Prejudice and Rewritten Fate

Winter fell over Hertfordshire with a gentle hush, blanketing the landscape in frost-kissed silver. The trees stood bare and dignified, their dark limbs reaching for a sky dulled by the hush of snow. Inside Longbourn, the hearths burned brighter and the pace of life slowed to match the turning of the year.

My days passed in reading, writing, and answering letters. Mr. Darcy's correspondence had continued steadily—unwavering, thoughtful, precise. No declaration, no excess of sentiment, and yet his words warmed the mind more deeply than the most impassioned sonnet could ever hope to.

In his latest, he wrote of lambing season preparations at Pemberley, a particularly clever observation about Aristotle's *Nicomachean Ethics*, and the slow thaw of his sister's solitude.

"Georgiana speaks of you, still," he wrote. "She admires your conviction, though she worries you may find Pemberley too quiet come spring. I assured her that silence can be a kind of music, when shared."

I read it twice beneath the lamplight, and once again before dawn.

---

Elizabeth had grown fond of quoting Darcy in jest, though never unkindly.

"You and your philosopher," she teased, handing me a cup of tea. "What a peculiar courtship you two carry on."

"It is not a courtship."

"Then I fear your letters are more romantic than Jane ever were with Bingley."

That made me laugh, and she smiled as well. Elizabeth had changed since the autumn—not diminished, but tempered. Whatever regret she had once carried seemed to have softened into acceptance. Occasionally, I caught her watching me with a curious expression, as though trying to understand how a girl ten years her junior could have stepped so easily into a future that had once seemed hers.

But there was no envy between us.

Only a shared tenderness for the man who had shaped both our hearts in different ways.

---

A great snowstorm arrived in early December, forcing most social calls to a standstill. Longbourn was bustling nonetheless. Jane and Bingley had returned for the season, and their contentment filled the house with a glow. Lydia, still boisterous despite her scandal, had written that she and Wickham would not be visiting—"too much expense," she claimed. Mary composed a sermon for Advent, and Kitty busied herself with trimming ribbons she'd never wear.

As for me, I spent more time with Mr. Bennet.

He had taken a greater interest in my company of late, often inviting me to his library for quiet discussions on politics, literature, or merely the folly of the human race.

"You see too much for your age," he said one evening, peering over his spectacles. "It is unsettling."

"I could say the same of your good sense, sir."

He chuckled. "Tell me, do you intend to reform the world or simply correct its grammar?"

"Whichever is more urgent."

He shook his head. "Darcy is right to admire you."

I paused. "You knew?"

"I am old, Clara, not blind. He has written me too, you know."

My eyes widened. "He has?"

Mr. Bennet nodded. "A letter that was less a petition than a statement. Reserved, but not cold. He asked nothing. Promised everything. That sort of man."

"And what did you reply?"

"I said he had taste. And that I would see what you thought of it in five years."

I smiled, touched by the simplicity of the trust.

---

As Christmas approached, the village stirred again. Neighbours braved the roads. Carriages arrived with parcels. The Lucas family hosted a dinner that saw all five Bennet girls in attendance, plus a sullen Mr. Collins and a blooming Charlotte.

Charlotte pulled me aside after supper, both hands warmed by a cup of spiced wine.

"Lady Catherine sends word that Darcy is behaving abominably," she said, grinning.

"Oh?"

"He no longer visits her. He refuses to answer her letters. She is nearly apoplectic."

I raised an eyebrow. "And what does she think the cause might be?"

"You, of course."

"Then she may call me anything she likes—as long as it is not late for dinner."

Charlotte laughed. "Be careful, Clara. When women like her lose their grip, they become dangerous."

"I do not intend to engage in battle. But I also do not intend to lose."

---

It was on Christmas Eve that another letter arrived—this one not from Darcy, but from Georgiana.

Her handwriting was soft and round, the language earnest. She had heard from her brother of our continued correspondence and wished to express her own delight.

"You were kind to me when I had no courage," she wrote. "And I believe you are the first person my brother has ever truly allowed into his confidence. I hope you will come to Pemberley again. You would find no lack of affection there."

I folded the letter and held it to my chest. Somehow, Georgiana's quiet blessing moved me more than all Darcy's philosophy.

---

That morning, while the younger girls are still asleep, I found myself alone at the drawing room hearth waiting for them. Snow fell beyond the window in hushed layers.

Elizabeth entered, wrapped in her shawl, her expression unguarded.

"You look like something from a gothic novel," she said with a smile. "Pale and faraway."

"Just thinking."

"Of him?"

I nodded.

She sat beside me. "I think you're the one who taught him how to love without pride."

"I think he was already learning when he met me."

She looked into the fire. "Then perhaps I softened the ground, and you planted the seed."

It was the kindest thing she had ever said to me.

---

The bells of Christmas morning rang faintly through the village snow. We attended service, returned with red noses and bright laughter, and gathered around the fire with mulled cider and cakes.

I received one more letter that afternoon.

No wax seal. No address. Only my name.

Inside were three lines:

> *Come spring, I shall ask again.*

>

> *Not as a visitor. Not as a stranger.*

>

> *But as a man who loves you beyond doubt.*

—F.D.

My hands trembled slightly. I closed the letter and tucked it inside my journal, where it would remain.

I knew now what this was.

Not the love of youth.

Not fantasy.

But the steady, unfolding truth of two souls who had once walked parallel paths—and now, at last, converged.