The morning that Mr. Darcy arrived at Longbourn again, the house was cloaked in a rare hush. Even Mrs. Bennet, usually bustling with theatrical excitement at the mere thought of a visitor of Darcy's rank, had been struck silent by the letter announcing his intended call. She had read it thrice, her spectacles fogging each time.
"For Lady Clara's sake, of course," she repeated to herself, as if the words would make the world orderly. "To speak with Mr. and Mrs. Ellingham—certainly, that is all."
But we all knew.
Mr. and Mrs. Ellingham, my mother's distant cousins who had taken me in after the baron's death, had arrived from Oxfordshire the day before. With their quiet manners and old-fashioned propriety, they had treated my upbringing with a mix of gentle oversight and general bewilderment. They loved me in their own way—cautious, structured, never effusive—but they loved me nonetheless.
I had sat between them at tea that morning, watching the condensation trail down the sides of the silver pot, waiting for the knock.
It came at precisely eleven o'clock.
Darcy was announced. His coat was dark, his gloves pale, his cravat pinned with quiet precision. He greeted each person in the room, then turned to the Ellinghams.
"I thank you for receiving me," he said to them. "I ask your patience for what I must now say."
I sat motionless, feeling every breath tighten in my chest.
Darcy did not look at me.
"My connection to Lady Clara has deepened beyond what I had foreseen," he began. "She is young, yes, but of uncommon thought and steadiness of character. I have come to value her counsel more than that of many seasoned companions. She has brought warmth into my life—clarity into my judgment."
He paused, then added, "It is not yet time to ask for her hand. But I wish, with your permission, to express my intentions. That when she is of age, if her feelings align with mine, I would seek a formal courtship."
The room was silent.
Mr. Ellingham cleared his throat.
"You speak with gravity, Mr. Darcy. And you honour her with your honesty. But she is not merely an heir or a name to be spoken for. She is a young girl, one whom we have raised as best we can to be thoughtful in her own mind."
"She has never been anything less," Darcy said softly.
Mrs. Ellingham turned to me. "Clara, what is your wish?"
I looked from her to Darcy, whose gaze still refused to force mine.
"I believe Mr. Darcy means every word," I said. "And though I do not know all of my future… I know I wish for him to be part of it."
Mrs. Ellingham looked at her husband, and he at her. At length, he gave a small nod.
"Then let time be your friend," he said. "If, in years to come, you both still feel as you do now, we shall have no cause for objection."
Darcy bowed deeply. "You have my gratitude."
Only then did he turn to me.
"Lady Clara."
"Mr. Darcy."
And in that shared address, something unspoken became real.
---
He did not linger.
"I do not wish to rouse further speculation," he said, as we walked in the orchard.
"Too late for that," I replied.
He gave a rare laugh, brief but unguarded. "Then I shall only say this: I will write. Not letters to persuade or implore, but to speak plainly of what I see, what I learn, and what I wish to share."
"I shall answer."
He stopped beneath the sycamore tree, hands folded behind his back.
"I once believed love was born of admiration alone," he said. "But it is respect, Clara. Respect and shared silence. And if we must wait years, I shall wait. I would rather wait for what is true than chase what is not."
His sincerity was more eloquent than poetry.
When he left, I stood watching his figure diminish along the path. And I realized something I had not dared to feel before:
This was not a crush.
This was the steady unfolding of fate.
---
In the weeks that followed, life resumed its usual rhythm. Jane and Bingley's engagement was announced properly. The Bennets rejoiced. Elizabeth was gracious in her congratulations, though I saw her pause longer than necessary when she passed Darcy's name in conversation.
Wickham and Lydia remained in town, hosted by relatives and unlikely to visit soon. Mr. Bennet had returned with new lines on his face but fewer words on his tongue.
"I am too old for scandal," he muttered once. "Let the young make sense of it."
Charlotte visited more frequently. Though her marriage to Mr. Collins remained politely dreary, she found space in my company for smiles.
"I envy you," she said during a walk one afternoon. "Not for Mr. Darcy, though I suspect there is more to that story than I am told."
"What do you envy, then?"
"Your liberty of mind. You live beyond the page. I feel as if I've only just begun to understand that the novel may be rewritten."
"It always can be," I said. "Though it takes courage."
She pressed my hand.
---
Autumn arrived with gold and rust.
The first letter from Darcy came in September. It bore no address but was filled with thoughts on Virgil and weather, on managing estate repairs, and the strangeness of birds migrating before schedule.
He did not mention affection.
He did not need to.
I replied in kind, sharing thoughts on books, the oddity of Hertfordshire's markets, and how silence sometimes felt more companionable than speech. Our letters continued—measured, paced, respectful.
Through them, I began to see the man he was becoming.
And I began to feel, slowly but surely, the girl I had once been becoming something else entirely.
---
One evening in late October, I sat in the parlour with Elizabeth. The fire crackled between us.
"Do you regret it?" I asked her softly.
She understood the question without need for name or context.
"I did," she admitted. "But not because he chose you. Because I misjudged what I might have had. And now I think it was meant that way. So that I would learn."
I reached across the small table and touched her hand.
"We all learn," I said. "Just not always in time."
She smiled, then leaned back. "I think, in some strange way, I envy you, Clara."
"I envy you too," I said.
"For what?"
"For having loved first. Even if not last."
---
And so the year turned.
The Bennet home grew quieter, the days shorter. My letters to Darcy became habit, not novelty. Each envelope carried with it the rhythm of becoming—becoming older, becoming certain, becoming entirely and truly Clara.
Somewhere in the wings of that season, a new story had begun to write itself.
Not Jane Austen's.
Mine.