Note

I hope to add a chapter to Delay of Moments in the next couple weeks. Thanks!

Update:

Missteps and Misfortunes is available for purchase. Please follow, if you would like to own it in your e-book collection. As of right now it will only be on Kindle apps or devices.

http:///Missteps-Misfortunes-ebook/dp/B00CWHJR4Y/ref=sr_1_6?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1369086342&sr=1-6&keywords=prideandprejudice

Practical Engagements is available for purchase now. Please follow, if you would like to own it in your e-book collection. As of right now it will be on Kindle apps. It is also in print on Amazon! Thank you for all the reviews, patience, and support.

https:///dp/B06Y4623DG/ref=sr_1_2?ie=UTF8&qid=1491666450&sr=8-2&keywords=practicalengagements

Bored and Bewitched: Darcy and the Other Gents of Pride & Prejudice is now available on Amazon. It is the first volume to a two-part series of Pride & Prejudice from the perspective of Darcy.

https:///Bored-Bewitched-Darcy-Gents-Prejudice-ebook/dp/B07KCGR1L7/ref=sr_1_1?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1542177196&sr=1-1&refinements=p_27Rae&dpID=41jQex-x8zL&preST=_SY445_QL70_&dpSrc=srch

Bared and Beloved: A Retelling of Pride & Prejudice by Darcy and the Gents is now available in its entirety on Amazon. It is the second volume to a two-part series of Pride & Prejudice from the perspective of Darcy. A few chapters are available under my stories for a preview.

https:///dp/B08C7XB2WV/ref=mp_s_a_1_3?dchild=1&keywords=baredandbelovedsophierae&qid=1593712342&sprefix=baredandbeloved&sr=8-3

Here is the final chapter to Bored and Bewitched:

Last chapter from Volume One, “Bored and Bewitched” (entire book available on Amazon)

Chapter Forty-One

You’ve Got Mail

Several hours and drafts later, Darcy walked down the stairs and into the breakfast parlor, the pages of his letter crinkling against his shirtfront. He had finished it this morning, shortly after napping. He would not say he had slept.

Over the eggs and toast, Aunt Catherine and Fitzwilliam raised their eyebrows at his excuses for his complete absence from last night, but to his relief and surprise, neither asked more than tepid inquiries into his feeble story. He noted an unfamiliar glance of skepticism from Anne, but as usual, she remained silent. Finishing his third cup of coffee and stifling a yawn, he announced a desire to tour the park one last time before leaving Rosings.

Fitzwilliam feigned astonishment, and false disappointment, in their imminent departure, and rose from the table. “I shall accompany you as far as the gates, Darcy. I would like to call at Hunsford before we set out on the road and I imagine now will be my only chance before we depart tomorrow morning.”

Darcy agreed to the plan—he had a private and pressing matter to discuss with Fitzwilliam. Bowing to their aunt and Anne, they exited the room together and walked out the front door.

The early sunlight sparkled on the vestigial dewdrops, coating the treetops in amber hues. The beautiful, golden morning mocked Darcy's mood. He waited until Fitzwilliam and he were well beyond the walls of Rosings to speak. As they approached a forked path, one direction leading toward the parsonage, the other toward the pine trees, Darcy slowed his step and asked the colonel to stop. Fitzwilliam immediately halted, teasingly wondering if Darcy's request precipitated the confession of his whereabouts last night.

“I will tell you in the carriage,” Darcy answered. “But I need your assistance on a different matter before we depart. I need your assurance that you will vouch for me, should Miss Bennet approach you.”

“Miss Bennet? Darcy, what is the matter?”

“Nothing is the matter. I only need your word that you will answer her, honestly and without hesitation.”

“Answer her about what?”

Darcy licked his lips. “About Georgiana’s near elopement last summer.”

To say Fitzwilliam was shocked, would be an understatement. His face blanched; his eyes widened. “Very well,” he agreed at length. “Very well. I will reveal all to her--on one condition.”

“Which is?”

“That you reveal all to me.”

Darcy had suspected as much. He nodded and turned away from Fitzwilliam.

“I shall return to the house no later than a quarter to one, should you wish to find me,” he called back. He could sense his cousin staring after him. His stride did not break until he had passed into the park and turned onto the nearest shaded lane. He stopped to steel his resolve, tapping his shirtfront. The rustle of paper beneath his touch steadied his breathing, and he walked onward with renewed determination.

Darcy wandered in the lane for a while, before winding around to an open meadow. The heat of the day was beginning to simmer. He could hear it in the snap of the tall grass which crunched beneath his heel.

There was no particular spot of Rosings he wished to see this morning, merely one place that he intended to avoid. “Fool,” he cursed at himself, unable to stop his mind from going to the place he would not allow his feet to carry him. Out of all his mistaken assumptions, he loathed his misunderstanding of his rencontres in the park with a distinct brand of humiliation. No wonder she had avoided visiting their spot for so many days in between meetings, to her it had been just another pretty spot amongst several pretty spots. Forgotten groves, indeed. More like forgettable groves. How many other delicate details of his interactions with her had he misread, mistook, and misinterpreted? They must be endless, his miscalculations innumerable--every look, every word, every silent interaction. He had misunderstood them all.

"Not these regrets," he inwardly commanded.

He paused, his attention caught by the sight of a familiar bonnet bouncing along the hedgerow in the distance. He smiled, a grim, tight-lipped rumple. He had not known her heart. He had not known her mind. But whatever his mistakes may be, he certainly knew her habits.

She must have seen him, for he watched her make a quick about-face and hasten her stride in the opposite direction. Quickly he called after her and hurried to the opening in the hedgerows which separated them, withdrawing the letter as he went. She met him there in the small opening, her head bowed, her fingers dancing on the gated post. He handed her the letter, which she took without question, her eyes still averted.

“I have been walking the grove sometime in the hope of meeting you. Will you do me the honor of reading that letter?” he said this in one breath, a jagged lump rising in his throat. He hesitated only an instant, willing her to look at him, but she would not heed his silent plea and he could not long bear to be near her. He bowed slightly and walked away as swiftly as he could. He soon rounded a bend and stopped again, safely hidden within a dense thicket. Breathless, he leaned into a tree and crouched over, placing his hands on his knees.

Last night his drive to defend himself had staved off the sorrow. He had poured out his feelings in unchecked words, words which he had discarded on his bedroom floor, words too ripe with bitterness and anger ever to be read or repeated, his bald-faced epithets against Wickham, his savage truths sparing not even her chaste sensibilities, scribbling down Wickham’s dalliances with whores and wives alike, and in this crazed delirium of fatigue and shock, Darcy had moved on to boldly pen unapologetic justifications for interceding on Bingley’s behalf, until he had exhausted his hand and crimped his fingers. And finally, with the glow of dawn on the horizon, a surrender had followed, a more rational, abridged version had flowed, wherein the evidence of his jealousy and spite had been edited, not deleted; an honest, restrained explanation which he had in good conscience delivered into her care moments ago.

For hours now, his energy and thoughts had been consumed with doing this thing, but now he had nothing to occupy his mind, no next step to take, no distraction to dull that ache which had been throbbing beneath the frenzy and fury. His pain now was as sharp as when he had first fled from the parsonage yesterday. It was deep. It was physical. Minutes passed by with his bent back shaking as he heaved in gulps of air, unable to catch his breath.

In all his adult years, he had never known pain like this. It scared him to realize that he could still hurt like this, like a child hurts—the pain real and novel and unrelenting. Elizabeth hates me, he panted to himself, wondering if it would hurt less in the days to come. Despite all that he had laid bare in his letter, his hope in her hatred abating was dim. Try as he might to forget them, her final words came at him, haunting him. The ghost of her face as she had declared that he was the last man in the world whom she could ever marry rose up before him. He knew she loved exaggeration, but this fact could not soften the sting of that exclamation. He knew she had meant the full force of her words. He knew it as surely as he knew, well, as surely as he knew her. And know her he did, better today than yesterday. His successful search for her in the park this morning proved that much.

“If only she knew me half as well,” he seethed, straightening up and slowing his breathing. His anger was rescuing him once more. He inhaled a few deep, long breaths and closed his eyes. The letter was his last hope, small though it was. She was a fair woman; she would read it. He gritted his teeth. “And then she will understand the man she rejected. She will regret me.”

Darcy opened his eyes. They burned from exhaustion, and from sorrow. “You must regret me, Elizabeth,” he said in softer tones. “For I will forever regret you.”

After all she had said to him and after all he had written to her, he could not imagine his life without her. His breath hitched in his chest and he recalled those offhand words of comfort he had offered Georgiana almost a year ago.

“Real love will steal your breath away,” he had said. He could not have imagined how painful the theft would be.

Slowly, the movements of an aged man upon his limbs, he straightened his spine and adjusted his collar. The birds chirped merrily in the branches, and the high sun infused the day with warmth. But the gentleman from Derbyshire knew nothing of these simple, spring pleasures. He did not even know if he was a gentleman any more.

Other P&P variation:

I love Pride and Prejudice. Rosier at Rosings (complete) is now posted under this account. Finally. I altered the epilogue and did away with the idea of a sequel. I have no intention of fiddling with this story to publish it, or take it down. It is here for good in all its imperfections, as a treat for those who enjoy my explorations into Austenland and spend their precious time reading these adventures.

Thank you for your patience, again. If I am similar to any Jane Austen character, it is probably Mr. Bennett. I am dilatory to a fault.

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Cheers and Happy Reading!