Standard Disclaimer: I am not Jane Austen. I will never be Jane Austen. I can only hope she will eventually forgive me for playing with her toys.

Author's Warnings

On Posting: I hesitated a long while before deciding to post this story on the net. I won't go into the excuses but for various reasons I deal frequently with life interruptus that makes it difficult to write for long periods. I have another story that has stalled for that very reason. (I haven't actually abandoned it, but it has been a very long writing gap.) So I must warn you that posts are likely to be erratic. On the plus side I now have three people nagging me to finish the tale, so chances are very good that it will make completion.

The main reason I finally decided to post is in hopes of getting some constructive critical feedback. This isn't intended as a guilt-trip. I'm a largely silent reader myself, showing appreciation through favoriting or the one or two sentence applause. So if all you do is read and enjoy, I will take no offense. But if you do want to comment on spots in need of correction or tweaking (or share what you enjoyed, knowing what one does right is important too!) please speak up. All I ask is that you be specific and polite.

On Accuracy: For those readers very concerned with historical accuracy of customs and manners, be warned that this story may not match your standards. The trouble is that while I enjoy reading accurate depictions of an era, I find when I try to write Regency/Georgian society accurately, keeping in mind all the minutiae of rules governing relations between the sexes (which involves stuffing one's brain into a very rigid cage), something inside me starts screaming for air. I would make a rather poor Regency lady, I'm afraid.

What I try for instead might be called 'In the Spirit Of'. By which I mean I do pay attention to propriety and respectability but from a modern mindset, which is less concerned about who can permissibly send letters to whom, or who can ride in a vehicle together without a chaperone, and more with actual morality. I will make mistakes. Some are deliberate, some aren't. I hope you can enjoy the story anyway.

On General Tone: Though I intend to include some humor this detour from cannon begins with tragedy and the consequences cannot be justly ignored, even at the risk of (horrors) melodrama! I don't know yet exactly where this tale will take me but grief is a theme. So if you're looking for lighter fare it would be best to save this for another day, at least to begin with.

You have been warned!

Chapter One

Scene: 1812, April 9th, Thursday. Hunsford Parsonage, parlor. Following Colonel Fitzwilliam's distressing revelation Elizabeth has developed a terrible headache and opted to remain at the Parsonage while the rest of the party calls at Rosings, instead occupying herself in the reexamination of Jane's letters.

Point of Departure: Elizabeth has been interrupted in her task by the arrival of another, most terrible, communication. (This first scene is necessarily a mix of Austen's words and my own. There are changes here though, with repercussions both major and minor, so read carefully. After this the rest, aside from the odd turn of phrase, is original.)

Elizabeth stared blankly out the parlor window as evening shadows began to gather and reach forth their clutching hands, the letter abandoned in her lap.

The letter. The damnable and damning letter.

Someone bustled about, stirring the fire against the encroaching nighttime chill, but Elizabeth barely registered the cheerful commotion.

Part of her, even in her shocked state, was still able to think if only to mock her for her own hubris. In all the times she had considered her parents natures and the pitfalls of fortune and fate she had never considered such an outcome. She should have. The seeds of this disaster had been laid years before by the spendthrift ways of their mother and indolence of her father, and she had not been blind to either vice. But present prosperity and other, less worldly fears had pushed possible consequences far from her mind, and it had never been her way to dwell on unpleasant prospects. Disaster had been a familiar looming shadow and hence had lost its power to motivate.

The sound of a doorbell drew her a little back to the present, recalling that Colonel Fitzwilliam had once before called late in the evening and might now have come to inquire particularly after her. Amiable though the gentleman was, she did not know if she could now endure his company. Remembrance of his gentle warning of his own prospects only brought her new situation into stark clarity. He would be kind, no doubt. But kindness at present was a threat; for the ice which had speared her had brought in its wake a blessed numbness, one that might not survive gentle solicitude.

But this concern was soon banished, and her spirits were very differently affected, when she saw Mr. Darcy walk into the room. In a hurried manner he immediately began an inquiry after her health, imputing his visit to a wish of hearing that she were better. She answered him with cold civility. Instead of thawing, the room seemed to chill further, the numbness spreading until she felt as if she viewed the scene from the other side of a window or looking glass. He sat down for a few moments, and then getting up walked about the room. After a silence of several minutes he came towards her in an agitated manner, and thus began:

"In vain I have struggled. It will not do. My feelings will not be repressed. You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you."

This singular announcement was so startling that amazement held her completely immobile.

I am gone mad. My mind could not withstand the strain, and I am gone mad.

Her silence and the apparent serenity of her countenance he considered sufficient encouragement, and the avowal of all that he felt, and had long felt for her, immediately followed. Elizabeth fears were soon laid to rest, for in his following words she found the man of her acquaintance. He spoke well, but there were feelings besides those of the heart to be detailed and he was not more eloquent on the subject of tenderness than of pride. His sense of her inferiority—of its being a degradation—of the family obstacles, which had always opposed to inclination, were dwelt on with a warmth which seemed due to the consequence he was wounding, but was very unlikely to recommend his suit.

In spite of her deeply-rooted dislike, she could not be insensible to the compliment of such a man's affection, and though her intentions did not vary for an instant, she was at first sorry for the pain he was to receive; till his subsequent language caused her to lose all compassion in incredulous disbelief. Reality seemed to grow stretched and thin around her as all feeling faded. In this vacuum was left a complete detachment.

Darcy concluded with representing to her the strength of that attachment which, in spite of all his endeavors, he had found impossible to conquer; and with expressing his hope that it would now be rewarded by her acceptance of his hand. As he said this, she could easily see that he had no doubt of a favorable answer. He spoke of apprehension and anxiety, but his countenance expressed real security. If she had been capable of laughter in that moment the sheer ironic ludicrousness of the situation must have overcome her breeding, but humor, or any emotion, was entirely absent from her. It was with some struggle that she was able to form her response.

"In such cases as this, it is, I believe, the established mode to express a sense of obligation for the sentiments avowed, however unequally they may be returned. But I cannot—I have never desired your good opinion, and you have certainly bestowed it most unwillingly. I am sorry to have occasioned pain to anyone. It has been most unconsciously done, however, and I hope will be of short duration. The feelings which, you tell me, have long prevented the acknowledgment of your regard, can have little difficulty in overcoming it after this explanation."

Mr. Darcy, who was leaning against the mantelpiece with his eyes fixed on her face, seemed to catch her words with no less resentment than surprise. His complexion became pale with anger, and the disturbance of his mind was visible in every feature. He was struggling for the appearance of composure, and would not open his lips till he believed himself to have attained it.

At length, with a voice of forced calmness, he said: "And this is all the reply which I am to have the honor of expecting! I might, perhaps, wish to be informed why, with so little endeavor at civility, I am thus rejected. But it is of small importance."

"I might well wonder," she replied distantly, "why with so evident a desire of offending and insulting me, you chose to tell me that you liked me against your will, against your reason, and even against your character? Was not this some excuse for incivility, if I was uncivil? Is your arrogance and conceit so great that you feel it appropriate to insult at every turn the woman you profess to love, even in the act of supplication for her hand?"

As she pronounced these words, Mr. Darcy changed color; but the emotion was short, and he listened without attempting to interrupt her while she continued.

"Had not my feelings decided against you, had they been indifferent, or had they even been favorable, no woman with so much as a spark of intelligence could regard such a proposal with aught but the severest alarm and offense. Do you really think your wealth and consequence so vast that your future bride will gladly submit herself to such disdain? That she will happily ignore every evidence of a future filled with bitterness and misery when your sensibility of 'honorable considerations' will have tainted every aspect of marital felicity? That your own contempt for the supposed desires of your heart would not sound clear warning of an equally implacable hatred once the chains of matrimony bind you forever to a wife whose family and connections, whose very origin, you hold in disgust?"

"Should I have dissembled then?" he demanded. "Stooped to concealment of my honest concerns? Would my suite have prospered had I, with greater policy, concealed my struggles, and flattered you into the belief of my being impelled by unqualified, unalloyed inclination; by reason, by reflection, by everything? But disguise of every sort is my abhorrence. Nor am I ashamed of the feelings I related. They were natural and just. Could you expect me to rejoice in the inferiority of your connections? To congratulate myself on the hope of relations, whose condition in life is so decidedly beneath my own? Is your own pride so frail as to be offended by the honorable scruples of an honest heart?"

The cool calm of her reply to this attack could not fail to convince of her sincerity. "You are mistaken, Mr. Darcy, if you suppose that the mode of your declaration affected me in any other way than as it spared me the concern which I might have felt in refusing you, had you behaved in a more gentlemanlike manner." She saw him start at this, but he said nothing, and she continued, "You could not have made the offer of your hand in any possible way that would have tempted me to accept it."

Again his astonishment was obvious; and he looked at her with an expression of mingled incredulity and mortification. She went on. "From the very beginning, from the first moment I may almost say, of my acquaintance with you, your manners have impressed me with the fullest belief of your arrogance, your conceit, and your selfish disdain of the feelings of others. That groundwork has only been reinforced by subsequent disclosures. First in Mr. Wickham's account of your shameful dealings with him; followed by your unjust and ungenerous separation of Mr. Bingley and my beloved sister, exposing one to the censure of the world for caprice and instability, and the other to its derision for disappointed hopes, and involving them both in misery of the acutest kind."

"Mr. Wickham! Mr. Wickham is not– I have not–" He inhaled sharply. "And this is your opinion of me. Very well, madam, we have both, I think, said enough. Please, forgive me for having taken up so much of your time, and accept my best wishes for your health and happiness."

Darcy strode to the door yet halted at the portal, facing towards his escape but unaccountably hesitating to cross the threshold.

Oh, go away! Why can you not just leave?

"Miss Bennet, I beg of you one final indulgence. Tell me, was I truly so utterly mistaken? Did you never at any time find enjoyment in my company?"

She considered this, memories parading before the barrier isolating her mind. At last she nodded. "I enjoyed the stimulation of our skirmishes, the quickness of your thought. The knowledge of your disdain overshadowed the pleasure but it existed nonetheless. I suppose... On reflection I must own that if you have truly harbored a partiality for me these past months then blindness was not your error alone."

"Thank you for your– Thank you. I will not stay to further distress you."

Distress. The word echoed in her mind, growing louder with each repetition, sending shockwaves through the encasing glass. Crevasses formed, spidered out, cracking and cracking. Unable to withstand the destruction the barrier shattered and with it seemed to fall her entire being.

I feel. I feel. I feel. Too much!

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Darcy had passed the servant stationed discretely by the parlor and was opening the entry door, when an anguished cry reached his ears. Spinning, he sprinted back the way he came. He pushed past the servant who had halted uncertainly at the entrance, to find Elizabeth bent nearly double in her chair, arms wrapped protectively around her head, her small frame shaken with deep, ripping sobs. The sight was a body blow. Instinct informed him her suffering was not of his creation; it was too powerful, too destructive. No, this was grief and despair that he recognized all too well.

"Some water, quickly please." The servant, given direction to act, leapt quickly to the task while Darcy knelt by Elizabeth's side, a hand on her shoulder. "Miss Bennet, what has happened?"

There was no response and he tried again.

"Miss Bennet– Elizabeth, please! What has caused this?"

A brief shake of her head, both a denial of ability to speak and a rejection. Her sobs increased in force until he became truly alarmed. The servant returned bearing a pitcher and water glass. Darcy gently pulled one arm down, pressing the cup to her hand.

"Elizabeth, drink this. Please. I realize I'm the last person you would wish to see to your needs, but I cannot leave you in this state. Please." He knew not what else he uttered, but at last he was able to coax her to drink, taking the water in small sips until her breathing softened though her tears did not cease. When a reasonable degree of calm had returned he ventured to inquiry once again. "Miss Bennet, will you not tell me what has occurred? On my honor, I ask only that I may know how best to aid you."

At this Elizabeth again shook her head, then her shoulders slumped. She reached down and retrieved some folded pages that had fallen unnoticed to the floor. Standing shakily she pressed the papers to his chest, her eyes turned determinedly away from his, before exiting the room on the servant's arm. Her parting words replayed in his mind even as her slow steps rose up the stairs to the private chambers. Almost blindly he grasped the now vacant chair and sank into its support.

Run, she had said. Read this, take your scruples and run, and leave to me my pauper's pride.

He stared at the pages with dread, raised them, and began to read.