The Lost Journals of Fitzwilliam Darcy

November 28, 1811

The morning was of a character that suggested tranquility, the gentle clatter of hooves on cobblestones the only intrusion upon the stillness that had settled over Netherfield. It was with a mind preoccupied by recent events that I accompanied Bingley on his ride towards Longbourn. His purpose was clear—to inquire after Miss Jane Bennet's health—and I, his steadfast companion, could scarce object to the civility of such a gesture.

As we navigated the familiar thoroughfares of Meryton, our path converged with a group of ladies, among whom were the Misses Bennet. Bingley, ever amiable and attentive, engaged them directly with the grace and affability that are the hallmarks of his character. He expressed his intent to visit Longbourn, his concern for Miss Bennet's well-being evident in his every word and gesture. I echoed his sentiments with a polite bow, my own gaze carefully measured to avoid lingering on Elizabeth.

It was then, in the midst of these genteel exchanges, that an occurrence transpired which sent a tremor through the facade of cordiality. A stranger approached, and as his eyes met mine, a silent confrontation unfolded—one that was keenly observed by Elizabeth, if her countenance was any indication of her surprise.

The gentleman was Mr. Wickham, a figure from my past whose presence here was as unexpected as it was unwelcome. Our mutual recognition was marked by a shift in demeanor; he, with a touch of his hat, and I, barely acknowledging the gesture. The moment was fraught with a tension that belied the simplicity of our salutations.

Elizabeth's astonishment at our exchange did not escape my notice, nor could it. Her curiosity was palpable, a mirror to the confusion that must have been etched upon my own features. What thoughts passed through her mind at the sight of such an encounter, I could not say, but her desire to understand was unmistakable.

Bingley, bless his heart, seemed oblivious to the undercurrents of the moment. His focus remained singularly on Jane, and with a polite farewell, he guided our departure, leaving Meryton and its inhabitants behind. As we continued back towards Netherfield, I was grateful for the distraction provided by the rhythm of the ride and the necessity of polite conversation.

Yet, as the landscape passed by, I could not shake the disquiet that Mr. Wickham's appearance had stirred within me. His presence in the county, his proximity to Elizabeth and her family, was a development that required consideration. The history between Wickham and myself was a sordid one, fraught with deceit and regret, and the thought of Elizabeth being drawn into its orbit was a source of great unease.

The remainder of the day was spent at Netherfield, walking the grounds and taking care of business matters, at dinner the conversation light, yet the shadow of the morning's encounter loomed large in my thoughts.

It was not until my return to my quarters that I had the opportunity to reflect fully upon the day's events. In the quiet of my study, I contemplated the implications of Wickham's arrival in the area, the potential for gossip and scandal, and the necessity of guarding against any interference he might pose to the well-being of those I—against my better judgment—had come to regard with a degree of concern.

As I pen this entry, I am resolute in my determination to protect not only my own reputation but also that of the Bennet family from the machinations of a man as unscrupulous as Wickham. How I am to accomplish this without revealing the full extent of our shared history is a challenge I have yet to resolve.

The image of Elizabeth's startled expression remains with me—a reminder of the complexities of human interaction and the unpredictable nature of life's encounters. Her opinion, her estimations of character, are of an importance to me that I had not anticipated, and the desire to shield her from Wickham's influence is a compulsion I cannot easily dismiss.

Fitzwilliam Darcy