First Impressions: A Modern Pride and Prejudice Adaptation

Chapter 27

Liz sat slowly, her thighs gently sinking into the pad of blankets across her mattress. She held the envelope gingerly in both hands as if it were dangerous.

Maybe it was dangerous, for all she knew. She had no preconceptions of what it might contain. He had given her no clues.

She set herself to slowly unsheathing the missive; the edge of the letter was worn down, the originally crisp paper already softened with touch. Slowly, she ran one finger under the lip of the envelope, peeling the flap away from the body.

The pages inside were the same pale lilac color and closely covered with row after gently slanting row of cursive. Slowly, she dipped her fingers into the envelope and pulled them out. She had to shake them a little to uncrease the folds and straighten out the paper. When she peeled them apart, she began to realize just how many pages there were...

They were not numbered on the bottom and she had to be careful not to scramble them up as she leafed through. At the top of the first page was a square of scribbled ink. It took her flipping through several before she found a header not covered—he must have missed one in his distraction or haste or... whatever state of mind Darcy was in when he wrote the letter.

Lady Catherine's stationary header sat at the top, written in an insipid, overly-curled script font. It looked all the more flowery compared to Darcy's neat and straight-forward handwriting. It looked out of place on the colored page.

She grimaced, knowing she could not continue stalling. She pushed herself higher on her bed and settled in against her pillows, ready for a long evening.

The letter read:

Elizabeth, (Her name written in such a hurried hand that the pen nearly bit through the paper on the final letters and the dot over the I.)

I know you owe me no explanations for your rejection of me and I will endeavor not to dwell on the subject. It would be disrespectful for us both to rehash what has already been thoroughly covered.

However, there were several instances yesterday in which I feel I did a poor job explaining my actions and your opinion of me suffered based on that, and your incomplete information. There are parts to the story which you are not aware and for my own peace of mind, I must acquaint you with the particulars. You do not owe me your time, but I could not rest until I accounted for myself and for others who you believe to have suffered at my hands.

Your accusations were in two parts. The first is infinitely smaller—that I forced Bingley to abandon your sister. The second, that I have ruined the life, livelihood, honor, and every other part of George Wickham's personal existence and prosperity. That I ignored the best of wishes of my father out of some kind of jealously. The fact that you thought to put these two things on the same scale is absurd.

Regardless: I will follow each in order. I will address Wickham's crimes soon enough. You had only fragments of the truth with which you accused me of regarding Bingley and your sister. Whether the full facts will assuage you, I suppose I could not guess. But I will not lie to you, even if my personal readings of the events of the summer offend you further.

I have known Charles Bingley for over 13 years. Our particular relationship is founded almost entirely on one righting the faults of the other. Which, say what you will about the standards of such a relationship, it has not steered either of us wrong yet.

I cannot say what you saw at the beginning of the summer, but I saw my friend follow the usual steps of his usual romances—meet a girl, fall in love too quickly, leap for her affection, and find himself with an utterly unsuitable partner. The break-up would ensue quickly enough and he would be left to wallow for a few weeks before picking himself back up again and starting it all over. This time he was no different, at least at the start. He picked Jane easily from the start. It didn't take more than a few days for him to fall head over heels for her.