The invitation to dine at Longbourn, once a matter of indifference, now held a significance that could not be overstated. It was to be an evening of consequence, for Bingley and myself, for reasons both public and personal. As our carriage traversed the familiar path, I found myself in a state of introspection, pondering the possible outcomes of the night ahead.
Upon our punctual arrival, the Bennet household was aflutter with activity, the anticipation of the evening palpable in the air. Mrs. Bennet's welcome was effusive in its civility, though her attention was soon diverted by the task of hosting. Jane's reception of Bingley was marked by an unspoken understanding, a look exchanged that seemed to seal his fate.
I, however, turned my gaze towards Elizabeth, whose attempts at calm betrayed her inner turmoil. She sat diligently at her needlework, her fingers moving with a practiced grace that spoke of a desire for distraction. Yet, as I entered, her hands stilled momentarily—a silent testament to the effect of my presence.
The dinner was a lively affair, with conversation flowing as freely as the wine. Jane, the image of tranquility, was seated beside Bingley, who could scarcely contain his admiration for her. Mrs. Bennet's machinations were transparent, yet none could fault the mother for seeking the happiness of her child.
As for Elizabeth and myself, we were seated at a cruel distance, separated not only by the expanse of the table but by an undercurrent of unresolved emotions. Despite my proximity to Mrs. Bennet, a woman of no small opinion, my attention was invariably drawn to Elizabeth. Her presence was magnetic, her every glance and gesture observed with an intensity I could scarcely conceal.
Throughout the meal, my thoughts were consumed by Elizabeth's well-being and the family's reception of my actions. I longed to convey the depth of my regard for her, to speak of matters left unsaid, yet the presence of her mother rendered such discourse impossible.
As the evening progressed, the hope for a moment of private conversation with Elizabeth grew. With each passing minute, I felt the weight of expectation, the desire to bridge the gap between us. Yet, as the gentlemen adjourned to the drawing-room, I found myself thwarted by the throng of ladies and the strategic positioning of the Bennet sisters.
Elizabeth's whisper to me, though brief, was a balm to my restless spirit. "Is your sister at Pemberley still?" she inquired, a question that betrayed her continued interest in my world.
"Yes; she will remain there till Christmas," I replied, seizing the opportunity to converse, however briefly.
"And quite alone? Have all her friends left her?" Her voice was laced with genuine concern, a concern I shared for Georgiana's well-being.
"Mrs. Annesley is with her," I assured her. "The others have been gone on to Scarborough these three weeks."
Our exchange was cut short by the commotion of the room, and I was soon ensnared by Mrs. Bennet's call for whist players. As the card tables were arranged, I felt a keen sense of loss, my evening's enjoyment sacrificed upon the altar of social obligation.
Seated at the whist table, my mind was only partially on the game; my thoughts wandered incessantly to Elizabeth. I could sense her frustration from across the room, her own displeasure at the evening's turn of events. And yet, despite the distance, I found myself attempting to catch her eye, to communicate through silent glances that which could not be spoken aloud.
The evening waned, and with it, my hopes of meaningful discourse with Elizabeth. The games of cards and conversation continued, a dance of social niceties that masked the true desires of the heart. It was an evening of missed opportunities, of words unspoken and feelings unexpressed.
As I retired to my room at Netherfield later that night, the quiet of the night was a stark contrast to the bustle of Longbourn. The events of the evening replayed in my mind, a litany of what might have been. Yet, amidst the disappointment, there remained a hope that a future encounter might yield a different result.
For now, I must be content with the knowledge that my affection for Elizabeth Bennet remains undiminished, a sentiment I hold in secret, waiting for the moment when it can be declared openly and without reservation.
Fitzwilliam Darcy
YOU ARE READING
The Lost Journals of Fitzwilliam Darcy
Historical Fiction"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...
