Free A Pemberley Medley (A Pride & Prejudice Variation) by Abigail Reynolds

cross word for anyone.”
     
    Elizabeth could hardly believe her ears. Of all her beliefs about Mr. Darcy, the most certain was that he was an ill-tempered man. She strained her ears to hear more.
     
    “He was in a temper when he left here yesternoon, and that is a fact,” Mary said. “Practically grabbed his gloves from my hand and didn’t even wait for me to open the door, he was that glad to be gone.”
     
    “Aye, he has been in an odd mood of late.” The man lowered his voice a little, and Elizabeth could not hear his next words for several minutes, until he spoke up again. “And he burns ‘em. Stays up half the night writing letters, pages and pages, and then he burns ‘em. I’ve never seen the like.”
     
    “Letters? Who are they to?” Mary sounded fascinated by the prospect of gossip.
     
    “I’ve no clue. Like I said, he doesn’t trouble me when he’s in a mood. I just see the ashes in the fireplace in the morning, and I can tell he tosses and turns all the night away. But I didn’t come here to talk about Mr. Darcy.”
     
    Elizabeth heard Mary’s low laugh, then nothing but silence. Cheeks burning, she tiptoed away. Once she was safely out of earshot, she sank down onto a stone bench. Was Mr. Darcy’s suffering because of her? The idea of him, sitting late into the night and thinking of her, made her feel oddly warm.
     
    She wondered what the burnt letters had held, and whether they had been addressed to her. She had never received a love letter, but she could not imagine what Mr. Darcy might say in one. Did he save all the words he kept back in conversation for his nightly letters? Was it words of love that he burned each night? A shiver went through her at the thought.
     

    When Jane’s next letter arrived, Elizabeth retreated to her room to read it. Although Jane made an effort to be cheerful, it was clear that her spirits were still not recovered. Elizabeth felt a familiar flash of anger with Mr. Bingley for leading Jane on, but could not stop her thoughts from moving to the man she suspected of being the architect of the plan, Mr. Darcy. Perhaps if he was suffering now at her hands, it was only his just due for what he had done to Jane. But even as she thought it, she knew the falsehood of it. Mr. Darcy’s pain would not ease Jane’s, and whatever his motives, she doubted that he would have deliberately hurt Jane. He seemed so very protective of his own sister.
     
    That was another mystery. Although she told herself she should respect Miss Darcy’s privacy and not think on it, she could not help but wonder from time to time what Mr. Darcy’s great secret about his sister was, and how Mr. Wickham played into it. Clearly he felt Wickham had injured his sister somehow…. But no, the discussion had started with the idea of a sister being disappointed in love. Although she had accepted that Wickham was not the man she believed him to be, she could not picture him doing anything too bad. Then again, he had been quick to blacken Mr. Darcy’s name. Yet Mr. Darcy’s concern seemed to be for her, that somehow she would be misled by Mr. Wickham. A sudden suspicion crossed her mind. Mr. Wickham and Miss Darcy? But no, it could not be. Wickham had not spoken of Miss Darcy with any particular affection.
     
    She needed some fresh air to clear her mind. Putting Jane’s letter aside, she took her sunbonnet and quietly made her way out the door. She was not yet ready to face Charlotte again.
     
    Usually she walked toward Rosings Park, but today that held too many memories, so she set off down the lane toward the village, stepping carefully to avoid stones and ruts in the road. Hunsford was much smaller than Meryton, only a handful of small houses clustered together. As she reached the first cottage, she heard a small child calling desperately, “No! No! Come back!” A quick glance was all it took to assess the situation, as a boy of perhaps six scrambled into the road in pursuit of a dozen