The morning air was crisp as we departed for Rosings, the carriage wheels crunching on the gravel. I was acutely aware that Elizabeth Bennet's proximity at the parsonage would soon bring about a meeting, the anticipation of which caused an unfamiliar restlessness in my otherwise composed demeanor. Colonel Fitzwilliam seemed to sense my tension, offering a distraction through light-hearted conversation, yet my thoughts were singularly occupied.
Upon our arrival at the parsonage, Mr. Collins greeted us with the obsequious flattery I have come to expect. His pride at our attendance was palpable, and he hastened to inform us of Elizabeth's presence within. My heart quickened at the mention of her name, though I endeavored to maintain an outward appearance of indifference.
As we were announced and entered the modest drawing-room, I saw her amongst the small assembly. She was as I remembered—her fine eyes sparking with intelligence, her manner at once composed and inviting. The exchange of courtesies was brief, Elizabeth's courtesy to me marked by the same reserve that I myself projected.
The conversation flowed more readily from Colonel Fitzwilliam, whose easy manners endeared him to our hosts. I, on the other hand, found myself momentarily at a loss, the usual flow of society's pleasantries escaping me in her presence. It was only after a time that I inquired after the health of her family, a question that served as a veil for my deeper concern for her well-being.
Her response was expected, but her following remark struck a chord of guilt within me. "My eldest sister has been in town these three months. Have you never happened to see her there?" The inquiry, innocent as it was, felt like a probe to my very conscience, knowing full well the role I had played in concealing Jane's presence from Bingley. I could not discern if Elizabeth was aware of the depth of my involvement, but the momentary falter in my response may have betrayed more than I intended.
As we took our leave, the image of Elizabeth's inquisitive eyes lingered with me, prompting a reflection on the justice of my past actions.
The days that followed were marked by an air of expectancy. Though Colonel Fitzwilliam visited the parsonage with some frequency, I confined my interactions with Elizabeth to the chance meetings at church, each encounter sending ripples through the calm surface of my life.
When at last the invitation from Lady Catherine arrived, it was with a mixture of relief and trepidation that we entered her imposing drawing-room. Her Ladyship received us with civility, though it was clear that our company was secondary to her desire to boast and preen before her nephews.
Colonel Fitzwilliam, ever the congenial guest, soon found himself engaged in lively discourse with Elizabeth. Their conversation, covering topics from literature to the local scenery, drew the attention of the entire room, including my own. I could not help but observe them, a mixture of admiration and something akin to jealousy stirring within me.
Lady Catherine, never one to be excluded, interjected with her usual imperiousness, demanding inclusion in their exchange. The talk of music led to an invitation for Elizabeth to play, and she obliged, taking her place at the pianoforte with a grace that captivated the room.
As I watched her perform, the sound of the music seemed secondary to the sight of her hands moving deftly across the keys, her expression one of focused serenity. When invited by Colonel Fitzwilliam to join her, I moved with measured steps, positioning myself to better appreciate her talent, though my true intent was to be near her.
Our conversation, once begun, was filled with the familiar banter that had come to define our interactions. Her playful accusations regarding my behavior in Hertfordshire brought forth laughter, yet behind the jest lay truths that resonated within us both. I found her courage and candor disarming, and in her company, I allowed a glimpse of my genuine self to show—a self that was increasingly drawn to the spirited woman before me.
Lady Catherine's interruption to extol her own unexercised musical talents and to offer unsolicited advice was a reminder of the expectations that surrounded me. Yet, as I observed Elizabeth navigate my aunt's overbearing critique with civility and poise, my respect for her only deepened.
As the evening drew to a close, I found myself reluctant to part from the parsonage and the enchanting company within. The journey back to Rosings was made in silence, my thoughts a tumult of emotions that I could scarcely comprehend. It was clear to me now that Elizabeth Bennet had become an indelible presence in my life, one that challenged the very foundations of my beliefs and desires.
Fitzwilliam Darcy
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The Lost Journals of Fitzwilliam Darcy
ऐतिहासिक साहित्य"The Lost Journals of Fitzwilliam Darcy" is a retelling of Jane Austen's classic novel "Pride and Prejudice" from the perspective of the enigmatic Mr. Darcy. Presented as a series of detailed journal entries, the story chronicles Darcy's innermost t...
