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Step into a reimagined world where pride meets persistence in Passion and Persistence, a thrilling variation of Jane Austen's Pride and Prejudice. This captivating novel dares to ask: What if Mr. Darcy refused to let go after the infamous Hunsford proposal?

In this enthralling tale, Mr. Darcy's unyielding pursuit of Elizabeth Bennet defies the constraints of social norms and personal pride. After a crushing rejection, Darcy's determination to win Elizabeth's heart takes center stage, leading to a story filled with wit, emotion, and unexpected turns.

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• A New Angle on Love: Witness Darcy's relentless pursuit as he navigates societal expectations and his own mistakes, offering a fresh perspective on the beloved romance.
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• Rich Regency Atmosphere: Immerse yourself in the elegance and tension of Regency England, beautifully rendered to enhance the romantic drama.

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Since its first publication, the text has undergone a significant edit. I added things where I felt it was needed to give things more depth, added more descriptive phrases and speech tags for a better reading experience of the dialogues, and rewrote some sentences to get rid of any monotone structures, modernisms, etc. If you downloaded the novel from Amazon before 12/2024, it may be worth downloading it again.

Although I received much positive feedback on the images, they were removed because, I learnt, most people do not like to see the characters other than in their minds. The new images of characters and illustrations may be found on the Illustrations page here.

This is how the new novel starts:

Picture: imagined London Darcy House

New Property

Prologue

The meadow glowed green, soft with the touch of spring, and speckled with the first buds of wildflowers, which promised to turn the open land into a colourful carpet soon. Above, a red kite glided lazily across the sky, its eyes trained on the ground, poised to swoop for any unwitting prey. Only a lone rider and his horse disturbed the silence of the landscape, moving with a steady, purposeful grace.

As he surveyed his new property, Darcy had to shield his eyes from the intense rays of the spring sun. The land stretched endlessly, its fertile fields and promising vistas assuring him that he had made the right decision. He perched high on his faithful friend, Devil – a beautiful, high-spirited stallion, sleek and black as midnight, standing over sixteen hands[i] high. The animal had the cunning ability to read Darcy's moods, and this time was no exception; he remained motionless, mirroring Darcy's solemn, reflective state as he gazed across the vast land now under his care.

After a few moments, Darcy's gloved hand moved in a quiet, comforting gesture, patting Devil's neck. With a swift, practised move, he dismounted, landing lightly on his feet, his boots pressing into the damp earth. He took a few steps and knelt on the ground. Letting his fingers trace the contours of the soil, his touch reverent, almost meditative, he caressed the earth with one of his hands, then ran his fingers through the earth. Scooping up a handful, he raised it to his nose. Deeply, he inhaled the thick, familiar, earthy aroma and examined the sample. He made the soil crumble between his fingers and nodded in satisfaction. The earth was good, as he remembered.

Darcy stood, dusting off his gloves, and called Devil, who went to him immediately. He nudged him with his head, and Darcy reacted as always by scratching behind his ears and stroking the animal along his neck with a smile that reached his eyes as his gaze drifted back over the meadow while he stroked Devil's neck.

"What say you, my friend?" he murmured. "Shall this land suit your liking?"

Devil snorted in agreement, drawing a smile from Darcy.

His smile faded as he cast another glance around the meadow and then turned his gaze westward. Though the dense canopy of the treetops obscured the view, he knew precisely what lay beyond those trees that framed the edge of the property. His heart beat faster, a quickening he both relished and resented for its lack of control. Of course, he knew – he saw it with his mind's eye – her home was behind the treetops in that direction. He imagined the path winding from the meadow, cutting through the woods, and emerging at the grounds of the house. He could be there in less than half an hour if he walked swiftly, a mere quarter of an hour if he rode on Devil. The urge to see her, to be in her presence, tugged at him, and he closed his eyes against the longing. To ride there, unannounced, would be absurdly impulsive and reckless – a stark contrast to his character. Still, the thought remained, tempting him. He shook his head to push the impulse to visit her aside.

With a deep breath, he mounted Devil once more, his hands sure on the reins. After a few steps, he paused, eyes still fixed on the distant treetops, his gaze lingering in the direction of her home, feeling the invisible pull. While still looking in that direction, he made his animal turn. He rode with renewed energy, enjoying the soft breeze sweeping across his face, as if it carried a faint whisper of the promise that lay before him.

As he rode on, only one thought occupied his mind, pressing with a peculiar weight upon his heart. The wind whispered as it brushed past, as though carrying the echoes of what could be – a future neither assured nor denied.

How might she react upon learning of his presence? So near? Would her face soften with pleasure, or would that arch brow rise in disapproval? Would she understand what had brought him so close or dismiss him as simply an uninvited neighbour, a bad memory from the past?

[i] A horse is measured in hands, as originally the height was determined by the number of hand widths from the ground to the withers (the top of the shoulder, where the neck meets the back). A hand equals four inches (ten centimetres), roughly the width of a man's hand. 

Devil, Darcy's horse

Mentioned in the Prolouge

Brotherly talk

Chapter 1

At Hunsford, Rosings Park

Darcy walked away in a hurry, his heart heavy with the weight of her rejection. He walked away from the woman who had scorned him; the pain of her refusal was like a knife wedged in his chest. He walked away before he might lose all sense of pride; he had endured enough humiliation. His steps were heavy with the burden of his unrequited love, each footfall a testament to the emotional turmoil he was experiencing.

Her indignant yet sweet countenance haunted him, lingering in his mind's eye with a torment he could scarcely dispel. He knew he was the last person she wished to see – the last person whom she could ever be prevailed on to marry… He could hardly utter the words asking her to read his letter. His voice was deep and hoarse. He used her surprise to put the letter in her hand, and he turned and left her, knowing it might be the last time.

He realised that possibly he might never see her again. The pain of this thought was so acute in his breast, so final, that he had to make an effort not to stop breathing and lean on his knees. His chest heaved with the weight of his unspoken love, each breath a sharp pang of the void her absence left behind. She could still possibly see him, and he would not show weakness or glance back for a final look – he made himself walk away.

By the time Darcy reached Rosings, he felt almost lifeless as though a part of him had died. Dead and hollow. His emotions were so tightly suppressed that he mercifully felt nothing at all. This numbness was a small blessing; he knew that if he allowed himself to feel, the weight of what he had just lost would crush him. Only a short while ago, he had been filled with nervous determination, eager to claim her as his own. Now, he was devastated, his thoughts unable to coalesce around anything but the aching void her rejection had left behind. It was a stark realisation of just how deeply he desired her presence in his life.

The previous night, driven by a fervent need, he poured his heart into his letter, driven by his need to make her understand her mistake in his character. He wrote and wrote until several pages were filled with his role in persuading Bingley to abandon Miss Bennet and the painful experience of his history with Wickham. His heart had cried out in the solitude of the night, insisting that he was a good man, but his mind was clouded with the sharp sting of her refusal.

Later, they paid their respects at the parsonage at his cousin's urging. Despite the inner turmoil that made each step feel like a monumental effort, he could not think of a plausible reason for not saying goodbye to the people at Mr Collins' abode, as he had done during his sojourn.

She was not there. Standing in the very room where his proposal had been rejected, where his love had been casually thrown away, was excruciating. His eyes fell on her embroidery on one of the chairs, and he had an errant thought to take it as a token. He felt both disappointed and relieved by her absence but was eager to leave. When he excused himself to head back to Rosings, he knew she was out there somewhere with his letter.

As he climbed the stairs of Rosings for the last time, he felt emotionally numb, as if part of him had been extinguished. Without feeling, he bid farewell to his aunt and cousin, each word hollow and mechanical. He stood at the window, staring at nothing while his valet packed his belongings. Even as he oversaw the final preparations of his carriage, ensuring everything met his usual standards, his mind remained a blank slate. He went through the motions without letting himself think about…her – not even for a moment.

The next day, his morning coffee was tasteless, and his toast saltless. They were ready to depart without delay.

On the way back to London in the carriage, he stared out the window, not seeing, and the beautiful countryside of Kent passed unnoticed, its charm lost to him. Would he ever appreciate anything again? Would he ever find joy? Maybe it was a bit dramatic, but our hero was in great pain for the first time. He thought of losing his parents, but their deaths were inevitable and expected when the time came. But this – this rejection – had stripped him of the possibility of a bright future with the woman he loved. Her rejection, he winced, was unexpected and brutal. He felt it acutely: knowing she was lost to him made him comprehend just how overwhelming his feelings were and how inadequate his approach was – he had no idea she hated him so much. The look of condemnation on her face had been unmistakable. How could he have misjudged things so completely?

He was wounded, yet a nagging thought persisted: he could have done better. His lady had found him lacking, but Darcy did not feel ready to face it all. He needed time. For the time being, he was not in the right state of mind; he did not think he could handle facing what happened in any depth, the reality of his failure. For now, he preferred to wallow in his misery.

He sat there facing his cousin, the colonel, barely listening. Fortunately, his cousin never struggled for conversation and chatted away. He praised the success of their visit, which Darcy did not appreciate as it indicated how much he liked Miss Elizabeth. Thankfully, Richard soon found another topic to discuss: his new army assignment. This time, Darcy did not even pretend to be interested. His cousin's voice was nothing more than background noise – it came through something akin to a waterfall.

Thankfully, Richard's voice and the steady rhythmic movement of his carriage soon rocked Darcy to sleep. The effort of writing several pages to her the previous day, stretching into the early hours of dawn, had drained him. Having slept little the night before, he had indulged in a morning brandy before their departure, hoping to dull the ache in his chest. It worked; the brandy, combined with his exhaustion, granted him a dreamless sleep, giving his weary body a brief reprieve before the full weight of his heartache could descend upon him again.

***

His household was always happy to see him at Darcy House in London. They were very much attuned to him in their faithful service, so they sensed something was wrong immediately after he alighted from the carriage. Their master hardly said a word, and his expression was grave. Darcy was not in the mood for some small talk he usually engaged in happily enough with some of his upper staff when he arrived from somewhere. He did not ask about their health; he did not ask about the house. He did not comment about his trip, nor did he say a word about the weather.

His staff, ever proficient, instantly mirrored their master's mood and got on, although speculation was rampant, especially after a few days. They went from a quarrel with his aunt to business loss until the butler gave his valued opinion on the matter, according to which a man only got into a mood like their master for one reason, and that was women. Soon, the whole household agreed and feared for their master. What could possibly be the problem for a gentleman like their excellent employer?

All this speculation was lost on Darcy – all he wanted was to be left alone. Unfortunately, he could not closet himself completely as Richard had asked him if he could stay with him rather than go to his apartment at the earl's home as he still had a few days before he had to report back for duty at the headquarters. He did not want his mother to fuss about him, which would happen if he was under her roof. Darcy had no good excuse to refuse him.

Darcy, as the Reader well knows, was a taciturn fellow at the best of times; now, he veritably grumbled. The strange thing was that he could half see himself from the outside and was horrified inside that he could not control the fact that he did not want to regulate his behaviour.

For three days, he said no to his valet's every gesture to help him in any way. The poor man was beside himself. In his shirtsleeves, Darcy locked himself in his study during the day. He tried to work but gave up pretending soon enough and only stood from his chair to look out the window or pour another drink. The staff did not know what to make of him; even the housekeeper's delicious meals from Cook remained untouched on the tray. They wanted to help him however they could, but they were lost.

On Sunday, he did not go to church. He did not go to breakfast, he did not go to lunch, and he only showed up for dinner because by that time – heartache or not – he was starving. A man had to eat, and Darcy was a virile specimen; his body required sustenance.

Richard did not know what to think either as he watched his cousin struggle with himself. Watching him, Richard wondered at the intensity of Darcy's feelings. He had seen men broken by battle, but this – this was a different kind of war, one waged within the heart. And from the look of it, Darcy was losing. First, he let him be, as, in his opinion, a man had the right to be left alone; he understood his need for privacy to sort out his troubles. He himself did not like to talk about the fact that he still had nightmares from his time on the battlefield. He wondered why this was happening all of a sudden, however.

As an army leader, he had to use his skills to make his men open up if he was to help them in any way. He learnt that men tended to bottle up their feelings, thinking it a weakness to grumble. Darcy was no different, and he was especially adept at concealing his troubles. However, Richard had enough by the third evening and confronted his younger cousin.

"Fitzwilliam."

Darcy snapped his head toward his cousin, who hardly ever called him Fitzwilliam – that was his surname, Richard Fitzwilliam, so to avoid confusion, Darcy was always Darcy to him.

"What plagues you, Darcy? You look as though you've returned from battle, and not the victorious kind. I have never seen you in such a state… You are sorely blue-devilled[i]…well, not since I had to rescue you from the Clementine debacle at university. Even then, you were up and fencing the third day. What's going on?"

Said incident was over a woman Darcy lost his young head about only to learn that she favoured not only him but Viscount Lancaster, a rival of his, as well; rather, she chose him over Darcy, not that that relationship resulted in a marriage. (When she was disappointed in marrying into a titled family, she thought of seeking Darcy's favour again, but she thought wrong; Darcy was not interested by then.) He got awfully drunk when he found out about her duplicity. It was the first time in his life he wasted himself on drink, and it cost him the next day and a half in bed with a terrible headache. Richard was sent to talk some sense into him. When he was himself again, Darcy swore that no woman was worth getting sick over.

Darcy looked up for a moment but then returned to looking at his plate; he shrugged. What could he say? That he, Fitzwilliam Arthur George Darcy, had been rejected? By a country lass, nonetheless! That he put his heart on a plate for the lady only to have it thrown back into his face? In the cruellest way possible? That he misjudged the situation terribly, and instead of expecting his addresses, Miss Elizabeth hated him with a vengeance? Besides the humiliation, he had not digested yet what had happened at Hunsford.

He looked up at his cousin and examined him. Could he trust him with his troubles?

Richard was his brother, he reflected. Of course, he was his cousin in truth, but their relationship had long transcended that family tie. Richard's elder brother, Phillip, was some five years older than him and three years older than Richard, so he was off to school and university before them. That fact pushed the cousins to spend much time together, but it was more than that.

Matlock and Pemberley, their family estates, were not far apart, so they often visited each other when younger. At Pemberley, they frequently shared their time with George Wickham, the steward's son, encouraged by Darcy's father (George being his godson). As both were older than Darcy, even if George was older by one year only and his cousin by two, they often conspired against Darcy. Richard had switched his loyalties to his younger cousin irrevocably by the time Darcy turned fifteen, however, seeing the other's strange enjoyment of the increasingly cruel pranks he came up with at Darcy's expense. That was the turning point in their relationship. That and the fact that Richard never lamented and never felt cheated because Darcy was looking to inherit a considerable estate while he had to work for a living although he received an allowance from his family. Richard understood his position in his own family; he understood and accepted the way of things. On the other hand, Wickham resented Darcy and his lot more and more; by the time they went to university, they were estranged.

Darcy admired his cousin for his integrity. He knew Richard was also a proud fellow, making it exceedingly difficult for Darcy to help him in any way. And Darcy wanted to help him. When his father died some five years earlier, he used the guise of the will to bestow five thousand pounds on him. Richard accepted that with gratitude, but any further help financially was almost impossible – he simply refused. The only avenue left was Richard's birthday and Christmas when he did accept gifts.

Darcy shook his head. If he did not confide in Richard, then whom? He would probably laugh at him and make silly jokes at his expense, but he would take his problem seriously.

Maybe the next day, he thought.

Well, the next day, as if the colonel had known it was time, he barged into Darcy's bed chamber and rudely woke him. He ordered Wilkins, Darcy's valet, to clean him up because they were off to ride. Darcy moaned but let his cousin take over. Darcy knew it was time and let his valet do what he wished with him. He strangely welcomed Richard's interference. This was also good for poor Wilkins, as a dishevelled master did nothing good to his reputation as a valet. He was glad to be busy again.

Without a word, the cousins went downstairs, mounted their horses, and started toward Hyde Park, an enormous park at the edge[ii] of London. The park was almost empty in the morning. They gave their horses a good gallop on Rotten Row[iii] and headed toward the less visited parts. They even left the park to the west into the countryside and rode to an inn called the White Horse. The establishment was a busy place as all inns were next to a main road. Because of its proximity to London, this inn was used as a resting place and was a popular place for accommodation as it was cheaper than in the city. With a few coins to assure their horses were cared for, Darcy ordered them a large breakfast in the old establishment. They sat in one of the window alcoves that was strangely crooked – time and the weight of the building had taken its toll on that corner of the building – and ate with good appetites. The wife of the innkeeper served the distinguished guests. She poured them good hot tea as Darcy had asked. Since he had learnt how coffee should be drunk in Italy on his grand tour[iv], he preferred to drink tea at home.

"That was mighty good. There's nothing better than countryside food," Richard remarked, pushing his plate away. "Now, speak."

Darcy set down his teacup, nodded, and took a moment to gather his thoughts. He gazed out the window, wiped his mouth with his napkin, and decided to be straightforward. "Miss Elizabeth Bennet," he began. "I asked her hand in marriage and was soundly refused." He turned to gauge his cousin's reaction.

Richard did not disappoint – his expression visibly went blank for a few seconds, clearly caught off guard. Although it had occurred to him that it must be some woman, he had not expected this. He raised his eyebrows. "Miss Elizabeth? You proposed to her? Have you fallen for her?" he asked incredulously.

"Why is it such a surprise?" Darcy countered. "Is she not 'delightful' as you praised her?"

"Well, I don't really know. She's…not one of us. Darcy, she has nothing to offer."

"What more do I need?"

"True, true… But you barely said two words to her! I half expected you to marry someone from our circles, maybe one of Mother's protégés… Good heavens, you must love her!"

"Keep your voice down." Darcy looked around uncomfortably. "What are you talking about? Of course, I love her. What else would compel me to marry her if not love?"

"It's just…you never really…you never talked about… I always thought you would end up in a marriage of convenience."

Darcy looked at him in dismay. "I am a man, cousin." He shrugged. "I have just never met anyone who…moved me, anyone like her."

"Well, I…it's just that you always seem to be under good regulation… The only time I remember you losing your composure was back at university."

"Uh, that was not even funny. No, in my defence, I was young and naïve. I didn't know what I was about. She was so flattering, and I mistook it for love."

"So, Miss Elizabeth appeals to you, huh? I never saw it. So not Anne, then?" Richard pressed.

"Do you know me at all?" Darcy scoffed. "Anne is out of the question. Can you imagine…you know… being with her?" He shuddered involuntarily.

Richard grimaced in agreement. "No, I am sorry, I asked. However, you never refute Aunt Catherine!" Richard admonished Darcy.

"What would be the point?" He shrugged. "I did at the beginning, but she just keeps at it. She will have to understand eventually – it will never happen." Darcy broke off a piece of bread and stuffed it in his mouth with a sip of tea.

"But cousin, you've grown adept at hiding yourself. I had no idea! Wait, she refused you?" Richard's eyebrows shot up in surprise.

"I am glad you got the gist of it." Darcy rolled his eyes.

"Incredible! But how could that be? You're Fitzwilliam Darcy!" he shrieked.

"Well, by the look of it, that was not enough. She wants to marry for love, and it seems she does not love me. Quite the opposite, in fact." He winced at the admission.

"Don't be ridiculous. Women all around would die for the opportunity to become your bride."

"Well, it seems I have found the exception," Darcy said, looking away.

"Come on, even for Miss Elizabeth, that's just simply not done. One does not refuse an offer like yours. What was she thinking? Or maybe you misunderstood?" Richard speculated.

"Are you daft? How could anyone mistake a yes for a no?" Darcy bristled.

"Just thinking here…you must admit; it is really out of the ordinary."

Darcy turned back to the window, his mind drifting to the memory of her at the pianoforte, her face animated with some impertinent remark she was about to say… "Yet she refused me. She is…that woman."

"Are you certain you understood her correctly?" Richard asked, still in disbelief.

Darcy looked at his cousin, his lips pressed tightly together.

"Of course, I understood her! There was nothing to misinterpret." He shook his head. If Richard had known with what vehemence she attacked his character, arrogance, conceit, selfish disdain… He shut his eyes to it to protect himself against her accusations, even in memory. Never in a thousand years would he have thought she judged him so decidedly in a negative way.

Richard watched his cousin's pain play out on his face. "Did she at least give you a reason? I mean, a connection to you would've meant a lot to her family."

"I do not think she even gave it a thought. I had to persuade her to tell me her reasons. Well, I guess I asked for it because she lashed out! You should have seen her! No one has ever talked to me that way… She was magnificent!" He recalled her stance and the power of her eyes on him. Even in remembrance, her set down had a peculiar effect on him. Of course, he was highly offended, but another visceral feeling overtook him as she argued with him. Arousal. His body and mind reacted to her challenge, making him feel more alive than ever. He had to stop himself from taking her into his embrace and kiss the life out of her. She had no idea of the restraint he had to use to remain a gentleman. Maybe he should not have bothered. She already thought he was no gentleman, and he would now know how she tasted!

He imagined kissing her. He imagined how she would have felt in his arms, how she would have tasted, and given in to his lips moving on hers… His body reacted, and he had to shake himself. He chuckled inwardly at what she would have thought of him if he had given in to his desires.

He was not welcome, he sobered.

Then, the pain came. That would never happen; he would never know the touch of her lips. He would never know what it would feel like to be loved by her. He suspected that lucky would be the man upon whom she would bestow her tender feelings. Darcy put his hand to his heart.

"Darce!" the colonel called, snapping him back to the present. "Magnificent? You must be lost!"

Darcy shook his head firmly. "I'm telling you as it is. I am serious. In her outrage, she did not even stop to consider what my proposal could mean for her. All she cared about were the perceived wrongs I had done to people she wanted to protect. Yes, she was amazing!" His voice faltered. "But she was right. I approached her with arrogance, thinking my position alone would suffice. I thought myself generous when, in truth, I was blind to what she needed most – respect and understanding."

"Who was so important to her?"

"Her sister, for one. Somehow, she had learnt of my involvement in Bingley's affair."

"What? Bingley…her sister?" Richard's eyes widened in shock. "Oh, no! Was it her sister Bingley was after?"

Darcy nodded slowly. "Was it – was it you? Did you tell her? Why?" Darcy straightened up, a hint of accusation in his tone.

"Well, we were talking about you…" Richard stammered.

"You were talking about me?" Darcy's expression darkened with a thunderous look.

Richard flushed with embarrassment. "Well, yes. She was quite harsh about… She misinterpreted something about you…"

"Something? She does not know me at all!" He scoffed.

"Yes, she thought you ordered me about…"

"Pardon, what exactly are you talking about? Focus, Richard. Tell me everything." Darcy demanded, his patience wearing thin.

Richard hesitated but saw the determined look on Darcy's face. "All right, all right. She seemed to believe that you were…how do I put this…overbearing, controlling, perhaps?"

Darcy's eyes narrowed. "Controlling? How could she think that? I have never…"

So, the colonel tried his best to tell Darcy about his unfortunate conversation with Miss Elizabeth on his tour of the park. He just wanted to tell Miss Elizabeth something positive about him after trying to disabuse her of the notion of him being at his back and calling. He wanted her to know that Darcy was a good friend, that he could be one, and that he wanted to protect Bingley from a fortune hunter.

Darcy exhaled sharply, trying to keep his temper in check. "You idiot! You're like a woman. Did it not occur to you that I had told you that in confidence? A fine pair of eyes comes along, and you sing like a bird. What kind of a soldier are you? You're meant to guard secrets, not spill them at the sight of a pair of fine eyes." He let out a sharp breath, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Do you have any idea what you've done? And I never said she was a fortune hunter. What must she have thought of me?" Darcy turned away, looking out the window again. The memory of Elizabeth's fierce, passionate expression lingered in his mind. He had known her to be spirited, but this – this was something entirely different. "I underestimated her," he muttered, half to himself. "I underestimated her greatly."

Richard squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head. When he opened his eyes, they were full of remorse. He watched his cousin closely, realising for the first time just how deep Darcy's feelings for Miss Elizabeth Bennet ran.

"That is why she did not come to dinner to Rosings," Darcy reflected aloud.

"Well, let me remind you that you have fallen for that pair of fine eyes. Did – did I lose you…your proposal?"

"Well, it did not help, but no, she still had other things to throw at my face." Darcy looked down in his lap. "She thinks highly of Wickham."

"Whom? How could that be? I need a drink." He looked around for the matron. "Hey, you there! Bring us some ale.

"Right. How does she know Wickham? That son of a…!"

"He joined the militia, and they happened to be stationed in Meryton, where she lives, of all places. I saw him when he arrived, still dressed in civilian clothes."

"He is a pest! You never mentioned that you had seen him, you know, not since…"

"This was in November, Richard."

"I see."

"Anyway, there was a ball soon after, and Miss Elizabeth questioned me about him. She seemed quite protective of him. I tried to warn her, but I could tell she was not ready to hear me about him."

"He got to her?"

Darcy nodded.

"Then she is not as clever as I had thought."

"That's what I said to myself then, but since then… Well, she is a sheltered gentlewoman, and even my father was fooled. He is good at telling a tale, spinning one. You know how it is – puppy eyes, flattery, half-truths – and people believe him. I bet he made her feel sorry for his lot by my evil hands. A victim always gets sympathy." Darcy reflected bitterly. "He told her I refused him the promised living, and she accused me of pushing him into his state of relative poverty. As if…" He snorted.

"So, he conveniently omitted the small detail of receiving compensation," Richard said dryly.

Darcy shook his head. "Of course, he did. She seemed determined to provoke me; I'll give her that much. She thought me a villain and was intent on putting me in my place." Darcy exhaled sharply. "And the worst part? She believed every word he said. That I was the villain of the tale, that I destroyed him for sport… Unfortunately, her sense of righteousness barred her from hearing my warning. I tried to tell her that Wickham makes friends easily and loses them just as easily, but I could not say much more without compromising my sister."

Richard was dismayed.

Darcy was disappointed in Miss Elizabeth for falling prey to Wickham's lies, but he knew how convincing he could be if he wanted to. At least, that was what he told himself in her defence. At the same time, he also used her favouritism towards Wickham as one more excuse to leave Hertfordshire. This weakness in her, not seeing through his arch enemy's guiles, showed her in a poor light. Now, however, he found himself appreciating her courage to stand up to him.

"I wish I had gone with you to Ramsgate," Richard said suddenly, breaking the silence.

Darcy looked at him questioningly. "Why?"

"I should have beaten him up so bad that he could not make love to the gentle folk's fancies. I should have ruined his pretty face." He said indignantly, "You said he had joined the militia. Who is his colonel? Maybe I could write to him. I could make his life miserable. Is this why you asked me to answer any questions of Miss Elizabeth's?"

Darcy nodded. They stood, and Darcy left some coins on the table.

"Well, I am sorry I could not wait any longer. I should have told her the truth about her precious favourite."

Darcy winced. "I wrote her a letter. She knows."

"Pardon? Are – are you out of your mind? What possessed you to put your sister's story in writing? Especially after she had refused you and, by that, showed a lack of discernment! That was reckless, Darcy, I'm telling you," Richard called after Darcy as he mounted Devil.

"I trust her. She may confide in her elder sister, but Miss Bennet seems to have a good heart. She will not gossip either."

"I hope so. For all our sakes."

When they arrived back and were going into the house, Richard expressed his sympathy.

"For what it's worth, I am very sorry for what happened. But you know what they say…plenty more in the ocean, there must be someone out there."

"I shall never find another like her." Responded Darcy, not even looking at his cousin.

Richard stopped. "If you lament her so much, why do you not go after her?"

[i] Affected with the blue devils; depressed, melancholy, low-spirited.

[ii] Although today Hyde Park is in the centre of London, in Regency times, it was at the edge of the city; there were empty fields to the north and west. See the story website.

[iii] Go to the story website for information, link at the front.

[iv] The Grand Tour was a period of foreign travel commonly undertaken by gentlemen to finish off their education. It was popular from the mid-17th century until the end of the 18th century when the outbreak of the Napoleonic Wars stopped most foreign travel.

Reflections and Interruptions

Chapter 2

"Oh, I'm not good at this! Why is embroidery deemed so essential for the fairer sex?" Elizabeth huffed at her handiwork.

She was sitting in the parlour, the very one, with Charlotte and Maria. They occupied themselves as ladies should. Charlotte was reading aloud from a London newspaper, though it was at least a fortnight old, as Lady Catherine graciously allowed the parsonage to keep her newspapers…well, after she finished only reading the headlines of most of the articles. Her guests were listening to her reading while sewing or embroidering – in Elizabeth's case, try was the better word.

For five days, Elizabeth's mind had been wholly occupied, rendering her unfit for all other considerations. She was still in shock, still in disbelief about what had happened, and the following letter, which was incredible in itself that Mr Darcy would breach propriety that way. She did not think of it as surprised as she was at the time, and then her curiosity took over. In the days that followed, however, she did think about it; the fact that if people had known that a letter from a gentleman was in her pocket, they would have found it most scandalous and more, her reputation would have been ruined. That flared her indignation at the gentleman.

The letter burnt her pocket as she had it with her day and night. By now, she could quote much of its content; so many times, she had read it already despite swearing, she would not after her first perusal. She had a morbid fascination with the letter. She punished herself with every new reading as she did not like what she read at all. Yet, there were so many things to consider, so many things to decipher.

Her chief concern was Mr Wickham and Mr Darcy's account. Acknowledging and accepting his description of their past was a slow and painful process. Realising that she had been duped was like a bucket of icy water. How could she fall for his lies? She called on her memories of their conversation, and she had to admit that she hungrily drank his poisonous words then. Why?

She knew the answer. She had to admit that she was looking to justify her upset feelings for the gentleman; she wanted confirmation that, yes, he was an immoral man, jealous and hateful, so that she could discredit his insult to her person as not worth her bruised ego. It was not merely that Wickham's charm was intoxicating but that his tale aligned so perfectly with her own prejudices. Now, the cracks in that narrative widened, and with them came a painful awareness of her own folly.

She had always considered herself intelligent and even prided herself in it. One who could think for herself. Why did she not recognise the contradictions in his tale? Did he not say that he was not afraid of seeing Mr Darcy, yet it was he who stayed away from the ball? Then, she put all the blame at Mr Darcy's door. She recalled that even Miss Bingley warned her, but she dismissed her based on her dislike of the lady. She remembered her disappointment at Wickham's absence. Now, she was disgusted. An even greater contradiction was when, after Mr Darcy had left the neighbourhood, he suddenly told his sorry tale to anyone who would listen. She remembered this as she felt a little miffed at his telling others his story as she considered herself special, that she was the only one he had told. She remembered him saying that he would not shame the son for the excellent memory of his father. How could she be so gullible? At times, she was furious at herself that this man had preyed on her good heart. Her disdain for Mr Darcy only compounded her folly. His countenance, voice, and manner had established him at once in possession of every virtue[i] – not seeing through him made her question her ability to discern character; how much Mr Darcy must have laughed at her proven naivete!

She could not sleep well for many a night. She was mortified. The image of Mr Darcy's face during his proposal haunted her – the barely concealed hopefulness, the quiet certainty that he would not be refused. She had shattered it without a second thought, and now she wondered: had she been cruel in her indignation?

Confronting her own thoughts and her own behaviour was humiliating. She, who prided herself on her intelligence! Of neither Mr Darcy nor Mr Wickham could she think without feeling she had been blind, partial, prejudiced, absurd[ii].

She recalled one night at Netherfield when she and Mr Darcy bantered. How superior she felt then when she accused him of vanity and pride…and hating everybody; oh, what did he say in return? He said that her failing was to misunderstand people wilfully. That sad example proved Mr Darcy a better observer of men, she bitterly admitted. She did not want to think well of him. How embarrassing! If anything, this revealed her own faulty judgement.

The shame she bore was acute, stirring within her a quiet but undeniable resentment towards the gentleman privy to her lapse in discernment.

***

"If you lament her so much, why do you not go after her?"

Darcy first just stared at his cousin, unmoving and unblinking, and then his eyes bulged. "Richard, are you out of your mind? How could I?"

"You… Well, you said yourself, she doesn't really know you. Her arguments against you were mistaken. Give her a chance…pay her the proper attentions."

Pay her the proper attentions? Darcy was reeling. Surely, this must be a most impossible course! Only despite his incredulity, traitorously, the possibility of trying again, seeing her again, made him shiver. He became breathless.

"Think about it, Darce. If it does not work out, you can be satisfied you tried." His cousin patted Darcy's back as he went past him. "You know, Cousin," Richard added, pausing at the door, "sometimes the greatest battles are fought not on the field but within ourselves. And sometimes, the bravest thing we can do is risk losing."

"A gentleman does not ask twice," argued Darcy.

Richard turned back. "Does he not? Do you not remember my parents' story? My father asked my mother three times! Father always said that his persistence won her over."

"But he was titled, why did she refuse? I cannot remember."

"My father had to give up his loose ways."

"Oh."

"Mother always gets what she wants. Think about it, Darce. This could be your saving grace!" Richard winked and turned to go to his room.

The first utterance of his suggestion was said without thinking, but then it sounded a clever idea to him; what was more, it would considerably ease his conscience if he really were not the cause of his cousin's failure.

Darcy stood rooted at the entrance for a moment, then went straight to his study and told his footman that he did not wish to be disturbed. When he closed the door behind him, he sagged against it.

Go after her? He could not possibly… Could he do it? Could he open himself to another possible humiliation? Should he try again? But was such a pursuit noble or selfish? Was he seeking her forgiveness or his own redemption?

Ah, sweet temptation! It was so utterly outrageous, so divinely attractive an idea… He was of two minds. He pushed himself from the door and went to his desk. Without thinking, he checked his correspondence, separated them into three piles, ever organised, but then left them on his desk.

He went to one of the floor-to-ceiling windows that let plenty of light into his study. He let the sunlight warm his face. He supported himself against it with his hands and looked out the window, unseeing. His mind was quickly turning around his cousin's suggestion.

Yes, it was obvious that Miss Elizabeth did not know him despite her claiming to be an observer of people. Indeed, for some reason, she refused to see him correctly. He was not a villain, for heaven's sake! He was not an evil man… Why did she think the worst of me? Then, he wondered if she had given credit to his letter. Did she know now that she had misjudged him? That her favourite was the worst cheater and seducer? Oh, my, he thought, what if she never read his letter? His throat constricted… It was highly inappropriate of him to demand that she read it. He knew that. Of course, he did. At the same time, what was he supposed to do?

He could not live knowing that she thought so poorly of him.

Unless her hatred of him was more potent than her curiosity, she must have read the letter…

At the time, at the parsonage, he berated his tongue, which often failed him in her presence. In November at Netherfield, it had been simpler, easier. He had been an observer then, content to study her from a distance – the playful curve of her smile, the fire in her eyes as she sparred with him. She had been a source of fascination, a challenge to his reason. Then, he was intrigued by her and wanted to engage her in conversation. But at Rosings, when he still fought his attraction, he tried to avoid her, but once he gave in and accepted his fate, suddenly, he did not know how to approach the lady. That previous fascination turned to longing, and he had been utterly unprepared for the strength of his feelings.

At that most crucial moment – well, he was quite distracted by the picture she made in her indignation – he could not refute her accusations; he had to be satisfied that he could utter some words of courtesy at the end. He could not leave her quickly enough. In her absence, however, his thoughts were flooding his mind. What should he have said in his defence? After a few drinks, he gave in to his need to communicate to her clearly that she was wrong. He put his thoughts to paper. He did not plan to give it to her; it was more like letting his ire out, but as the letter formed, the original purpose of a letter to the intended took hold of him, and he decided to make a clear copy. As he wrote and wrote, his need for justice, his need for recognition calmed, and he felt justified by the means. In his mind, his accuser must have been in need of the truth so that she might form a fair estimation of his character. A tiny part of him felt hope that she would change her mind about him, but then he quickly killed that idea and strived to be satisfied by her giving credit to his confessions.

What a mess! Why did Richard have to utter that idea?

Exhausted, he collapsed into his favourite armchair and closed his eyes to escape the tumult in his mind.

… She did not expect his proposal. What an arrogant fool! Why did he think otherwise?

He opened his eyes, as if struck by lightning.

It was not that he thought otherwise, but that he assumed… He never really considered her! It was all about him and what he wanted. He wanted her, and he thought she was there for the taking and she would be grateful for the offer. What an arrogant fool! Painful as her rejection was, it was a humbling experience.

"Get out of my way, man!" A harsh voice could be heard from the other side of the door, which opened at that moment. "Darcy! There you are."

Darcy groaned at the interruption. His cousin did not know the meaning of 'no.' He waved his footman away.

"Hello, Phillip. I should like to say welcome, but you are, in fact, not welcome. I am busy."

The viscount looked around.

"No, you are not. Is this a way to greet your favourite cousin?" He smirked. "What are you doing?"

"None of your business, Cousin. And you are not my favourite," Darcy said petulantly, then sighed. "What do you want?"

"It is not what I want per se. You should imagine I have better things to do than play a messenger. Mother sent me to get you to join her for tea."

Darcy looked up at his cousin.

"She knows you are in town." He shrugged. "Richard paid her a visit yesterday. Where is he, by the way? I need to have a word with him, too. I have a new venture…but we can talk about that another time."

Darcy nodded. He stood and went to his desk. "Can you not say that you did not find me?"

"Lying to my mother? Are you mad? For one, she would know she always does. And two, I would not lie for you. Look at you. You need to leave your study. You appear quite fatigued."

Darcy was about to reply, but the viscount interrupted.

"Four o'clock. Do not disappoint Mother; she would not appreciate it." As he finished, he was out the door, and Darcy heard him asking the footman to direct him to his brother.

Darcy sat in his chair and wondered how her aunt did it – she, indeed, always got her way.

Richard and Phillip's mother, Countess Matlock, had adopted Darcy when his own mother, her sister-in-law, died many years ago. She was a treasure box of memories about his mother, as they used to be very close. They knew each other from finishing school, though not in the same year as the countess was two years older. She had always liked the shy but clever little boy, so as Darcy and his sister were orphaned, she appointed herself as the surrogate mother of the Darcy siblings. She loved them as she loved her own two boys.

The lady was a force to be reckoned with. Everybody knew that her word was law. The earl ruled in his politics, but at home and in society, his dear countess ruled the roost. The earl adored his gentle but firm wife; unlike many upper-echelon marriages, theirs was one of genuine affection; it had grown into it.

***

Darcy knew he was summoned; it was not about the tea. At precisely four o'clock, he presented his hat and walking stick to a footman at Matlock House. He was announced.

"William, welcome! Thank you for coming," a handsome, elegantly dressed woman greeted Darcy. She was in her early fifties, but her skin was smooth; she swore on the benefits of oils from the Mediterranean. Her eyes sparkled with life, and her famous warm smile was now directed at Darcy. She welcomingly opened her arms, and Darcy kissed her offered cheek.

"It is not like I had a choice, but it's good to see you, Aunt."

Her ladyship chuckled. "Watch your tongue, young man. Who knows when you would have shown yourself if I had left it to you."

"Well, I am here."

"Yes, come, sit. Tell me about Rosings. How is my dear sister-in-law?" She poured tea as she was speaking.

"Rosings is pleasant as always in the spring. Aunt Catherine is very well, as ever."

"Did she cajole you this time around?"

"She did." Darcy shrugged. "But I changed the subject, and once I even left the room. I got a reproachful look, but that was all, thankfully."

"I think, deep down, she knows this marriage with Anne will not happen; she just cannot let it go. Stubborn to the core."

"That she is." He sighed. "Her estate is not in good shape; she always believes she knows best. The earl must make my suggestions happen; otherwise, they will find themselves in dire straits soon. I managed to issue a few things, but it is not enough to bring things about. When it is convenient for my uncle, I want to discuss them with him."

"I am sad to hear she does not take your advice; you are good at these things; she should know, too. It is a great kindness from you to take on the burden of looking after her interests. I shall send a note when your uncle can talk to you. We will go there sometime in June. To be honest, I'm not looking forward to it; she started to criticise the way I dress, as if she were some fashion expert."

Darcy smirked. His aunt had no place to criticise anyone with her wardrobe of over-decorated gowns, lace everywhere. Lady Matlock was elegance herself, so she was rightly insulted.

"Richard said that he enjoyed his stay more than usual. He said that you had company," she said nonchalantly, but she was looking at Darcy.

Darcy's face straightened immediately.

Her ladyship was alert about the guests at the parsonage because his son praised one of them, especially a Miss Elizabeth; what a 'delightful addition' she was to their group. She wanted to know if Darcy agreed. What she observed was a surprise. His adopted son stiffened and looked away uncomfortably. He was hardly phased by anything.

"Yes, Mrs Collins, the parson's wife at Hunsford, had visitors from home, her sister and friend. We spent some time together."

"And? I understand the sister was young, but what about Miss Elizabeth? What did you think of her?"

Darcy blinked as he heard her name.

Her guest was affected, her ladyship marvelled. Could it be? The countess had been urging Darcy to settle; it was time, she had said. Her own children were impervious to her in this while she was eager for grandchildren. The viscount especially worried her as now he was in his early thirties. When Darcy cleared his throat, she was sure that Darcy had found the lady delightful, too…and maybe more?

"Miss Elizabeth is a…lovely young lady."

"What is she like?" She pretended indifference.

"She…is kind-hearted, clever, well-read, a good conversationalist. She loves the outdoors. She is unafraid to share her opinions – even with Lady Catherine."

So, these are the traits that attract you… No wonder you have difficulty finding someone in the ton. "Even with Lady Catherine?" Her ladyship's eyebrows arched high. "Good heavens, this Miss Elizabeth sounds like a force of nature, indeed. Even I mostly just let her barbs stand and do not argue with her… And is she good-looking?"

Darcy closed his eyes for a moment or two.

Poor boy, he is lost, her ladyship thought.

Her heart-shaped face, speaking eyes…and those kissable lips appeared before him. "Yes, she is very good-looking."

"I think I should like to meet her."

"That is unlikely. She lives on a small estate in Hertfordshire; the family does not come to town."

"How do you know it is a small estate?"

"Last autumn, when I was a guest at Bingley's leased estate, we neighboured theirs, Longbourn."

"What a coincidence!"

"Yes, well, Aunt's parson will inherit the estate. Miss Elizabeth is his cousin and Mrs Collins's friend."

"I see."

"Lady Catherine hinted that she was the parson's first choice as she suggested Mr Collins to offer for one of his cousins; there are five of them."

"You do not say! Did she refuse him?"

"It seems so."

"That was not a good decision for her."

"What do you mean?"

"You said there were five daughters in the family and that this parson would inherit their estate. She could have ensured that her family would be safe."

Darcy thought about this. "That may be, but Aunt, the man is a sycophant. And unintelligent. Miss Elizabeth deserves more than such a husband." He gulped.

"You seem to know Miss Elizabeth very well."

Darcy visibly winced.

"We spent some days under one roof at Netherfield when her sister fell ill after a visit; she was caught in the rain. Miss Elizabeth came to take care of her sister. There were also some soirees and a ball…"

"You attended a ball in the country?"

"Yes, we danced."

"You danced? With Miss Elizabeth? Of your own volition?"

Darcy looked up. "Well, yes."

"That is not like you."

"Not like me? What of her?" Darcy's voice was sharp, his pride pricked. "It took me asking her three times!" He huffed. Looking at his aunt, he realised he had said too much. Why did he have to confess that?

Her ladyship was speechless.

"Are you – are you saying that she refused to dance with you?"

Darcy nodded sharply.

"And you asked her several times?"

Her ladyship observed Darcy for a few moments, then laughed.

"I am glad you find this funny." His lips pinched together in a hard line.

"Oh, William! I never thought I would get to see this. You like this lady. What is more, she is your match!"

Darcy's face was expressionless as he looked at her.

"Oh, my boy! Do you plan to take this further?"

Darcy groaned. Suddenly, he looked at his aunt with chagrin.

His aunt tried to figure out his motives. "Do you think you cannot have her?"

Darcy had known it was not a good idea to meet his aunt. She had the cunning ability to make people speak.

"I have asked her."

The countess gasped.

"She refused."

Her eyes widened at this travesty. Is she not right in the mind? Maybe she is not suitable for him after all. Refusing two offers? And one that's most sought after? Her ladyship set down her teacup with deliberate care, the sound of porcelain meeting saucer sharp in the silence. "I cannot fathom it," she said, her voice low with incredulity. "You, refused? What could possibly induce a young lady – any young lady – to refuse you?"

She stood, went to the cabinet and poured two drinks. As she sat down again, she put one glass into Darcy's hands. "Drink. Then tell me all."

[i] Verbatim from Pride and Prejudice

[ii] Verbatim from Pride and Prejudice

Rotten Row, London

Rotten Row was established by William III at the end of the 17th century. Having moved court to Kensington Palace, William wanted a safer way to travel to St. James's Palace. He created the broad avenue through Hyde Park, lit with 300 oil lamps in 1690– the first artificially lit highway in Britain. The lighting was a precaution against highwaymen, who lurked in Hyde Park at the time. The track was called Route du Roi, French for King's Road, which was eventually corrupted into "Rotten Row".

Mentioned in Chapter 1

Hyde Park at the edge of the city

Today, Hyde Park is embedded in London that covers all the area on the map and more.

https://penandpension.com/2017/02/15/the-purposes-of-the-grand-tour/

During the 17th and 18th centuries, rich young Englishmen finished their education by going on The Grand Tour — an extended cultural and collecting trip through continental Europe. You can think of it as a 'finishing school' for the sons of the gentry.

More in the link
Mentioned in Chapter 1

During the regency era, courtships were the equivalent of modern-day dating. A young man would visit a young lady at her home, escort her on walks and promenades – always properly chaperoned, of course – and send her flowers after dancing together at a ball.

https://alwaysausten.com/2023/05/09/the-language-of-flowers-in-regency-times/

https://regrom.com/2016/06/08/regency-culture-and-society-the-language-of-flowers/

The pansy flower represents the thoughts of lovers, shared before a word is spoken. Named for the French word for "thought" (pensee), the pansy was said to be a charmed flower, possessing telepathic magic. Attending to the plucked bloom, you could hear your lover's thoughts.

Forget-me-nots mean true love. While traditionally this flower represents remembrance, they also carry several other meanings including true love, devotion, and royalty

The Georgian Almond Cheesecake

https://janeausten.co.uk/blogs/desserts/let-them-eat-cheesecake

Chapter 8

Jane's speciality

Let them eat stale bread. The diet of the poor in the Regency

Chapter 11 

Britain was running out of bread in 1800. The Napoleonic blockade was beginning to have an effect, and British domestic production had not yet started to increase. Bread filled the bellies of the poor; children had dry bread for breakfast; workers had bread and cheese for their lunch; the workers' wives had bread and lard; drinkers had a salted herring and a slice of bread in the pub; everybody had bread was the main accompaniment for scraps of bacon. Only on Sunday afternoon did bread not rule the house.

Read more at:

https://about1816.wordpress.com/2016/07/15/let-them-eat-stale-bread-the-diet-of-the-poor-in-the-regency/

The Regency Barouche

Chapter 11 

Darcy's dog - the Hungarian vizsla

Chapter 14

I hope the readers will indulge me as I slip something Hungarian in the novel; I am a Hungarian by origin. It is plausible that Darcy could have picked it up in Vienna on his Great Tour.

Hussar - the dog's name

The Hungairan Hussar  - the expression means to us, Hungarians a national emblem representing the rebirth of the ancient Hungarian horseman in the era of firearms. A Hungarian hussar is a member of the light cavalry who, in the past half millennium, demonstrated prowess in the wars with the Turkish to defend his hearth and home, or to assert his national rights in the wars of independence against the Habsburgs (The Austrian royal family), or to fight in dynasty wars waged by his ruler. A Hungarian hussar is a cavalryman who wears a busby with a bag or a plume, richly braided dolman jacket and tight trousers, colourful braided belt, short boots with spur and a richly braided pelisse slung over his left shoulder. He also wears a sabre and a sabretache on a shoulder belt and has a carbine on the saddlebow and a pair of pistols at hand. 

Wrotham Park mentioned in

Chapter 15

17 miles from Hyde Park Corner

https://www.wrothampark.com/history.php

Darcy's carriage

From Chapter 16 - below is an extract from the upcoming novel

So it happened that the three Bennet daughters accompanied the gentlemen back to Netherfield in a half hour.

'This is a very comfortable carriage, Mr Darcy.' Elizabeth commented as she fidgeted in her seat and looked around. She was sitting with her sisters in a row and did not feel cramped at all. Her legs had enough space, a miracle since the gentlemen were tall. The inside was luxuriously fitted with heavy silk of cream, and the seats were cosily padded. 'Is it new? It has this new smell.'

Darcy chuckled.

'New smell? Yes, as a matter of fact, it is quite new. I bought it before I went to Rosings.' Darcy adjusted his body in his seat at the possible negative associations.

'I think I can smell it, too.' Phillip demonstratively smelt the air, making the ladies laugh.

Picnic

I thought I share this lovely painting of a picnic, called 'Majális' May celebrations. This is probably the most known Hungarian painting by Pal Szinyei Merse, 1873

The necklace Elizabeth liked

Chapter 27

Darcy's mother's favourite piece of jewellery - a pearl necklace with moonstones.