Welcome to our epistolary retelling of Pride & Prejudice! Jane Austen’s original version of the story, First Impression, was told entirely in letters, so it seemed like a great group project. We’ll be posting a new letter every Wednesday.
Fitzwilliam Darcy
3 June 1812
Mr. Darcy sat at his writing desk to compose a letter. It should not take long. He had already mentioned the invitation to Bingley, but it was time to set a specific date.
He took up the quill and in his usual, careful hand, he penned the beginning.
Dear Bingley,
I hope this letter finds you in good health. If you have no engagements around the middle of July, I would be pleased if you would join me at Pemberley for two weeks.
Darcy paused. So far, the letter was perfectly adequate, but it sounded indifferent. Bingley would undoubtedly accuse him of writing invitations as though summoning a tenant to discuss drainage.
Still, he would rather sound indifferent than write about the thoughts that occupied him, though it was tempting to confess the truth to Bingley. Gazing out of the window, Darcy struggled to resist the impulse. It took several moments to control himself.
When he was certain he would not give in, he turned once more to the letter.
I believe the change of scenery might help you recover from your disappointment over Miss Jane Bennet.
He had mentioned the Bennets, after all. His jaw tightening, Darcy stared at the name. Bennet. Miss Elizabeth Bennet. He had carefully avoided mentioning any of the Bennets to his friend for several months, not since they had left Netherfield in November. But after Hunsford, it became more difficult. Darcy did not know how much longer he could hold back. The very act of writing to Bingley brought back memories he wanted to bury in a deep, dark hole in the ground.
Images poured into his mind, uninvited and unwelcome. The Netherfield Ball, when he had danced with Miss Elizabeth. How his heart had raced as they executed a slow country dance together! Their fingers touching and receding, their bodies drawing closer, then moving away. For the first time in his life, he had understood the allure of dancing with a beautiful young lady. His blood was singing along with their motion, his pulse following the rhythm of the music. He had never felt more alive.
Then, as he overheard Mrs. Bennet’s plans for Jane Bennet, reality brought him crashing down. The moment of madness was over. He realized the danger, not for himself, but for his friend. He would not stand aside and let Bingley be caught in the net of a vulgar fortune hunter. Certain that Miss Jane Bennet had shown no signs of being in love, Darcy had somehow convinced Bingley to leave Netherfield,
Unfortunately, it was not how Miss Elizabeth saw it. In that terrible scene in the parlor at Hunsford, she had accused him of being the means of ruining the happiness of her sister. Bingley’s desertion had left her heartbroken. Darcy understood only too well what that meant.
It was not the only time Darcy had been wrong. He had been equally certain that Miss Elizabeth harbored an affection for him. He had been so mistaken, he had believed that she would grovel at his feet at his generosity. During his proposal, she had made it abundantly clear that this was far from being the case. With a familiar stab of pain, he recalled the expression of contempt on her face.
How could he have been so utterly wrong about everything? It beggared belief.
Gritting his teeth, Darcy forced himself to set aside these reflections. It was all over and done with, and there was no point in dwelling on any of it. There was no going back.
His pen was lying abandoned on the desk. He took it up. He had a simple letter to write. Nothing more than an invitation. Why was it taking him so long?
The pen moved. As if of their own volition, the words appeared. Blue ink on a pristine page.
Miss Elizabeth
He had not intended to write those two words. Darcy snorted in disgust and struck through them, then crumpled and tossed the paper to the ground.
He seized another sheet.
Dear Bingley,
Pray come to Pemberley in July. I could do with some company.
There. This was short, to the point, and impossible to misunderstand. Unfortunately, it also sounded desperate. Bingley would ask questions that Darcy was not prepared to answer.
Darcy crumpled the page into a ball which he tossed into a corner.
He took up a new sheet.
Dear Bingley,
I hope you and your sisters are well.
This was much better. It was safe. Sometimes it was best to take refuge in polite social banalities that did not hold hidden meanings. It provided protection, preventing him from blurting out anything foolish.
I hear from the housekeeper that Pemberley is very pleasant at present. The gardens are flourishing. The roses are in bloom.
Exactly the kind of tone he was looking for. Friendly without being personal. He dipped the tip into the ink and resumed his writing.
We have a species of pretty yellow roses that my mother cultivated. Miss Elizabeth Bennet noticed the same ones at Rosings and remarked that—
Darcy dropped the quill as though it was burning his fingers. Had he really written ‘Miss Elizabeth Bennet‘? How had he managed to insert Miss Bennet into a comment on his mother’s roses? It was almost as if the quill had a mind of its own.
Laying down the devious quill, he leaned back in his chair and pressed his fingers to the bridge of his nose. This was ridiculous. He thought of himself as a rational man. As master of Pemberley, he had always prided himself on his practical, common-sense approach to everything. He negotiated leases, settled disputes, and supervised improvements in a calm, efficient manner. Yet, here he was. Incapable of inviting his closest friend to Pemberley without mentioning Miss Elizabeth’s name.
For one reckless moment, he imagined sharing the truth with his friend. He took up the pen and began to write with feverish haste.
I am hopelessly in love with Miss Elizabeth. She rejected me, but I continue to think of her every waking moment, and in my sleep as well.
What would happen if he sent this letter? Bingley’s astonishment would be immense, and Darcy’s humiliation would be complete. It was out of the question to do such a foolish, ill-considered thing. What if the Bingley sisters were to hear of it? He could only imagine their snide remarks, all along the lines of how the mighty have fallen.
No, he could never tell Bingley about it, and he certainly could not write it in a letter. Darcy’s neck burned as he thought about narrating the manner of his proposal.
Enough! He would drive himself mad thinking about it. Grimly, Darcy spread out a final sheet on the desk and composed himself to write a plain, simple letter.
Dear Bingley,
I hope this letter finds you well. If it suits your convenience, I would be delighted for you to visit me at Pemberley in the middle of July. The fishing should be excellent at that time of the year and the weather warm. I believe we will enjoy each other’s company. If your sister and the Hursts would like to join us, they are welcome to do so.
Your sincere friend,
F. Darcy
It was the shortest letter he had ever written, but it would have to be enough. He read it twice to be absolutely certain he had not mentioned Elizabeth Bennet. Then, satisfied, he folded it.
As he reached for the seal, his gaze drifted across a battlefield of discarded pages on the floor. From beneath one of them peeped the words: ‘Miss Elizabeth’.
Darcy snatched the sheet up, walked to the fireplace, and threw it in. The paper burst into flames, turning to ashes within moments. He watched with a bitter sense of satisfaction.
Then, a moment later, he found himself wondering whether Miss Bennet would have approved of Pemberley. He would never have a chance to know.
At least the letter to Bingley was finally finished.
***
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