the parlour, and she is at the pianoforte. She felt the familiar heat of him standing over her,

“Elizabeth,” he just about breathed,

Her fingers skipped over a key and the instrument released a cacophony,

“Elizabeth,” he whispered, “when can I see you?”

She wanted to answer, she did, but just then, his cousin appeared and slipped on the piano stool right next to her. Does he smell it on them? Are they so obvious? She shot Darcy a look,

“Do you mean to frighten me, coming here in all your state?”

He was silent. She turned to Colonel Fitzwilliam,

“Your cousin enjoys frightening me.”

“Is that so?” He leaned forward on the stool, looming near, “What is he like to you? What do you have to accuse him of?”

“Prepare yourself for the following tale. The night I met him, he barely danced at all, even though gentleman were scarce and at least one woman was in want of a partner.”

The Colonel smiled, “And who might that woman be?”

She shrugged, and made another attempt at the pianoforte. Richard shot his cousin a smirk, before leaning by Elizabeth’s ear,

“You do not appear to me as a woman who is easily frightened.”

“My courage rises with every attempt to intimidate me.”

“Yes, I see that. You bear it well. You can bear my cousin, coming near you ‘in all his state,’ and now me, inching even closer.”

Now that he vocalized it, Elizabeth realized that it is, indeed, the picture. Two men are crowding her at the pianoforte, and she is not shrinking at the sight of it. In fact, she is bearing it well.

“Enough of this,” barked Darcy, slapping a hand down on the instrument. He leaned forward and whispered furiously,

“Elizabeth.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam’s eyebrows shot up at the use of her Christian name, and Elizabeth flushed at the indiscretion.

“I do not dance at a ballroom for the same reason your pianoforte playing is poor. Neither you, nor I, agree to perform on command.”

He then turned around, served Lady de Bourgh a non-existent explanation (“Aunt. I will be back.”), and was out the door.

With him gone, the Colonel practically purred,

“What shape does your courage take? Does it keep you here with me, or provoke you to follow him?”

She was standing up, she realized. She was curtsying in front of Lady de Bourgh, she realized, mumbling, “Excuse me, your Ladyship. I need to freshen up.”

Then it occurred to her she was traveling down a corridor. Looking down, she realized that the being putting one foot in front of the other was none other than herself. She saw a room with an open door. It had a glow of a fireplace beaconing her near. Now she is at the doorway. A library. Somehow she made her way inside.

He was at his leisure on an armchair, glass of Scotch in his hand. He was facing her direction. The fire blazing behind him cast a shadow across his face.

“Elizabeth."

“Fitzwilliam.”

“What do you want, Elizabeth?”

She shut the door.

Through the shadows of his face, she could make out the faintest of smiles.

Her feet began to fidget. He, however, seemed to recline even further into his chair, one of his arms now sprawled against the back of it, his legs spreading out wide.

He took a drink from his Scotch as he watched her squirm. Then, he spoke,

“What did you come here for?”

It occurred to her once again that the feet taking her across the room were her own. She was closer to him now.

He looked up at her, but somehow, he was still towering over her in this conversation,

“Sit down.”

She stared at him on the armchair. There was no space for her besides him. She inquired,

“Where?”

He did not answer. The pause stretched between them. She realized he will not speak.

Slowly, she lowered herself onto his lap.

If anyone walked in, they would catch quite a sight. He, reclined comfortably across a chair. Her, perched on his thigh, back perfectly straight, hands folded neatly at her lap. Like a nervous child. No one would have supposed she put herself there. He began,

“Do not forget what I once told you. You cannot evade voicing what we both already know.”

She stayed mute, looking down at her hands. She heard the clank of his drinking glass against the side table, and soon enough, he placed a large palm on top her own. She looked at him.

“Elizabeth,” he coaxed, “lean back.”

She leaned back slowly into the crook of his arm, her face buried in his neck. She wished his cravat was gone so she could feel his skin. He wrapped one arm around her, then another came to cup the back of her skull. He was playing with the tendrils that trailed behind.

She realized that he is rocking her now, back and forth so, so soothingly. The medicinal touch was spreading through her veins slowly, her muscles unwinding.

His half-lidded eyes scaled her face. He whispered,

“What did you come here for?”

Their eyes met. And in a whisper,

“You.”

He smiled. It surprised her that the smile was shy somehow. Shy, after all of this. She felt his hands fist at the hair at the nape of her neck, keeping her head steady and still. He leaned forward.

His kiss was soft, and that surprised her. His lips barely skirted her own. Then she felt them press to hers, still soft, so soft. His hand firmly held the back of her neck in an immobilizing grip. A commanding touch for a kiss so tender.

They parted, but barely. She returned his shy smile.

“When can I see you?”

“Tomorrow,” she answered, “at daybreak. I will walk to the woods behind Hunsford.”

He nodded.

He helped her up to her feet. He kissed her cheek. They opened the door.

The warmth of the fire glowed brilliantly behind them, while the hallway unraveled nothing but a cool darkness.

And from the shadows, emerged Lady de Bourgh.

She embarked upon them slowly, and said in a low tone, “Do you truly believe you can pollute the halls of Rosings Parks unnoticed?”

She continued her steps forward, forcing Darcy and Elizabeth to back into the room. Her eyes fell upon Elizabeth,

“You,” she seethed, as Darcy stepped half his body in between them,

“I see your designs to trap an honorable man. The ruse will not work. This is how it will go: he will leave this room first and return to the parlour, and you and I will emerge a few minutes after, and announce to the party we both happened upon one another when powdering our noses.”

“Aunt—“

“—My nephew will not fall victim to your ploy of sinking your claws into a wealthy suitor. He is engaged to my daughter.”

“Aunt,” he started gently, as if to soften the blow to come, “That is not the truth. It never was. And it never will be.”

She startled backwards, as if her knees gave out. For a moment, Elizabeth felt sorry for her. That is, of course, until the Lady once again fixed her gaze on her and seethed,

“You harlot. You whore. You succubus.”

“Aunt,”

And then he dared utter—

“—calm down.”

Elizabeth, having lived in a house of six women, cringed in anticipation of the onslaught she knew was about to come.

“Calm…” Lady de Bourgh blinked several times in succession, processing the sentiment.

“You tell me to calm down? In my house? Which you defiled? You tell me to calm down? CALM DOWN!”

The resounding footsteps in the hallway could not be mistaken.

“How could I calm down, when the siren sang her song to lure my nephew into open waters to be devoured!”

Mr. Collins appeared with a stupefied look. Charlotte behind him, eyebrows furrowed. Anne’s eyes flicked between her mother and the couple. Richard wore the grin of a Cheshire cat.

“How could I calm down, when the river nymphet swam upstream to prevail herself upon my sleeping nephew and bewitch him!”

Before she can sample more whores from mythological lore, Darcy tried to interrupt,

“It is not such a scandal!”

“How could it not be? When the Lamia slithered towards your resting form at the shade of a tree to make a meal out of you!”

“Aunt, please. It is not as it seems.”

“How could it not be? Explain yourself!”

When Darcy replayed this moment later in his head, he had to acknowledge the solace he felt. For months, he tried to starve his heart’s desire. He endlessly reasoned the expectations and responsibilities he must answer to.

When you are struggling for balance on the edge of a cliff, there is a calm in feeling the imprint of a boot at the square of your back. You can finally fall.

“I will not reveal,” he began, “the content of private conversations that were had before this very day. The decision to do so is Elizabeth’s.”

Everyone, save Richard, was struck by his use of her Christian name. And Darcy could see on their faces as their minds turned over his meaning.

“Is this true?” Lady de Bourgh asked in a quivering tone, “do you two have an understanding?”

Elizabeth knew the only honesty in Darcy’s implication was the use of her Christian name, which he called upon in private scenes that were very much exactly as this scandal appeared. It is not in her nature to lie. And yet, knowing that confirming this scandal would put a bullet in her family’s name, she could not bring herself to pull the trigger.

“And I will not consent,” she struggled to continue, “to reveal any content under such hostile interrogation.”

“Insolent girl!”

“Aunt, please!” Now that Elizabeth vocalized a wish to delay the decision, Darcy sought to secure the delay until at least the following day. He knew the only way forward was with a stroking of an ego,

“Of course, aunt, you deserve answers. You deserve the account in full.”

Charlotte and Anne appeared by their side simultaneously.

“Of course, your Ladyship deserves answers,” Charlotte began, “but they could not be coerced when the girl is so overwhelmed. Look, she is about to faint!”

Darcy whipped his head around, and sure enough, Elizabeth was ashen. He put a hand on a shoulder, an affection that only fired Lady de Bourgh’s chagrin.

“Mother,” Anne pled, “let us solidify the value of rank by demonstrating our superior behaviors. She acted rashly, but we can act with reason. Let us approach this situation with the level heads our titles entail.”

This sentiment seemed to strike the right nerve.

“You are right, my sensible girl. You are bearing this dishonor as a true gentlewoman should. But tomorrow, I demand answers.”

“Of course,” started Charlotte, already leading Elizabeth out the room, “let me take her back to recuperate. She will return to explain herself.”

Charlotte tightened her grip around her as they walked the long dreary halls. Elizabeth realized her body was shaking. Before they were out the front door, Darcy appeared,

“Elizabeth,”

She turned to him,

“I will ride out to see your father. I will be back as soon as I am able.”

She nodded, and let her friend lead her away.

Elizabeth’s eyes cracked opened, awakened by the sudden drawing of curtains and an outpour of light. As her vision came into focus, she made out Charlotte on a chair by her bedside.

Last night, her friend held back her tongue as Elizabeth’s body racked with sobs on their way back to the parsonage. She helped Elizabeth undress when the cries would not diminish, pulled a nightdress over her body, and stroked her hair gently as she fell sleep.

Now, Charlotte’s eyes were hardened. Her words were spoken authoritatively,

“Elizabeth. Mr. Darcy is downstairs. I need you to listen to me carefully. When he saw you last, he conveyed that he will speak to your father to reach an agreement. I implore you to act rationally.”

Elizabeth began to sit up,

“I do not say this to injure you. I say this to prepare you for what is to come. I only have Anne’s strong regard of him to feed my hope he will remain honorable. But, as we cannot be certain, let me be clear.”

She stood up from her chair and continued,

“I know you are guided by emotion, but allow me to put this in terms that are difficult for you to grasp, terms dictated by analysis. Do not endanger ruin. Think of your younger sisters. Think of Jane. And think of your future self, who is a woman you always seem to neglect.”

She extended her hand up to Elizabeth, who took it to be helped out of bed. Her hair was plaited, her face was powdered, her body clad in a dress, and then she was downstairs.

When she arrived to the parlour, Darcy thought the redness around her eyes gave them a soft, ethereal glow. And then he felt the guilt that followed as he realized how they gained their color.

He handed her a letter. She tore it it open, and read,

My Lizzy,

Mr. Darcy arrived at first light to declare his admiration and adoration of your spirit and character. He asked for your hand in marriage.

You could imagine I was taken aback, especially since he came on horseback, yesterday’s clothes in disarray, looking worst for wear. After conveying my skepticism, he contextualized the urgency of your situation.

I want you to know, Lizzy, that I believe that a story of two young people emerging fully clothed from a library, while imprudent, is not a scandal. Our family will survive the tale.

So I defer any decision to you, my dear Lizzy. Do not act on my behalf.

Your loving father.

Elizabeth put down the letter. She adores her father, but knows this is in line with his ignorance, lack of forward-thinking, and tendency to indulge his children. Yesterday’s audience will not allow this scandal to die down. Lady de Bourgh out of malice, Mr. Collins out of idiocy. And her family will not survive the tale.

Maybe Elizabeth would have had the strength to resist an arrangement if she truly were innocent. If somehow she appeared in that library with no tainted intentions. But she knows full well that was not so. How could she convince society, if she could not even believe it herself?

Darcy sat by her, and she met his eye. He looked shy once more,

“Elizabeth, will you have me?”

She nodded, and let out a small, “yes.”

He turned his face so she will not see his expression fall. This was not the dizzying “yes” she uttered last night, when she desired to give herself to him in the woods. He took her hand, and she felt something cool on her finger. When she looked down, there was an emerald twinkling up at her. It sat on a gold band in a cross of four champagne diamonds.

“Beautiful,” she breathed.

“My mother’s,” he offered a terse explanation.

Before he arrived to Rosings Park, he rationalized how imprudent it would be to absorb Elizabeth into his fold. And though he believed he successfully reasoned the claim, he found himself at his mother’s chest. He thought this emerald would look so fitting against Elizabeth’s sun-kissed skin and dark hair. It would have the effect of greenery budding from the ground. Somehow, the ring ended up in his pocket.

If he thought this proposal was disappointing, it was cemented as a disappointment by the appearance of Mr. Collins,

“What a relief that you are here. As a priest, it is my responsibility to censure your imprudence and impropriety. As a patron on Lady Catherine de Bourgh, it is my responsibility to demand that you to go and explain yourself to her Ladyship at once.”

Darcy’s nostrils flared at his aunt’s talking lap dog, “There is a change of plans. I do not believe my future wife is ever expected to be on the receiving end of insult.”

“But, you promised!”

In perfect, flat, monotone, Darcy retorted, “Oh no. I lied. How awful.”

The brain of Mr. Collins malfunctioned at the introduction of sarcasm.

“This is how it shall be: I will go to my aunt only to respect our lifelong biological relation. And I will report, not explain, that this is my choice.”

Her Ladyship was more desperate than he expected to find her.

“You can drop her, Fitzwilliam. You are not expected to honor her seduction.”

“Aunt. This is by my design.”

“You intend to convince me this is not a sloppily patched-up affair?”

“I put mother’s ring on her finger. I picked it out it out months ago. The emerald.”

Lady Anne Darcy. When Lady de Bourgh was a child, and Anne just a babe, she delighted in the infant’s tiny toes and tiny fingers. How precious she was. Yet despite her adoration, she could not bring herself to hold the baby and coo. Such affections were never in her nature. She similarly struggled to hold and coo at her own baby, also named Anne after her beloved sister.

All she managed was,

“Anne had larger stones on finer bands than that one.”

He knew this is the extent of her concession.

They stopped the carriage at an inn to feed themselves and the horses. Darcy arranged for them to marry at Hertfordshire with Charlotte as their traveling chaperone and Richard as his best man. Elizabeth was at the very least relieved that is arduous event is to happen at home with her family by her side.

Their lunch wrapped up, and Darcy and Richard were settling the account with the innkeeper at the front. At the counter, the coachman (a very nice man, but a glutton), was consuming as many possible sausages he can on Darcy’s coin.

Tomorrow, she will become Mrs. Darcy. This is her last day as Elizabeth Bennet.

She stood up, “Charlotte,”

Her friend’s eyebrows furrowed.

“Do not follow me.”

“Elizabeth—“ her friend pleaded, but was silenced with a stony glare.

Elizabeth walked to the door. She shot Darcy a long gaze underneath her eyelashes. He followed without question.

With the couple gone, Richard spread his Cheshire grin.

Now outside, she took off on a sprint.

“Elizabeth!” She heard behind her.

But she was off—off! She laughed to herself, almost maniacally. Her feet delighted in stomping on the plush grass, now leading to a line of trees. She ran into the woods and could feel him on her trail. She criss-crossed her path, confounding her direction. But she continued to peek behind her to assure he was still in sight.

Finally, they came upon a clearing between the trees. She stood in the middle and waited for him to gain in on her. He arrived. Placing two hands on his knees, he panted and recollected himself. Ready, he stood upright once more.

A thousand sensations irradiated from her dark eyes. The one at the forefront, he delighted to see, was power.

“Who am I,” she smiled darkly, “to be told where, when, and to whom I can give this body to?”

He took full strides forward until he was an inch away from her body. He brought up his hand and pulled at the hair at the back of her skull,

“You want this.”

“I want this.”

Their second kiss is all wetness and teeth. She wants it messy.

Suddenly, he steps back, separating their bodies. A blush appears on the top of her breasts, her heaving causing them to swell. He reaches out to undo the laces at her front. More of her chest is revealed, and he strokes the plush skin above her corset. He will have her, raw. He knows it like gospel.

He takes off his coat and circles her, taking his sweet time now that she is on his platter. He lays his coat on the ground behind her. He pins her shoulders down, sinking them both to their knees. He presses her backwards until she is laying on the silk lining. For a moment, he is unmoving. She barely breathes in the lull.

In one motion, he reaches out and yanks her corset down. Her breasts bounce from the force of it, and a desperate noise escapes the back of his throat. Now he has a breast in each hand, watching the peaks harden when pinched between his fingers. He is much too aggressive—he doesn’t know how a virgin could bear this manhandling. But, oh, she bears it well, head back and mouth agape, and he leaps forward and licks a tightened nipple, sucking a bruised kiss into it. She releases a moan so delicious he wants to eat it and he finds himself back at her mouth, lapping at its inside.

One hand shoves her dress higher up her thigh, and now it is upon her. He hovers a finger up her slit and her body jolts. His touch is firm. Up and down her slit, toying with the bud at the top, teasing her opening. The wetness is maddening. Slowly, he sinks in a finger. And now he is stroking, hooking his finger upwards from the inside. He stills at the intake of her breath.

The hand is gone, and he leans onto his knees. She could hear him undoing the laces of his breeches. He climbs over her once again, one arm propping himself up, the other guiding him to her. She feels a smooth globe slide up and down her slit. His mouth parts at the feel of it. He begins a gentle press.

“Say you want this.”

“I want this.”

He pushes forward, and she feels her walls open up, before he comes to a barrier. He presses through, and the pressure is unyielding.

She has in the past heard the term “deflowered,” leading her to believe that this portion would be a painful but instantaneous pluck. That is not so. The resistance did not simply snap. He felt the barrier, withdrew with a slight movement, and thrust back in a little deeper than before. He withdrew once more, again pushing forward with greater depth. At each gentle thrust, her walls, so resistant, stretched out, him reaching deeper, slowly opening her up.

She realizes that her deflowering is more like her being burrowed into. Every time he withdraws, his shaft resists the tightness of her grip, and when he thrust, the invasion causes her walls to stretch beyond her imagined capacity. For a moment, he lost himself, and his lips sneer as he throws his head back. Then he leans towards her once more, whispering,

“Almost there.”

Almost where? Another thrust, and he stills. His root is flush against her opening, applying a delicious pressure on her inner lips. She feels so cleaved open, so full, that she is convinced that if she touches her lower stomach she would feel the outline of his shaft through her skin under her fingertips. And if she thought the feeling was already overwhelming, he dares utter,

“I feel like I carved you open.”

She just about lost her head, releasing a sound somewhere between a gasp and a cry. He stays still, allowing her to adjust to the pressure. He presses kisses to the top of her breasts, her neck, her cheeks. He is kissing her lips again, coaxing them open with his tongue, a slow and languid distraction from the piercing of her body. She feels her muscles relax. He begins to rock his hips, not thrusting yet, just loosening her walls to the feel of him.

She moans, and he smiles against her neck. He withdraws slightly and thrusts, studying her face for signs that the pain is too great. He takes her in: her eyes shut, a blush across her cheeks, her full mouth slightly agape. He wants everything she has to give. He wants it all raw, all of it, and he finds himself in a rhythm of thrusts that are increasingly long and deep.

Their eyes meet. He gives her a half smile and continues to cleave her body open. The newness may be too great, the stretch too foreign, for her to find her full pleasure in their first coupling. But he still wants to chase his own pleasure. He is not selfless, no, and she wanted him like this—to take from her body.

She likes it, being spread and split. He is so close, and he buries himself at her depth. He does not withdraw and rocks his body into hers. She feels the wet pulse of his seed. He stays in her body, pressing further, and she feels another wet pulse, and another. Now he finally stills, letting his body go slack, breathing hotly into her neck.

He withdraws from her and leans back onto his heels. She is looking up at the blue sky, watching the branches of the trees blow in the breeze. Her nipples, still wet from his attentions, harden all the more when the breeze licks them. She releases a laugh.

This is what Darcy sees: Elizabeth, her arms sprawled and legs spread open, her breasts exposed with nipples pointing upwards, her cunt leaking her blood and their fluids, smiling and laughing up at the sky. Never has there been a being that walked the Earth more open or receptive than she.

He, too, begin a breathy laugh. She looks at him, his boyish grin, and sees his shaft still stiff, with a ring of her blood around the stem. It occurs to neither to be embarrassed.

He reaches for his handkerchief and cleans her. She sees blood and fluid when he withdraws his hand. They lace their clothing back up. He picks some leaves from the plaits of her hair. When he puts on his coat, she dusts off dirt from his back.

He offers her his hand to walk back to the inn. She takes it.

Chapter Text

They pierced through some kind of viscous ether when they reentered a world that is occupied by other people. Turning the corner, the carriage came into view. The coachman had the tact to pretend to attend to the horses. Elizabeth excused herself to refresh. At the toilette, she padded down her tender, over-sensitive lips below, to find that more of their fluids have been released. She made an attempt to straighten her clothing.

Inside the carriage, Charlotte pointedly looked out the window. Richard’s eyes unapologetically flickered between the faces of the blushing couple. Is this how it is? Will there always be a division between carnal acts and society, in an ironic contradiction to the fact that intimacy brought all mankind into being?

The carriage jolted on the bumpy road, and Elizabeth was beset to find that the rocking caused Darcy’s seed to slowly drip down her inner walls and out of her. She has not expected the act to be so filthy: skin sheen with sweat, her cunt releasing wetness, his seed pumped and planted at her depth. In this carriage, her back straight and hands folded in an illusion of propriety, she could feel his seed trickle down her channel. Richard stared at her unabashedly.

Darcy shot him a look, and his cousin took the point to gaze out the window. Then Darcy found his own mind turning to the very same subject occupying Elizabeth’s.

He knows full well that the prudent act would have been to pull out when he reached his peak. He can tell himself that they are to be married tomorrow, and he did not endanger any raised eyebrows at a birth announced on a questionable timeline. But this will simply be an excuse sloppily projected after the act. The reality is, his body driving into hers, he wanted everything, everything the moment had to give. He pursued the act in its fullness. He should condemn this behavior, but in the privacy of his mind, he found that he was not in the least bit sorry.

They finally arrived to Longbourn, and they both experienced dread at the sight of the clustered Bennets waiting at the entrance. Darcy’s reaction was simply pure automation. And Elizabeth, usually heartened by her family’s presence, could not do so with a sound mind with the feeling of the sticky mess between her thighs.

“Oh, dear girl,” her mother ran forward, “I did not foresee it. It was not announced as properly as it should have. But happy news, yes, happy day.”

Her eyes fell on Darcy’s tall stature, and he tried to blanket his usual contempt. The best he managed was an expression of sheer indifference. She turned to her daughter once more,

“Mistress of Pemberley! I have never seen the manor, but am told that is one of the finest in the whole kingdom. My daughter, wife of a master of such a grand estate! Lady Lucas is not going to believe it; she undermined us. Thinking her daughter can snatch Longbourn without my daughter up-handing her. Oh, hello, Charlotte.”

Elizabeth could not have sank deeper into the soil. Charlotte managed a courteous hello. How can she repay her friend, for her kindness when she was at her low, the control she is straining to display now, and the lifelong secrecy of the stolen moment she trusts Charlotte will keep?

Her stomach dropped upon seeing Darcy’s face. For a moment, the mask has slipped, and brazen disgust was released in waves in the direction of her mother. This is the woman whose womb brought her into life, and this is the man bounding her for life, and this is the endless par in between the two.

The gaggle of women circled her and Charlotte and led them to a bedchamber. Elizabeth’s heart sank realizing that, in the urgency of their razor-sharp path, they could not fetch Jane from London in time for her wedding day. The thought was short-lived, as Kitty and Lydia were absolutely giddy when presenting her with a dress.

“It’s what we could do, given the timing. Months ago I had it ordered for Jane, thinking… never mind that. The color is becoming on you,” her mother explained nervously.

The dress was made of an exquisite silk of sage green. She knew it was the very best their money could afford. Her mother was sheepish, toying with her hands, and Elizabeth perceived how much she wishes to make this rushed affair as beautiful as possible for her departing daughter. She felt her heart thaw.

“Thank you, mother.”

“Mr. Bennet.”

Darcy addressed his future father-in-law, who looked at him mutely.

“This is my cousin, Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam,” he offered, with not much else to say.

Mr. Bennet remained unresponsive, relishing in stretching the silence. Finally, he announced,

“As the turn-around for these events have been so hurried, surely you can understand how we did not manage to make preparations to receive you as guests in Longbourn.”

“Completely understood. I have an arrangement for Richard and I at the Meryton Inn.”

“Good. I shall see you tomorrow.”

He turned around, stalked to Longbourn, and shut the door behind him.

Immediately as the carriage’s door closed, Richard looked at him with great expectation. All he hoped was that his cousin would treat today’s events delicately.

“So how did you enjoy your forest fuck?”

“Richard.”

He held up his hands, feigning innocence, before continuing,

“Your father-in-law… If your ranks were reversed, he would have mauled you.”

“I cannot blame him.”

“You gave his daughter the best outcome that family could have hoped for.”

“That family is now my family.”

“Please. Contain your joy. It’s overflowing.”

They sat in silence, Richard staring at him with his unapologetic smirk, until finally,

“Just talk to me, Fitzwilliam. If not me, what outlet do you have?”

Darcy considered his point. Richard pressed,

“I’m not your sweet Bingley. Your friendship with him is aspirational, with me it is honest. You forget, cousin, that we have split from the same branch. So I know the inklings lurking at the back alleys of your mind. I could understand how gazing upon Miss Elizabeth, you wished to ravish her—”

—Darcy’s eyes flashed—

“—and also, I see,” he continued quickly, “how after a few encounters with her dark eyes and sharp tongue, you could have come to admire her. How you would desire to make her a wife.”

Darcy considered his point. He provides endless anecdotes of Elizabeth to Georgiana, but obviously censors them until they are thread-bare.

“I was a man obsessed,” he found himself confessing, “I could not stop looking at her. I took every opportunity to stay close to her. I imagined every which way I could bend her body.”

Richard wore a toothy grin.

Now that he has begun, Darcy couldn’t stop, “First I imagined bedding her. Then I began conspiring to do so. Every day was dedicated to this woo. I was close. I could feel her opening up to the idea, I could feel her seeking me out, not understanding why she is seeking me out, but I understood full well. And then,”

He looked out the window, not making sense of the events himself, “And then, one day, to my surprise, due to ‘sweet Bingley’ of all people, I realized my obsession grew far, far beyond my original intention. That I was going mad. And it absolutely blasted every plan to bed her and any aspiration I had to wed an equal match.”

“How inconvenient.”

“I tried to stay away. I know full well this match is below all that was expected of me. In rank, in economy, in relations…”

“That is the material fact.”

“I tried to stay away, knowing that if I see her, I would simply fall apart. But I failed to do so.”

“You very obviously failed on that account. Your transparent pursuit of her at Rosings was beneath your intelligence and short of your abilities. Tell me, cousin, on some level, did you wish to be caught?”

Darcy could not answer. Richard smiled,

“Poor little rich boy. Having to marry the woman who is the object of both his lust and his love.”

This is how Darcy spent his wedding eve: in a dingy old inn, deep in a bottle of Scotch, with Richard.

“You are a man of independence,” Richard reasoned, “You can do this. Your father left you Pemberley in good economy. My mother, meanwhile, made it perfectly clear that a second son has to inject a healthy dowry into his living in order to have one at all.”

Richard dwelled on the subject for a moment, before shaking it off, never having been one to fixate on his limitations. This is not a power Darcy possesses. He sat in his armchair, brooding.

“Speak up, man. What have we established? You yearn for her, you adore her, you are at your liberties to make whatever match you are set on."

Darcy took another swig of Scotch, and attempted to explain,

“Do you recall your remark, that her father would maul me if our ranks were reversed?”

“Yes.”

“Fact is, he is my inferior, and is thus compelled to consent to the match.”

“Fortunately. How is this a problem?”

“She, too, is my inferior. What if she, too, felt compelled to consent to the match? Rich girls evaded greater scandals. The princesses could bend over and flash their cunts at court and everyone would avert their eyes. Elizabeth relented because the scandal would break her family’s already fragile position.”

“You do not know for certain. I saw her at Rosings. She followed you like a moth to a flame.”

“Lust. I’ve been wooing her.”

“Have some faith. You are a good master of your estate, Fitzwilliam. A good brother and a good cousin. Her heart could soften with time. You are a good man.”

“I am not a good man.”

Richard, who is not sweet Bingley, and who knows Fitzwilliam is not sweet Bingley, simply shrugged,

“Perhaps not. Frankly, most likely not. But maybe you are a good enough man.”

They continued to drink. Richard suddenly sprung, and vocalized an intrusive thought,

“What if she does not want a good man?”

Darcy scoffed.

“No, think about it. Has she looked twice at Bingley, or any Bingley out there? You are good enough of a person, Fitzwilliam, but you are not soft and tender at the edges. Have you considered that is what she wants?”

Darcy, for the first time since the scandal’s discovery, felt a spark of hope. He responded to the sensation with the same medicine he used for his brooding: a swing of Scotch.

Then, in gratitude for his cousin’s support, he shot Richard a smile and said,

“About that forest fuck—”

—Richard perked with his full body—

“—If I thought it would satiate my desire, it only fed the flames.”

His cousin’s Cheshire smile spread wide,

“Good man.”

Upon seeing Elizabeth, her father’s eyes grew moist. Elizabeth, clad in the most becoming shade of sage green, holding a bouquet of wildflowers with a twinkling emerald on her finger. A veil covered her dark eyes, her full lips peeking under its lace trim.

He is beholding a gem, which he is now forced to give away.

As they entered the church, her eyes came to focus on Darcy’s strong back. When she was by his side, he looked at her with a gaze so soft, that if she did not know his character, she would be tempted to call tender.

It was a quick affair. A gaggle of women were crying. They were led from the church to the carriage.

The door shut, the horses startled, and the carriage jolted forward.

And so she began a life as a wife.

As if it is for the first time, she looked at Darcy. She has resigned herself to the fact she must marry to protect her family’s name. But until this very moment, she has not processed what is to come after. She is to be taken from her home, from everyone she knows, to a strange place.

The man she is to spend her life with is Darcy. His desire for her is so viscerally palpable, but meanwhile he showers her family in endless derision. He has treated Wickham with injustice, and she suspects he separated her favorite sister from the man she loves.

The landscape from the window transformed into one she did not recognize, and her panic continued to rise. Where is Derbyshire? By the map she knows its north, very north, and until this moment she has not understood the expanse that is to be placed between her and her family. The clouds seemed different here, lower to the ground. How could she live in a place where even the clouds look foreign? She will have no family, no friends, no connections.

And to her shame, she broke out into a sob. Darcy’s heart stopped at the sight. The hope he felt yesterday dissipated like smoke.

He did not know what to do. He leaned forward and took her hands into his. They were quivering. She struggled to contain herself, and he could see the embarrassment she felt over her own despair. He realized she is trying not to injure him, which only added salt to the wound.

At loss of how to mitigate the situation, he recalled what has helped whenever he bore witness to Georgiana’s deepest woes. No logic or reason could calm the feeling. Only an embrace was remedial. Then, to dissolve the panic, he would divert her attention to the physical world around her, so that she doesn’t drown within her inner world.

He moved to sit by Elizabeth, and wrapped an arm around her. She was shaking and apologizing (“I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”) He held her closely, and began desperately,

“Look, over there, at the hilltop. Do you see it?”

She blinked, trying to quiet her mind, and looked at the direction he was pointing out the window.

“Yes.”

“Do you see how the lines of wildflowers at its bottom?”

“Yes.”

“Do you recognize them?”

“I think… are they lavender?”

“Yes. At the beginning of spring they are the first to bud, and soon the whole valley will be in bloom. Only later, when the weather warms, the flowers will travel up the hill. I took Georgiana there when she was a small child. At the carriage she could not contain her excitement over the prospect of running through the fields. It is how I learned that periwinkle is her favorite color. And later, in a twist of irony, it is how we both learned that she is allergic to lavender.”

The story caused Elizabeth to crack a smile.

“Do you see that trail, by the woods, over there?”

“Yes.”

“It leads to a river with waters that are unusually torrent. The trout it stocks are the size of a man’s thigh. As a boy I tried to fish there. I was so proud when my line went taut, only to realize that I, not the trout, was being propelled by the force of it. Before I knew it, I was swept by the water’s current, flapping around, before my father rescued me.”

That’s how the ride went: Darcy, pulling out of a hat every story he knows. He engaged Elizabeth in studying the scenery as much as possible, encouraging her to make out its every feature and exhaust her mind.

But also, he hoped, that maybe her eye would behold something she found truly beautiful. Something she could love.

They stopped for the night at a hotel. She noted that the journey between Longbourn to Pemberley could not be made in a day. They shared a quiet dinner before making their way to the bedchambers. The hotel assigned them adjacent rooms, a reminder to Elizabeth they are publicly a married couple. At her door, Darcy spoke softly,

“Goodnight, Elizabeth.”

He kissed her cheek. He went to his own room, dressed for bed, and got under the covers. He looked at the private door joining their two rooms. He will not seek her tonight. How could he, after her day-long despair?

And now, when he was no longer frantically employed in assuaging her panic, he let himself mull it over. It was despair. She is not a blushing bride. He took his unrequited love and crystallized it into matrimony, and it was all his own doing.

The joint door cracked open, and he sat up quickly on the bed. Elizabeth’s bare foot emerged from the entrance. Slowly, she came into view.

He had her before—turned her inside out, planted his seed in deep—but he has not seen her body in full. The moonlight from the window rendered her nightgown translucent, and his eyes raked her figure. He took it all in: the curve of her breasts, her trim waist, her playful hips, her strong calves.

She walked over and then crawled, on all fours, towards him on the bed. She stopped when her lips were near his. She kissed him, slowly. She doesn’t love me, he thought, but the softness of her lips could be a ghost of the feeling. She separated from him, just an inch. He hasn’t moved towards her, hasn’t made a move to touch her.

“I want this.”

She tried to coax, and he nodded. His eyes trailed down her face and fell to her lips, but he hasn’t moved forward.

“Do you want me?”

Her voice betrayed that she was nervous to hear his answer. I am not a good man, he remembered, relishing her anxiety and his ability to incite it.

He brought a hand to cradle the side of her face, stroking her bottom lip with his thumb. He leaned forward, returning a slow kiss. His tongue parted her mouth languidly. He wrapped his arms around her, adjusting her body so that she was now seated in his lap. They made no endeavor to undress, indulging in a kiss that is slow and deep.

“You are being gentle,” she whispered, and he could not make out if the declaration was a discovery or a complaint.

“I can be gentle.”

She moved to stand at the side of the bed. She shed her nightgown, looking away from him, as if she would lose her nerve if he meets her eyes.

She stood before him, naked, but still not meeting his gaze. Now he was determined to be gentle. He reached forward and let the back of his hand graze a delicate trail between her breasts, the line towards her navel, the hair of her pubis, and to the slit between her thighs.

She was already wet, and when he stroked her slit, her composure began to crack. It was delicious to tear it apart. She was struggling to stand up and withstand his attentions, he could see that, but he was proud that she bore it well. He edged her with featherlight touches on the nub above her opening, before he reached back and sunk a finger inside her in one stroke.

Her knees truly did give out, and she had to lean her hands forward on the bed. He withdrew his finger and pulled her body onto the mattress. Blinking, she barely perceived he was moving below, spreading her legs with a large palm on each thigh. He kept them still in his gasp and looked directly at her slit.

For a moment he did nothing but study her lower lips, pink and puffy. Wanting, as was his way, everything that the moment had to give, he used his thumbs to spread each lip to the side. He continued to stare, and Elizabeth felt his hot breath against her most sensitive area. She looked away, embarrassed by the examination. Then her body jolted forward at the feeling of a long lick from her opening to the top of her slit.

“Wha—“

But he did not answer. She could never have conceived of such a foreign, maddening sensation of wetness upon wetness. His movements were so tender, and somehow, they were breaking her apart. Now his pointed tongue concentrated on lapping at her bud alone. She was vaguely aware her thighs were shaking. Her eyes snapped open when he began to suckle the bud.

“It’s too much,”

She insisted, not understanding the withering of her own body. He separated from her and met her gaze through the locks of his hair,

“You are almost there. Trust me.”

She laid her head back down, and his mouth returned. His lips wrapped around her nub—so soft—but then persisted to suction strongly, several times in succession. She lifted her hips, and he pressed his mouth firmly downwards, increasing the pressure now at her core. Her toes curled as she came apart. She panted on the bed, her muscles slack.

He could have wrapped up the night with that alone, with the gentle coaxing of her pleasure. But he did not. Why would he? Is he a storybook prince? He shed his nightshirt and crawled over her again. She gave him a shy smile. Shy, after all of this.

He was inside her in one stroke. He stilled, knowing that her body is not accustomed to him. But the glide was a little smoother than her first time, and soon he found himself in a slow, steady rhythm.

He threw his head back and closed his eyes, and Elizabeth took the opportunity to study his nude form for the first time. His shoulders are strong—they could yank her legs apart and tear her in two—and she remembered that this is how it all started, with her ache for his body. Now finally that ache is being stroked repeatedly from within. She could take him in while he stretches her insides. She could feast on this. She likes the hairs sprawled across his chest, the narrowness of his hips, which he is now driving into her in fluid motions. How strange it is that she admires him for it, for having the instinct to burrow into her body.

“You are beautiful.”

They both paused in surprise: her in having uttered this sentiment, him in receiving it. He flashed her a boyish smile, and her hands trailed the length of his back. He moaned and collapsed onto his forearms, his torso now pressing into hers. His thrusts barely withdrew from her body, rocking himself deep with tight rotations of his hips.

It wasn’t long before he found his release. He turned them both onto their sides, and for a moment, they both laid breathing each other’s air.

She got out of bed to clean herself. Darcy listened carefully to her steps, trying to make out where she will choose to go after. He exhaled as her steps grew louder and he felt the bed dip with her weight. She was by his side again. They did not touch.

He could feel her eyes on the profile of his face. Only when he heard her breaths grow steady with sleep did he turn towards her, trying to make out her features in the dark. 


Chapter Text

It was like she was in a fever dream. They rode through Derbyshire, thick with forest, until the trees gave way to a clearing, where a lake reflected moonlight as if peppered by diamonds. And above it lay the estate of Pemberley. The manor’s frame appeared almost as a continuation of the rolling hills of the landscape.

It all unfolded as if painted by a single brushstroke: marble floors, oil paintings, oriental rugs, silken curtains and musical instruments and fine china and embroidered cushions and—

“Mrs. Darcy? Mrs. Darcy?”

It took several repetitions before Elizabeth remembered that this name is now her own.

The housekeeper, Mrs. Reynolds, spoke tenderly to the bride,

“It is late, Mrs. Darcy. Daylight would make the tour easier on the eye. How about I show you to your rooms?”

“Yes. Thank you. That sounds—thank you.”

As Elizabeth was led away, she looked back at Darcy, who was watching her disappear among his artwork. When he turned around, he was confronted with a sculpture of a veiled woman, a cloak shrouding her gaze.

Her eyes cracked open. Last night, a flurry of chambermaids were upon her—to wash and groom her like the queen’s dog—and when they left, she fell asleep the moment her head touched the pillow. She did not even manage to get under the covers.

The sunlight revealed the opulence she is now mistress to. She found that her eyes could not fix on any specific finery. It was all too much to behold.

A chambermaid was once again upon her. Afterwards, Elizabeth just about escaped from her bedchambers, her hair tamed in an updo more fine than anything she has ever worn for a ball. She found herself stirring to the room she was told is the library.

Darcy was at a desk when she arrived, bent over a letter. He looked up at her, hand pausing mid-sentence. She announced,

“I do not want to intrude.”

“This is your home.”

“But if you wanted some privacy…“

“We seek each other out in libraries, or at least that has been the pattern. I hoped you would come here.”

She sat down, not knowing where to begin,

“You are writing a letter.”

“As you see.”

“Who is the recipient?”

“Charles.”

“And how is he? Is he well?”

“I never thought it your habit, Elizabeth, to say something to fill a silence.”

“You leave so many silences lingering that I feel obliged to fill at least a few.”

“And yet you introduced a silence after this conversation’s most weighty remark. Let me repeat it: I came to the library hoping to see you. What do you make of that?”

She hesitated,

“I suppose I came to see you, too.”

He moved to sit by her. He wound a finger into her tight updo, and pulled out a lock to trail down the side of her face.

“I do not like my hair this refined.”

“Then do it as you like.”

“I think this is what the chambermaid supposes a Mrs. Darcy should look like. I have yet to discover what I think a Mrs. Darcy should look like.”

“You know what Elizabeth looks like. Here, let me show you.”

He slowly removed the pins from her updo and massaged his fingers into her scalp. Her hair fell in waves around her shoulders.

She relished the feeling of it, but told him,

“A gentlewomen cannot enter society with her hair down.”

“Good thing I did not choose you to be gentle.”

“You did not choose me at all.”

She stood up suddenly and paced,

“I owe letters myself. To Jane, for instance. I cannot put into words what has happened between us to my closest confidante, because frankly, I cannot put it into words in my very own head.”

He responded honestly,

“Nor I.”

The truth in his tone somehow functioned as a lure. She sat back down.

“How are you managing, with Charles? What have you written?”

“First, straight facts on when and where the wedding took place. Second, an admission that there has been much I have not told him. Third, a plea to wait for the full report until we meet in person. Last, an apology for such a weak letter from an intimate friend.”

“So you are withholding a reflection and a confession?”

“Yes. Is it cowardly?”

“Very. And yet, I may steal your very words in writing to Jane.”

“You are welcome to it.”

They sat quietly. She looked at the book on his side table, and asked,

“Have you been reading Descartes?”

“He has been heavily on my mind.”

“Which part?”

“The conjecture: ‘I think, therefore I am.’”

“Ah. Do you believe it, then? That the act of speculating whether we exist is proof that we do, in fact, exist?”

“Yes. And also, that our ability to speculate on abstract, higher thoughts is further evidence that we exist. Such abstractions double as evidence that there must be a higher power, to plant such thoughts in our heads.”

“The argument never resonated much with me.”

“Why is that?”

Elizabeth attempted to explain, “You said our ability to speculate on abstract, higher thoughts is evidence of human consciousness. Yes, I agree that we have the power to imagine the abstract. But I reject the premise that the ‘abstract’ is a ‘higher’ thought.”

“But the abstract form that lies under each physical manifestation is more perfect. More smoothed over, less prone to the unique imperfections of each Earthly materialization. It is closer to divinity—higher.”

“But is it? I agree it is more smoothed over. But are the unique features to be called imperfections?”

Darcy paused. Elizabeth continued,

“I know that under every river and every ocean lies the concept of water. But I never thought of water as the more divine form. I want the river, I want the ocean. I want the dirty, messy Earthy materializations.”

Darcy wove his hand into her loose curls, grazing his fingertips against her scalp,

“We are Earthly beings.”

Their coupling that night had a desperate edge. He watched her face for signs, but saw she bore it well. Soon his rhythm grew rough.

It was not long until he finished and she felt his hot, wet release within her. He pulled out, and she was still panting when he penetrated her with two fingers. Their fluids leaked out around them, making a squelching sound she would have found embarrassing, if he wasn’t looking right at her core whilst biting his lower lip.

He curled his fingers upwards, stroking in a beckoning motion, as if to touch her navel from within. With his thumb rubbing her nub, his fingers stroking deep, it was as if something in between was pressed and soon her face contorted in a silent scream. Her body went slack, its bottled-up tension gone.

She felt him grind against her, and realized he once again ready.

“Again?”

“Again.”

It was messy. Her hair was matted across her face, and when he kissed her, several strands entered their mouths. His thrusting was erratic, and the wet noises where they were joined did not relent. She watched the redness that spread from his chest to face and—she did not know she will do it until she has done it, but she did it—she wound her fingers in his hair and yanked his head back, exposed his neck, and bit his pulse point. Soon he found his release again, another wet pulsation.

She laid on the bed, filthy. Hair stuck to her forehead, torso glistening sweat, and an absolute mess at her thighs. She made a move to get up and clean herself.

She yelped when instead, he pinned her shoulders back onto the bed. In a quick succession of motions, he rolled her body to its side, placed his palm under her knee, bent and hitched her leg up, and looked straight at her core. Again she would have been mortified by the exposure, if not for his expression taking her in.

“Show me.”

“Show you, what?”

“Tighten your cunt.”

She felt her body heed as she squeezed her inner walls. The motion pressed his seed out her channel to spill onto her thigh below.

He thanked her in a whisper.

Afterwards, as if to contrast the events that transpired, he had her sit in her bath tub as he sponged her body—neck, breasts, belly and inner thighs. His touch was gentle. He heated water in the kettle until it was soothingly warm and poured it down the top of her head. He massaged her scalp as he worked the perfumed water in.

“Mrs. Darcy. We have just been delivered the most beautiful bell peppers from the Reedy farm. Would you consider forgoing the potatoes for some beautiful bell peppers?”

Elizabeth blinked at Mrs. Reynolds, “That sounds pleasant. Thank you.”

“And,” Mrs. Reynolds continued, “I do wonder if you would be interested in a leg of lamb instead of the chicken? It will pair well with a mint jelly.”

Elizabeth felt her cheeks heat. She feared her menus were noticeably provincial, and the housekeeper’s swapping of courses validated the insecurity.

“Mrs. Darcy,” Mrs. Reynolds leaned forward, “I have lived in this county all my life, and unlike you, I have never been so brave as to be transplanted from my home. I have been told that crops change across the kingdom, but have not experienced the shift myself. Perhaps, to accustom you to the seasonal food here in Derbyshire, I could make some suggestions?

“Thank you. That would be helpful.”

Margaret, her chambermaid, turned to her with a terrifying glint in her eye,

“How about this feather?”

“No, thank you.”

“But, it’s ostrich!”

“Please. No feathers.”

Every morning Elizabeth and her maid treat the vanity like it is a negotiation table. They have seemed to reach a compromise: the front hairs parted in two and plaited, both braids then twisted into a topknot, but looser than her maid would have liked. A short fringe above her brows. Combs are acceptable, but feathers are not.

“The navy blue is so pretty against your skin.”

Elizabeth slipped into the Spencer jacket held out to her. Admittedly, she likes this part. If a garment’s silhouette is still cut for fluidity and mobility, she sheepishly enjoys nice lace and silk.

“Handsome jacket.”

“Why, thank you.”

“Now take it off.”

She and Darcy smiled at each other as they undressed. They were in a shrouded area by Pemberley’s lake, where they increasingly found diversions.

Darcy graceless flopped into the water belly-first, splashing Elizabeth. She burst into a laugh and quickly followed.

He made a game of trying to splash her while she squealed and dove into the water as he neared. A family of ducks gave off frantic quacks as they flapped away and narrowly avoided the savage humans.

“Hello, cousin.”

Darcy paused, his hand frozen above the water in a mid-splash, as his eye caught Richard’s boots in view. His gaze traveled upwards and met the infamous smirk of his cousin.

Elizabeth ducked into the water, leaving herself a floating head. Richard turned to her,

“Ah, the madonna of Pemberley.”

“Richard,” started Darcy, “you are a day early.”

“We are a day early.”

“What does that mean?”

“Georgiana wished to surprise you.”

Darcy’s eyes widened. Richard laughed, “Do not fear, cousin, she is still by the carriage. I will distract her before she learns much too much about her brother and his new bride.”

He turned to bow to Elizabeth,

“Mrs. Darcy.”

And he was off.

“Mrs. Elizabeth!”

Georgiana ran towards her, almost as if to go for an embrace, before recalling it is their first acquittance and stopping short. She smiled shyly,

“I feel as if we are friends already.”

Elizabeth returned the smile. Nothing but mildly damp hair betrayed their outing. She and Darcy slipped into Pemberley through the kitchen’s back door so they could emerge from the manor and meet the guests at the entrance.

“I am so glad to meet you, as well. I obviously have heard nothing but praise.”

“Why would that be obvious?”

Georgiana joked and attempted a light laugh, but her voice faltered too weakly for the effect to hold. Elizabeth squeezed her shoulder reassuringly as the little sister continued,

“When I heard the news, it felt like love as a concept has been healed! I burst out crying on the spot! I was sorry to miss the wedding. Could you tell me about the wedding?”

Darcy attempted to curb her zeal,

“Georgiana, should we let you rest? We could adjourn later for tea.”

“No! Why would I want that? That is, I mean, unless you want to rest. Do you, Mrs. Elizabeth?” She asked, embarrassed by her outburst.

Elizabeth encouraged, “I am very well as I am. Should we call for some tea?”

“Yes!”

The servant was sent to have refreshments brought out to the garden. Richard began,

“Georgiana and I had a wonderful time in Town spreading the happy news of the newlyweds.”

Darcy tried to temper his words,

“What did you say?”

“I simply described the courtship I witnessed at Rosings,”

Darcy and Elizabeth made an effort not to glance at each other from the corners of their eyes. Richard smiled,

“You know, the compliments you paid to one another during dinner for all to hear. How you turned her music pages for her, looming over her lovingly at the pianoforte as she played.”

“Yes, yes,” interrupted Georgiana, who turned to Elizabeth, “I was so delighted to hear about that! Fitzwilliam always said you played so well.”

Elizabeth’s eyebrows shot upwards.

“Oh, yes,” Richard smiled, somehow wider than before, “I was surprised to hear how frequently my cousin wrote to Georgiana of his new bride, complimenting her since their first meeting at Hertfordshire! And how detailed were the anecdotes he gave to demonstrate her wit and brilliance during their time at Netherfield.”

Elizabeth’s whole body turned to Darcy, who endeavored to tame his face to appear passive. But he could feel the blush crawl upwards nonetheless.

“I hope you are not cross that I revealed this to Richard, brother. I assumed that, as you are wed, your admiration is now public.”

“And I felt it necessary,” added Richard, “to encourage Georgiana to share some of her brother’s speculations with all the ladies of her lunch club.”

“Only some! Richard said it would introduce Mrs. Elizabeth in a friendly light, as she has not made the acquittance of most of our society.”

Darcy wished he could bury his head in the sand. Georgiana then nervously followed,

“Are you cross, brother?”

“No, Georgiana.”

He knew the gossip was necessary, as he heard the whispers of the Ton. Lady de Bourgh released some scalding letters regarding Elizabeth the morning of the engagement, before she gave the couple her reluctant approval. And Mr. Collins, though not a malicious man, made the full damage he is capable of through the blunt force of his idiotic honesty.

“Do you mind, Mrs. Elizabeth? Perhaps I should have asked for your permission first. I am sorry.”

Elizabeth, though still digesting the new information, knew to mitigate the situation at hand,

“Of course not. And, please, call me Lizzy. We are sisters, after all.”

Georgiana did not even try to contain her glee.

She cannot clock when he chooses to be gentle or rough with her. He certainly started gently, taking his time undressing her and delivering kisses that were so soft. But then he threw her on the bed and pressed his tongue so far up her cunt, tears escaped from the corners of her eyes.

He clasped her hands in his own and held them above their heads when he thrust into her. He was watching her breasts as they bounced with his rhythm. It occurred to her it was his intention—to rub her inner walls raw while indulging in the sight of her.

He was toying with her body. How could she feel indignant, when the thought also causes heat to crawl up her spine?

And just when she thought he has tried it all, he went from nibbling her earlobe to sticking his tongue inside her ear. The wetness was shocking. Why does she like it? It is like he intends to explore her every opening. Again, she wants to feel indignant, but pleasure confounded her resolve.

When it was all done, she simply had to address it.

“You licked my ear.”

“Yes.”

“How do you even conceive of these things?”

She was willing for him to confess to his previous liaisons, her curiosity was so overpowering. Instead, he said,

“I just try to get closer.”

“What do you mean?”

“In the moment. I try to get closer to you."

Elizabeth and Darcy were lounging on the bed. He was using her thigh as a pillow, propping his head upwards as he lit a cigar. He held it out to her,

“Do you want to try?”

“Me?”

“Who else?”

“I never had a cigar before.”

“I assumed as much.”

She sat upwards, and in passing it to her, he instructed,

“Puff it. Only to let the smoke into your mouth. Do not inhale it deep into your lungs.”

Elizabeth put her mouth around the stem. Soon, he heard a serious of coughs. He sat up, patting her back. She returned to him the cigar.

As he took a puff, she found the courage to ask,

“So, you have written about me to Georgiana? For a while, now? Have you really said all of that?”

He exhaled, and smoke bellowed between their faces. All he said was,

“Oh, that. Don’t inhale that into your lungs.”

Chapter Text

Tommy the stableboy scored a bountiful treat. He swiped three blueberry-ginger scones from the kitchen, stashed ‘em in his cloth linen, and sprinted outside.

As he was devouring his snack on the steps of the kitchen’s back entrance, Elsie joined to eat her own scone. She caught him up on the kitchen chat,

“Master and mistress are locked in the library again.”

“They don’t call it a honeymoon for nothing.”

“I don’t know what master sees in her.”

“Are you mad? She has that amazing bosom. Full lips.”

“I mean,” Elsie huffed, “she is not that elegant, is she? Miss Georgiana has that Grecian nose and wispy hair. Mistress’s features are not very refined.”

“Refined. You think that stirs the loins?”

“Fine. Say they’re honeymoonin’. Then why does master always look so moody?”

Tommy considered, “you’re not wrong about that.”

“He’s always brooding.”

“He’s always brooding, when he’s looking at her, and she’s not looking at him.”

“But why?”

“Maybe he’s more attached, and knows it.”

“But what does he even see? She got those country manners,” insisted Elsie, who hailed deep from the country herself, “what mistress always hikes the grounds, getting all muddy—“

“—Mrs. Darcy,” announced the voice of Mrs. Reynolds, startling the youth as she appeared behind them,

“Mrs. Darcy is clever, kind, and sensible. Everything a mistress ought to be. Now, have you two finished your scones?”

They scurried off like rats.

Elizabeth had one leg hitched over each arm of the lounge chair and two hands deep in Darcy’s hair. He had his own hands fisted in her skirts, lifting them upwards. His eyes met her own while he licked and sucked the bud above her opening. It was not long until she came apart.

Afterwards, as she adjusted her skirt, she asked,

“Can you show me how to do it, for you?”

He sat down on the loveseat, “Really?”

“Yes.”

Easily convinced, he unlaced his breeches. He took his shaft in his hand, stroking. He released a desperate moan when instead of walking over, she crawled to him.

He let go of his grasp and sprawled his arms over the back of the loveseat. She reached over a tentative hand and began to stroke. Her touch was gentle, more gentle than he prefers, but he delighted in her timid exploration. He clenched his jaw when she leaned over and experimentally licked his tip. The quick swipe of wetness caused him to clench his fists against the cushions. He said nothing, allowing her to familiarize herself.

“What now?”

“Go for it.”

“How?”

“Here,” he place a hand on her jaw, clenching his fingers just hard enough for her mouth to part into a small ‘o.’

“Open up, and take me in.”

She heeded his demand. He breathed deeply through his nose, taking in the sight: Elizabeth, in her neatly plaited hair, hollowing her cheeks to take him in.

“Cover your teeth.”

She looked up at him, shyly, and he nearly came there and then. She followed his instruction and returned to her sucking, finding a rhythm.

The room was dead quiet, with only the sound of her saliva on him releasing a dizzyingly filthy tune. She attempted to take him deeper—she only went partway down his length, but he sensed in her the desire to please.

Slowly, but firmly, he cupped a hand at the nape of her neck. He held her head still—not thrusting, not pushing downwards—but held her steady as she tamed her jaw to slack and her throat to stretch.

“That’s very good, Elizabeth.”

She released a hum that nearly brought him apart. She began to suck again, up and down his length. He continued to hold her by the neck without controlling her movements, letting her lead. He has no wish to push this further. Not today, anyways.

“I’m very close,”

He warned her, releasing his grasp so she could separate from him. Instead, she took him in further, and he erupted at the feeling.

She was curious to know what he tastes like, but found that the force of his release outpaced her swallowing. She quickly detached herself, his seed leaking from the corners of her mouth, as he continued to spill onto the top of her breasts. She coughed a few times, and then smiled at him with her eyes bright. He committed the sight to memory.

He gently cleaned her with his handkerchief. She tucked his half-hard shaft back into his breeches and laced them. They have begun a habit of cleaning and dressing one another after the act. At first, it was an afterthought, but it soon became an extension of intimacy itself.

About a quarter of an hour after Darcy unlocked the door, Richard joined them. Elizabeth grew paranoid that he tried to stop by the library when the doors were locked. He then, she imagined, resolved to wait a courteous amount of time until trying once more, as not to embarrass them. And yet, that he may have gone through these efforts felt embarrassing, too. She and Darcy are much too obvious.

“I will join Georgiana in the garden,” she announced, “I promised her to… garden.”

As soon as she left, Richard turned to Darcy,

“You will have your heir soon at this rate.”

Darcy smiled wickedly, but it was not long until the smile fell.

“Dear lord, what could it possibly be now, Darcy? You are married to the woman you wanted. And you two seem, dare I say, happy.”

“I don’t know if this is what she would have chosen.”

“It is what she got. And she seems pleased with what she got.”

“She is trying to make the most of it, as now this is the only life she will get to live.”

“Is this tragedy specific to her?” Richard barked, “We all have to tolerate and endeavor to like the only life we get to live.”

“She fell into this marriage.”

“We all fall into marriage.”

Darcy paused. Richard continued,

“Do you think, that if courtship was a little slower, conversations a little longer, that on their wedding day, two people are not strangers? All elderly couples gaze upon the wrinkled fool beside them and know that they know this fool. And then they can safely admit, that when they married, plump with youth, they barely knew each other at all.”

Darcy pondered this, and shook his head,

“It’s not that intellectual—this agony is not an intellectual exercise. I love her, do you understand? I want her to love me back. I don’t think she does. Do you understand?”

Richard softened,

“Listen to me, cousin. I see what I see. The chemistry, the respect, it’s there. The ingredients are there. They just need some time to cook. Just give it some time, with some steady heat. Do not burn it. Do not set it aflame, all right?”

Elizabeth helped Georgiana cut mint and store it in a basket. They marveled at the plant’s water-thickened leaves,

“These will go wonderfully with the tea.”

“I bet. You keep such a bountiful garden, Georgiana.”

“Mint is easy, as it’s a weed. In fact, it grows so abundantly that I have to keep it separate from the rest of the garden. See?”

She pointed to the ceramic flowerbed and continued,

“Isn’t it funny, Lizzy? That a humble-looking green releasing a scent so refreshing has the instinct to strangle every living plant around it.”

“It always surprised me what’s a weed and what’s a flower. I remember that when I was a girl, I was shocked when my father told me dandelions are weeds. My brain rejected the notion that a gorgeous yellow field poses danger to other living things.”

“It’s our weak nature,” Georgiana’s faint voice concluded, “to create taxonomies based on beauty, not based on behavior.”

“Well said.”

“How often are we enthralled with handsomeness and charm, only to realize too late that behaviors never accorded with the vision presented?”

“Georgiana, are we still talking about plants?”

The girl smiled weakly, and replied,

“I am trying to be a diligent student, tracking behaviors and patterns with tactful analysis. It goes against my instinct. But I want my perception to approach realism. So I could keep safe.”

Elizabeth said nothing. She is an instinctive, emotional being herself, and at this very moment, her instincts have struck a truthful cord. They are sensing Georgiana’s statement is loaded. And Georgiana, having proved to be a sweet, insecure girl, could only encroach on the subject if she feels secure in her presence.

“I wish for you to feel safe with me, Georgiana.”

“I do,” the girl leaned forward and squeezed her hand, “you are a rare being, having fallen into the overlapping taxonomy of both beauty and gentle behavior.”

“That’s perhaps more than I deserve. It’s a description befitting you.”

“I wish that were to be true. I haven’t always behaved well, Lizzy.”

“I am sure what you have done is forgivable.”

“It was forgiven, but that doesn’t make it forgivable.”

Georgiana looked away, gazing towards the woods. Decided, she turned to Elizabeth,

“Last year, I was surprised to learn that I am someone capable of deception. I deceived my only brother. He discovered it. He forgave it, on the spot. Not only forgave it, but was so generous as to insist I was not at fault. But I—I have not forgiven myself for it.”

“If your brother believes you innocent, perhaps you should consider that you are.”

“Lizzy, I know you mean well, but please, do not draw conclusions from a story you have yet to learn in full.”

“All right.”

“You will learn it, soon. But,” her eyes watered, “would you mind if not at this very moment?”

“Of course.”

They tended to the beautiful weeds.

That evening, Elizabeth, Richard and Georgiana gathered at the parlour. Darcy was away, having to complete some correspondences regarding troubles at nearby farms. All throughout dinner, Georgiana was quiet, with a far-away look at her eyes.

Elizabeth made an effort to play the pianoforte as the girl did nothing but look into the flames of the fireplace. Suddenly, Georgiana stood up, and announced in a startled voice,

“I’d like to tell you what has happened.”

Elizabeth halted her playing with a discordant final note. She walked over to the couch, looking over at Richard, who was flickering his eyes between the women to gauge the situation. She was baffled that Georgiana would want him as an audience, but found the girl determined. Finally, after Elizabeth sat, she began,

“Last year, I was at Ramsgate with a governess. There was a man. And he was charming, and beautiful, and in love me, or so he claimed. And I—” her eyes reddened “—I can’t tell you what I felt. I thought it was love. But maybe it was madness, and maybe madness is stronger, because all I know is that every day, my chest and head were overflowing with the feeling.”

From the corner of her eye, Elizabeth sized up Richard, who, looking at Georgiana, had a softness about him she has never seen before. She was struck by the gentle disposition. Georgiana continued,

“He encouraged us to elope. I knew I have been dishonest with my brother, and with Richard, and that this final act will cement the deception. But I agreed. Then, then… my brother joined us unexpectedly a couple of days before the intended event. In the privacy of my heart, I was relieved! I admitted to the plan in full. But I did not imagine what will then unfold.”

Georgiana paused to drink some of her wine, before continuing,

“The man shriveled up at the sight of Fitzwilliam. When it was just the two of us, he declared his love confidently. But with Fitzwilliam, he cowered. That was the first blow. Fitzwilliam and him disappeared into a study, and then my so-called betrothed emerged, upset, and marched right out of the manor. He never even gave me a second glance. He never looked back.”

Georgiana took another sip of wine,

“I do not need to be clever to realize my dowry was involved. And any evidence I needed was already displayed. He could not declare his love in public. He fell apart after one conversation with my brother. He would not give me an explanation or even a second glance. None of that is love. And that’s all I need to know.”

Elizabeth did not know what to say. Luckily, Richard, who she has figured is intimately aware of the story, was prepared,

“He could not love you because he is not predisposed to perceive goodness and inherent value. A creature struggles to recognize what is absent from his own makeup.”

“I have tired myself out,” insisted Georgiana, “by reasoning why I cannot be loved.”

“That is not true!”

Richard burst out, coming close to her and kneeling, “How could you think that? To be unseen by one shit does not render you unloveable. How could you say that, when Darcy and I consider you as the greatest joy of our lives? And when a clever woman like Mrs. Darcy was so quick to hold you dear?”

This was Elizabeth’s cue,

“Georgiana, you shocked me. I believe I see you as you are, and I hold you dear. All I have learned from this story is that a conniving man manipulated you.”

“Maybe so,” began Georgiana, “I know of his guilt. But could you respect my interpretation, in at least one regard? I too am at fault. I was not honest with those I hold most dear. Please understand that I need to be held accountable, so I can have some faith in my own improvement. Do not lower expectations for me. I want to rise to the occasion.”

Richard pet the golden crown of her head, “Yes, Georgiana. I believe that you could.”

A weight has visibly been lifted off Georgiana, and she soon grew lethargic and excused herself to bed. Elizabeth and Richard polished off the bottle of wine by the fireplace.

“She does not know the half of it,” began Richard, “she is right in her assumption, that all Darcy had to do was threaten to withhold a dowry to discover the ruse. The man stomped out right there and then. But she doesn’t know of the debts the man held and the fallen women he left in his wake. We did not feel like we should add insult to injury.”

“That was a sound decision.”

“Darcy is a good brother,” Richard insisted, seeing an opportunity to praise his cousin to his beloved wife, “never blamed her, only showed her kindness. I cannot describe to you the depth of her despair. He tended to her with the delicacy required of healing an injured fawn.”

Elizabeth was quiet, trying to image that time period. By her soft, far-away gaze, Richard felt encouraged to layer the acclaim,

“And his attentiveness is not limited to his relations. He is a most fiercely loyal friend. Only recently, he came to the aid of a friend.”

“How so?”

“He saved him from a harmful match.”

Elizabeth’s gaze snapped forward, but she managed to temper her voice,

“How did he go about this?”

“He reasoned to his friend their incompatibility, and endeavored to separate them.”

“And what were his objections?”

“I believe they were in regard to the young lady herself. And her family.”

Elizabeth did not need more evidence to confirm what she has always suspected: that Darcy was complicit in ruining the happiness of her sister Jane. For a moment, her eyes revealed her fury, and Richard nearly lost his wine glass to the floor.

Elizabeth stood up and announced,

“I am tired. I believe I should retire now.”

“Please, did I say anything—“

“—Goodnight, Colonel.”

She was gone before he could reply.

She paced the length of her room, thinking she could contrive some kind of plan, but none came to mind. She was married to a man who found her family and herself objectionable. They are to be married for life, and this is a prison of their own making.

Darcy stepped in, probably seeking the pleasures they have been frantically indulging in, and knew from one look that the opposite is to come.

“Do you deny it?”

She began her attack, before he had a chance to fully size up the situation,

“What are you on about?”

“Do you deny that you separated them? My sister and Mr. Bingley.”

His bewildered look changed to one of understanding, and then to one of great restraint.

“I have no wish to deny it.”

“Why did you do it?”

“To bestow upon him a kindness I have withheld from myself.”

The sentiment caused her lower lip to quiver, before she forced herself to swallow the cry,

“Was it her lack of fortune?”

“No, though that has never helped the situation.”

“You objected to the family?”

“How could I not? With relations so inferior to his, and the continuous impropriety demonstrated by your mother, your three younger sisters, and on occasion, your father.”

“And these are the words of a gentleman!”

She paced around the room, never taking her gaze off of him, not knowing what she was going to say next, until she said it,

“And how ironic, that this ill fate you have rescued your friend from is now the damnation you are destined to live.”

“It could not be helped. I had to go against the wishes of my friends, family, and even my own better judgement.”

“Oh? I suppose you are right. It could not be helped. I suppose that after the discovery of your seduction, you were forced to restore your good name. What would they have said, otherwise? ‘The superior gentleman wooed a girl of no fortune.’ Or better yet—'a harlot,’ as your aunt put it, ‘lured a weak man into a trap.’ All you could do is wash away these smears with a proposal. And the worst thing,”

Her voice was rising,

“The worst thing, is that I did the very same! All I could do is accept the proposal, to avoid dragging my family’s name through mud and into ruin. My fate escaped me in a single night.”

Darcy stepped back as if struck, and quickly hid behind his hands. He allowed a thousand wrinkles of a silent sob contort his face. Just as quickly, he guarded his expression, and removed his hands before retorting,

“I am not surprised. Your feelings are what I always suspected, and what I always feared.”

He paced the room and stopped by the window, looking out,

“What is a surprise, however, is the relief that comes with having my fears realized. You cannot imagine how exhausting it has been to hope you felt another way.”

His muscles seemed to ease, and there was a queer tranquility in his expression. Suddenly, Elizabeth felt that she may have cut a cord she is not ready to have loose.

“Elizabeth, I love you.”

He might as well have waved a white flag with a voice so dreadfully even. Without gauging her reaction, he continued,

“And—what was the term you employed? The damnation I have kept Charles from is the hopelessness of unrequited love. And now, how I rejoice in my success in separating them. To keep my friend from this hell.”

He left the room, never looking at her face, not even once.

“Mrs. Darcy? Mrs. Darcy?”

Elizabeth woke up to find Margaret looming over her. She slowly sat up, looking around. It appears she fell asleep on her chaise whilst trying to make sense of the situation.

“Master wrote you a no—“

Elizabeth snatched the paper out of Margaret’s hand.

Elizabeth,

I have decided to expedite my tour of the nearby farmlands, which have recently endured some troubles due to this year’s unusually cold winter. I am to leave at first light. Given our last conversation, I thought it best we both recompose ourselves, as our marriage is a fate we have both been convicted to endure.

Fitzwilliam

Now that all is said and done, allow me to at least sign off in an honest fashion.

Love,
Fitzwilliam

Tommy met Elsie again on the kitchen steps when he came to enjoy the rhubarb tarts he snatched. She put a finger on her lips to convey he should be silent, and then beckoned him to follow her.

Both tiptoeing, she led him in closer view to a chestnut tree. Underneath it, Mrs. Darcy was hugging her knees to her chest, her brows furrowed.

Elsie whispered to him,

“It’s like before he left, master gave mistress the expression on his face. Now she is the one that is brooding.”

“Indeed,” agreed Tommy, as they watched Mrs. Darcy begin to sob,

“Maybe she is in love.”