The Lost Letter: A Pride and Prejudice Variation, page 1
The Lost Letter
A Pride and Prejudice Variation
Florence Gold
Editor: Jo Abbott
Copyright © 2024 Florence Gold
All rights reserved
This work is in copyright as stated by
Berne Convention for the Protection
of Literary and Artistic Works.
Text: Copyright © 2024 Florence Gold
Cover: © 2024 ana damian powered by https://discord.com/
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters,
places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination.
Any resemblance to actual events or persons is entirely coincidental.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
To Tish Holmes
Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Epilogue
Books By This Author
By FLORENCE GOLD
on amazon.com
FORCED ENGAGEMENT
SHADOW OVER PEMBERLEY
LOVE BLOSSOMED AT ROSINGS
MR DARCY GETS ANGRY
STRUGGLE FOR LOVE
ELIZABETH D’ARCY
MR DARCY’S LEGACY
MR DARCY GOT MARRIED
THE BENNET UNCLE
THE LONGBOURN HEIR
FLAMES AND PASSION AT NETHERFIELD
FOR RICHER, FOR POORER
WEDDING AT PEMBERLEY
MR DARCY'S FIGHT FOR LOVE
THE ILLEGITIMATE SON
PROMISE OF MARRIAGE
ELIZABETH'S QUEST
AND OTHER
Chapter 1
1 January 1812
“We met Mr Harrison today while we were out,” Mr Bennet said to Elizabeth upon his return from his morning walk with his brother-in-law.
“And?” Elizabeth asked with genuine interest. She hoped Mr Harrison, the owner of Netherfield, might possess information regarding Mr Bingley; he may be the only person in the area who might do so.
“He is a gentleman with a most pleasing demeanour,” Mr Gardiner interjected, casting a glance towards Mr Bennet. They had both observed the keen curiosity on Elizabeth’s face, yet Mr Gardiner did not know what particulars they might divulge to his niece from their morning conversation.
“We can tell her everything,” Mr Bennet said with a pleasant smile at his daughter. “Lizzy knows what she may tell Jane and what is best kept secret. I believe she is the only one in our family who knows how to behave around Jane at the moment.”
“Mr Harrison was greatly incensed,” Mr Gardiner continued. “It appears Mr Bingley abruptly changed his plans after taking a lease of Netherfield for twelve months or more. Having been paid rent for the three months up until the end of November, Mr Harrison awaited further payment only to receive a missive from the gentleman in question withdrawing his agreement.”
“Oh!” Elizabeth exclaimed, her face suddenly shadowed with concern. “He does not intend to return.”
“No, and we only found that out by chance, encountering Mr Harrison mere moments after he received the letter. He was still seething with indignation and needed someone to talk to,” Mr Bennet said.
He found himself somewhat surprised by the extent of the details the man had provided; given Mr Harrison now lived in St Albans, their acquaintance had diminished considerably over time.
“But why did he decide not to come back?” Elizabeth asked, hoping for further explanation.
“Harrison did not know why. No explicit explanation was offered, which explained Mr Harrison’s ire, given the substantial investments he made to accommodate Mr Bingley’s wishes, anticipating it would be a long-term tenancy.”
“As did we,” Elizabeth murmured, saddened for her sister. Mr Bingley’s evident lack of intention to return was a bad sign. A man smitten would have left avenues open.
“Nevertheless, your uncle, ever intrepid, as you know, broached the subject of leasing Netherfield himself for the spring and summer.”
“No!” Elizabeth exclaimed, surprised, casting a glance at her uncle.
“Well, you know us, how we have always enjoyed our stays here. The countryside is peaceful and picturesque, affording Mrs Gardiner and the children a peaceful holiday with you and your sisters nearby,” Mr Gardiner explained.
Elizabeth found little cause for rejoicing, doubting Jane would like the idea. Yet, ultimately, the decision did not lie with her.
“We might take possession at Easter…or perhaps a little earlier—nothing is yet settled. I must discuss it with my wife and take her to view Netherfield. Mr Harrison has offered to give us a tour tomorrow morning. You may join us if you wish.”
She wanted to go. It was a peculiar opportunity, being there without the Bingleys…and Mr Darcy. The notion of her uncle visiting the property as a potential tenant was indeed curious, and a circumstance she would not miss.
∞∞∞
As they ascended the steps to the house, Elizabeth struggled to contain her enthusiasm to view Netherfield again.
Usually, she confided her thoughts and feelings to her aunt, yet that morning, she did not know how to explain that strange feeling of anticipation and pleasure she was experiencing. A maid greeted them, delivering a message from Mr Harrison, who regretfully excused himself—an urgent matter required his immediate presence in St Albans.
“He invites us to view the estate and provide our response within the week,” Mr Gardiner said, and they stepped into the elegant hall adorned with a grand Venetian mirror that Elizabeth remembered so well.
That November evening at the ball, with a final glance in the mirror, she had entered the ballroom with confidence, expecting Mr Wickham to welcome her. She had dressed with more care than usual, and in high spirits, she had anticipated captivating the young officer’s heart further, certain that any remaining doubt could be dispelled during the evening. Yet, her disappointment had been painful when Mr Wickham had been nowhere to be found amidst the sea of red coats assembled.
She had immediately suspected Mr Darcy of being responsible for the man’s absence, and her resentment and ire towards that gentleman had become so great that she had hardly been able to reply with tolerable civility to his polite enquiries.
“I shall go to the drawing-room and wait for your return,” Elizabeth said, watching her aunt and uncle ascend the stairs in the company of the maid.
However, Mr Darcy had left behind a slightly improved impression than her first one; she remembered him as a strong character and an excellent conversationalist, who seemed to have an inexplicable attraction towards her which manifested itself in intense gazes, smiles, and a visible inclination to defend her stance in various discussions. She cherished the moments they had spent in lively debates in Netherfield’s drawing-room or library. In those particular instances, she remembered even the Bingley sisters with a hint of pleasure as their interventions had been diverting and even amusing, while their camaraderie with Mr Darcy had made them free to tease him and often led to unexpected confessions.
Gazing at the chair he had habitually occupied, she recalled their last exchange, a day or so before the ball. She could clearly hear his voice in her memory.
“My feelings are not puffed about with every attempt to move them. My temper would perhaps be called resentful. My good opinion, once lost, is lost forever.”
“That is a failing indeed!” she cried. “Implacable resentment is a shade in a character. But you have chosen your fault well. I really cannot laugh at it. You are safe from me.”
“There is, I believe, in every disposition a tendency to some particular evil—a natural defect, which not even the best education can overcome.”
“And your defect is to hate everybody.”
“And yours,” he replied with a smile, “is wilfully to misunderstand them.”
Those moments had been among the most enjoyable of her life—a secret she guarded closely, even from her aunt. She recalled seeing Mr Darcy penning a letter to his sister. Approaching the desk where paper and ink still sat, she was surprised to find a letter lingered there, unfinished, forgotten.
Curiosity overwhelmed her discretion, and she succumbed to the impulse to peruse its contents.
Just a glance to discover the sender, she mused, though she found herself unable to resist reading further.
As she read, a suspicion began to form in her mind. The sen
Dear Cousin,
Everything that is happening here is puzzling. I initially regretted accepting the invitation, yet I thought that a few days away from London could bring me some peace after the tormenting year I have had.
I was wrong and right at the same time. I have not found peace, yet my stay has become intriguing and compelling.
Rarely have I found myself interested in a young lady to the point of being curious to know more about her. Yet this has happened here, in the last place I would have imagined. Is she beautiful? Does she exude sophistication or elegance? Not in the conventional manner that is often esteemed in the salons of London; however, she is vivacious, possessing an intellect that is truly captivating and an exquisite stubbornness when it comes to defending her convictions. While her taste in fashion may not be deemed remarkable, there was a morning after a brisk three-mile stroll when she appeared so gloriously alive that all other considerations paled in comparison. She was akin to a flame, illuminating all in her path, and I cannot help but feel that her radiance has ignited something deep within me.
Elizabeth blushed deeply, thinking of every moment spent in the company of Mr Darcy, then rebuking herself for entertaining such thoughts. Could it have been Miss Bingley? But Mr Darcy had been acquainted with that lady before he arrived in Hertfordshire; thus, it could not have been her. Then whom? Rarely had she observed him conversing with any other lady in their circle beyond mere civilities. And then there were his eyes, fixed upon her, his taunting words that seemed to harbour admiration rather than jest, his encouragement for her to engage in conversation or dispute. Yet, he had not disclosed the identity of the lady to his cousin.
She read that final sentence once more, attempting to comprehend it, shocked by his dilemma regarding her. She had never imagined that he could like her to that extent. A trace of admiration? Perhaps. But to ignite something deep within him…that was a different story, and she hardly imagined the haughty gentleman capable of those feelings.
To her great distress, she heard her aunt and uncle approaching the library, and like a thief caught in the act, her heart stopped in fear. Hastily, without thinking about what she was doing, she folded the paper and secreted it within her pocket.
Only as she walked alone back to Longbourn, after declining the Gardiners’ offer of the carriage, did she realise the gravity of her action. Taking a letter from another’s abode could be perceived as a severe indiscretion, verging on theft.
Yet, she found no solution. Even as the letter burnt a hole in her pocket, she could not bring herself to discard it, while returning to Netherfield was out of the question. She attempted to assuage her remorse with various justifications—the fear of anyone discovering Mr Darcy’s sentiments towards her. But he had divulged no names. No one in Meryton could imagine that it concerned her, for no one had witnessed those peculiar moments when Mr Darcy had behaved so oddly in her presence.
On the contrary, it was believed that he had a strong dislike for her after those unkind words he had uttered during their initial encounter at the Meryton assembly.
Not handsome enough to tempt him? His words echoed in her mind, yet the letter was surely about her, and perhaps she was the person he would least wish to discover it.
Casting wary glances around her to ensure none were within earshot, she retrieved the letter once more, perusing its contents again. Even though it remained incomplete, it divulged much about Mr Darcy—that arrogant man admired her. Her cheeks heated again, and she was uncertain whether her blush was due to her impulsive act or the flattery of his regard. Nevertheless, she had no doubt that the letter had been composed with her in mind.
More than once, she stopped, determined to take it back to Netherfield. She could claim she had left her shawl in that room and place the letter on the desk, yet a strange mixture of fear and pleasure made her continue her walk each time, and when she finally arrived home, the letter was still in her pocket.
Chapter 2
Elizabeth strolled silently alongside Mrs Gardiner on the path leading to Longbourn. Her aunt did not like long walks, yet on this particular afternoon, she found solace in the fresh air and the tranquillity of the road. January had graced them with an unusually sunny day, though the cold persisted; it provided a welcome respite from the distress and despondency they had witnessed in Mrs Phillips’s house. Under her aunt’s kind eyes, Jane had surrendered once again to despair, and no words could ease her pain or stop her tears.
“It is not that I am unsympathetic to Jane’s plight,” remarked Elizabeth, her sadness palpable, “but rather I find myself incensed that we seem to have left behind our easy and pleasant lives to navigate this unfamiliar existence governed by rules so different from those we once knew.”
Her fingers occasionally grazed the beech hedges lining the road. She liked the different hues of the leaves across the seasons, from verdant splendour in spring and summer to the warm, coppery tones of autumn; even in winter, though tinged with a rusty charm, they still seemed joyful amidst that hostile and cold universe she had lived in since the end of November.
“It scarcely seems believable that our carefree days have surrendered to this realm of sorrow and worry that everybody calls maturity,” she said angrily.
“No, my dear,” Mrs Gardiner said, observing Elizabeth’s tormented face. “Maturity means much more than that.”
“But look at what happened to Jane,” Elizabeth said, her voice barely a murmur. She was not someone who generally whispered—Mr Bennet said it was against her nature—yet lately, everybody had been speaking like that at Longbourn.
“Remember how the residents of Netherfield behaved—their insolence towards us and Mr Bingley’s utter disregard for propriety. Such behaviour is contrary to the principles instilled in us. Father afforded us liberties beyond those of other young ladies, yet he always insisted upon impeccable conduct. Who departs without a word? Without a message? And just when it appeared an engagement was imminent?”
“Insisted does not mean he always succeeded,” Mrs Gardiner said quite dryly. “People are not perfect.”
“Papa succeeded with Jane and me, and I am sure Mary is the same. I consider leaving in such a way as a major misstep.”
Mrs Gardiner merely shook her head circumspectly. “My dear, that is how you perceive the world because you are pure in heart and mind. People in general have not changed lately, and those from London are no worse than those from here.”
“How can you say such a thing?” Elizabeth cried, startling a flock of birds basking in the sunlight, prompting their noisy flight.
“Because it is the truth, my dear. Here in Meryton, you enjoyed a semblance of equality in status and wealth.”
“Sir William has a knighthood,” Elizabeth interjected.
“Oh!” Mrs Gardiner laughed. “Our king has bestowed knighthoods and titles with unprecedented frequency. Moreover, were Sir William to assume an air of arrogance or superiority, he would find himself isolated. No, the people of Meryton and Longbourn are all cut from the same cloth. There are no significant differences, at least not of that nature that creates small, impenetrable groups within the larger society.
“But take the village where I grew up in Derbyshire. The situation was completely different there. I resided in Lambton until I was twenty, giving me quite a mature insight into what happened around us. Two of Derbyshire’s preeminent estates lay no more than ten miles distant—Pemberley and Matlock. When I say preeminent, I hope you see the magnitude. Pemberley, in particular, is still one of the most magnificent houses I have ever visited. Since moving to London, I have toured numerous estates and houses within the city and its environs. You know your uncle—you have accompanied us on many occasions, for he loves visiting such places. He often says that one day we shall possess an estate not far from London—a prospect I find entirely plausible, given his business has grown at an impressive rate since we married.”
“You were telling me about the people living in those estates near Lambton,” Elizabeth said, interested, realising that her aunt was talking about Pemberley, Mr Darcy’s estate.
