There is very little that is rational here, save Charlotte, of course. She tends her household and her parish with great success. Mr Collins continues to flatter Lady Catherine, who accepts every word graciously as though it is her due. Maria is in awe of everyone and everything. Mr Darcy stares us all out of countenance—yes, he is here. It is not so very surprising, I suppose, as his aunt is Lady Catherine. What pleasure he gains from his visit I cannot guess, since his aunt’s behaviour is such as to make any sensible person blush. But perhaps he likes it. I suppose he must, for he is his own master, and he could just as easily spend Easter in Derbyshire or London if he had a mind to do so. Instead he plagues us here at Rosings.

Your loving daughter,

Lizzy


Mr Darcy to Mr Philip Darcy

Rosings Park, Kent, April 20

Philip, this letter might surprise you, or then again, not. I think you guessed that I was speaking of myself when I wrote to you about an inferior woman at Christmas, and not Bingley as I protested; or, at least, not entirely about Bingley, for it is true that he was attracted to a woman of inferior birth and that I saved him from an imprudent attachment. But it is my own case that now concerns me, for I was also enamoured of a woman who was unsuitable in every way.

I first met her at a local assembly and paid no attention to her, thinking her, quite rightly, beneath my notice. But the more I came to know her, the more I came to be intrigued by her, for her quick wits and lively intelligence stimulated me and made me want to know more of her. I began to seek her out, enticed by her conversation, which gleamed like a vein of gold amidst the dull talk and endless flattery of everyone else around me.

I found myself looking forward to seeing her and I started each day by wondering when and where we would encounter each other. My pulses quickened and the blood ran more swiftly in my veins whenever she entered a room. I was alert, where usually I am bored. I was further attracted by the fact that she was not in awe of my wealth or my position and that she treated me as she would anyone else. She was constantly challenging me, making no allowances for my name or fortune, in fact she seemed to delight in teasing me and tormenting me. She had a way of looking at me, as if daring me to cross swords with her, which fascinated me; it called forth all my instincts, base and otherwise, and made me so far in danger of forgetting myself that on more than one occasion I was tempted to kiss her. I did not do it, of course, but the urge grew stronger and stronger, and the energy I needed to resist was becoming more and more powerful, until I felt that I was in some danger from her.

I knew the remedy: to avoid her. But by some unlucky chance her sister became ill whilst visiting Bingley, and when Elizabeth called to see her sister, Bingley invited her to stay. I was thrown more and more into company with her and it was not long before I had to admit to myself that I was at risk of being overwhelmed by my feelings entirely. Where I had once thought she had not one good feature in her face, I found myself thinking her uncommonly pretty, with a pair of fine eyes which, when she teased me, sparkled. And tease me she did. What is more, I looked forward to it.

But I was still not lost, at that time. I recognised my weakness and I attempted to control it by putting her in her place, to remind her—as well as myself—that she was beneath me. But every attempt I made failed. When I asked her if she wanted to dance a reel, she saw at once what I was about, and knew that I wanted her to admit to liking the unrefined dance. So instead she outwitted me, replying that if she said yes I would despise her taste, so she would refuse—then challenged me to despise her if I dared. And indeed I did not dare! Or, rather, I did not want to, for she had outmanoeuvred me and I felt nothing but admiration for her.

I was still enough the master of my feelings to resist her charms, however, and to force myself to avoid her whenever I felt it necessary. But the pull towards her was so strong that when Bingley left Netherfield Park for a few days to attend to business in town, I followed him. I gave as my reason my concern for his attachment to an unsuitable woman; but I was just as concerned, if not more so, about my own unsuitable attachment. I encouraged him to remain in town, away from the object of his affections—and away from mine. I was sure that, with no reason to return to the neighbourhood, I would soon forget her. And for a time it seemed that I was right. Back in my own world, I saw the folly of becoming entangled with someone from such a low level in life. I knew that she would never be able to fit in with my kind; that, in short, it would never lead to anything but disaster.

And so I occupied myself with business and friends and family, taking myself off to Cumbria and surrounding myself with people I knew. But thoughts of her would intrude at the most inopportune moments and I found myself comparing every other young woman I met to her—unfavourably, I might add. None of them had her playful disposition or her lack of deference or her complete unconcern for my position, my wealth, or indeed anything else that young women usually court.

How things would have turned out if I had not visited Rosings I do not know, but the fact of the matter is that I did visit Rosings—indeed, I am still here—and by some unlucky chance she was here also.

I never thought to meet her in Kent, but her friend had lately married the rector of Hunsford and Elizabeth is visiting her friend. There! I have said her name. It is a name which haunts me and plagues me and delights me and gives me no peace.

Elizabeth.

Elizabeth, Elizabeth, Elizabeth.

It seems folly to me now, but when I first found out she was here, I thought it would be a useful test of my resolve. I flattered myself that I was no longer in any danger from her, but the more I see of her, the more I find it impossible to resist her. I find myself drawn to her as if to a magnet whenever she dines with us; and when she does not cross my path by accident, I walk in the park, following her favourite routes in the hope of seeing her. If she is not to be met with in the park, my feet turn of their own accord towards the parsonage, where I know I will find her. The other day I went in, even though I knew her friend to be away from home, and almost found myself proposing to her.

It is madness! The inferiority of her family, who are small country gentry; the wild behaviour of her younger sisters, who spend their time flirting with the officers stationed nearby their home; the vulgarity of her mother; the irresponsible nature of her father; the family’s lack of connections or fortune; all of these things make it impossible. It would degrade me to marry her. I would be laughed at by all my friends, jeered at by my enemies and pitied by all. I could never possibly marry her. And yet—and yet I cannot keep away from her. The lightness of her spirits, her humour, her arch smile, her teasing, her eyes—oh! Philip, her eyes! which sparkle when she teases me and show she knows her power over me—all these things drive me to distraction.

I can tell no one but you. You know my character, you know how proud and disdainful I am, but against my better judgement I have been enraptured by her. It is out of the question for me to marry her; out of the question to make her my mistress.

I would leave if I could, but if I go now it will look particular and that is something I very much want to avoid. I do not know what to do.

Your beleaguered cousin,

Darcy


Mr Philip Darcy to Mr Darcy

London, April 21

Darcy, leave at once. Make some excuse and go today, this minute, never mind if it looks particular, it will soon be forgotten. Do not linger another moment. This kind of fever is virulent and the only thing that can control it is a prolonged absence from its source. Have your valet pack your things and meet me in London straightaway. If you stay, you will regret it.

PD


Mr Darcy to Mr Philip Darcy

Rosings Park, Kent, April 22

Philip, your letter arrived too late. I have proposed. I never meant to. I was in a ferment of passion, I did not know what I was doing. I was looking forward to seeing her, for she was engaged to drink tea with my aunt, and I was surprised and humiliated at the bitterness of my disappointment when she did not attend. She had a headache, her friend said. I wondered what could have occasioned it; I wondered how bad it was; I wondered if she needed a physician. I could not ask without it causing interest and so I said nothing, but excusing myself on account of a letter which I said needed an urgent reply, I bent my steps to the parsonage and before I knew what I was doing I was inside.

I do not know what possessed me, but possessed I was. I enquired after her health in a hurried manner and she replied coldly, not pleased to see me. Her manner only inflamed me more. I sat down in an effort to collect myself but my passions rose within me like a volcano and I believe it would have killed me to keep them in. They erupted from me as I told her that in vain had I struggled, but that I ardently loved and admired her.

Once started, I could not stop. I poured out my feelings: my horror at the behaviour of her family, the inferiority of her station in life, and the degradation it would be for me to marry her; but that, despite all this, I could not root out my feelings, that they were impossible to conquer, and I expressed my hope that she would accept my hand in marriage.