As this is my first Pride and Prejudice ficlet, I thought I should include a note here: while I have never read the original book, I have watched nearly all the versions of Pride and Prejudice that exist. The inspiration for this piece came while watching the scene in the 5-hour version where it seems that Elizabeth's family exists solely to embarrass her, and you can see the despair in her eyes. (I think the scene took place during that big party at Netherfield Park -- forgive me for not being able to remember more particulars.) Anyways, I wrote this the instant the idea sprang into my mind. I hope any and all tried-and-true fans of P&P will forgive me for any breach I have made in the characters or the storyline, but I have tried to stay as true to the heart of the story as I could without having read the book.

Found among the papers of the late Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy, transcribed from the original sheet, which appeared to have been crumpled into a ball at some point in the past:

My dear Elizabeth, do you think that, in the height of your misery, I did not see the look upon your face? Do you think I failed to witness the despair in your eyes as you watched your dignity crumble around you? You may think me hard-hearted, but in that moment I could read your thoughts as clearly as if they had been written across the sky. The lowering of your head, the fluttering of your eyelashes as you fought to keep back tears -- and won, because you are Elizabeth, and there are few battles you could not help but win.

You think that I despise you. Though I could not tell you so, that idea is far from the truth. I respect you. I respect the way you carry yourself, the look in your eye, your sense of propriety coupled with a stubborn will. There is no figure more tragic in my mind than a woman of pride and dignity whose public image is dependent on fools. Aside from your elder sister (who, despite her low position, seems to be a decent girl), you stand alone in a sea of imbeciles. I pity you.

But I also admire you.

If you were a man such as I -- if you had my position, my affluence, my good name -- would you not master the situation? Would you not use your resources and your inexhaustible wit to hide all traces of disgrace, as I have done in my own life? Of course you would. You would subjugate, you would dominate, and you would fear nothing. But as it is? As it is, the stormy ocean of almost-comic savagery swirls around you, pelting you with iron-tipped waves.

How then can you still stand firm, immovable? How can you walk with your head held high, exuding a sense of control that an honest look at your situation could not produce?

I do not know. Your poise and assurance haunt me, an utter mystery. I can never really look away.