"A woman's love for us increases

The less we love her, sooth to say -

She stoops, she falls, her struggling ceases;

Caught fast, she cannot get away."

- Alexander Pushkin, Eugene Onegin

She was young and innocent and in love. He was hurting and bitter and harsh. Had she been less romantic, she would not have fallen so desperately in love with his dark disposition. Had he been less cynical, he would not have hurt her so much in return.

They met in 1808. She was but sixteen years old. He – a young man of four-and-twenty. It was her first season in town. She was taking everything in with the exuberance that only a young and cheerful girl could possess. Every ballroom seemed to glitter with magic. Every new acquaintance was splendidly gorgeous or ridiculously amusing or incredibly intelligent. At one ball she saw him, and knew at once that he was the most handsome man she had ever beheld. The first thing to strike her was his imposing height, then the perfect symmetry of his handsome face, then the rich fullness of his dark curls, then the distinguished profile of his aristocratic nose. And at last, as he disinterestedly scanned the crowd, she caught a glimpse of his eyes. Those eyes would capture her imagination so fully that she would scarcely be able to think of anything else. They were of such a deep dark color, so intelligent and melancholy at once.

"Who is that gentleman, papa?" She could not help but enquire, whispering so that the object of her query would not overhear.

"That, my sweeting, is Mr. Darcy of Pemberley, the most sought-after bachelor in town, so don't go getting any ideas." Her father never could pass on a joke.

This time, she found herself unequal to throwing a jest in return. "He looks so sad."

Mr. Bennet merely shrugged in return. Mr. Graham, his old friend from Oxford who stood with them, chimed in instead:

"I believe both his parents passed in a tragic accident last year. An awful fire that took down a good portion of the family wing of their estate. This is the first time young Darcy has come out in society since then. No wonder. It must have been a fair amount of work to repair all that damage."

"Was he cloes to his parents, Mr. Graham?" She murmured.

"Very much so, from what I have heard. Especially to his mother, Lady Anne. She was a fine lady."

If Mr. Darcy's appearance had sparked Lizzy Bennet's interest, his tragic history served to firmly cement it. What a poor, lovely, unfortunate man! How she yearned to reach out to him, and smooth those thick curls form his tall forehead, and softly trace her lips against it, and murmur words of comfort, and dry any tears that may come.

She spent the rest of the evening following him with her eyes. Imagining the gothically tragic mystery that caused that dastardly fire to rage through Pemberley House. Imagining him, her hero, doing all he could to salvage his fragile mother. And failing tragically, and blaming himself, and wallowing in misery.

By the end of the night, for the first and only time in her life, young Lizzy Bennet began falling in love.

She saw him occassionally during the following weeks. Though her father was a gentleman and acquainted with several prominent members of the ton, she was not truly from the same sphere as the tragic Mr. Darcy. More often than not, the dinners she attended with her family were below his notice. Yet occasionally, she would espy his tall frame and his unruly curls and his distinguished nose, and her heart would beat loudly in her small chest.

From following him with her eyes, she grew bolder and began to surreptitiously position herself closer to him. Desperate to know more of him, yet without a formal introduction unable to converse with him herself, she attended to his conversation with others. She learned that he was extremely well read and that he expressed himself uncommonly well. Occasionally, he indulged in almost sardonic humor, which was, more often than not, lost on his conversation partners. Lizzy, a devoted daughter of Mr. Bennet, appreciated those little gems and liked him ever more for them.

A month after she first beheld him, still never having spoken to the gentleman herself, yet already halfway in love with him, Lizzy sat a few feet away from where he stiffly stood during Lady Eleanor's ball. A cheerful ginger-haired man, whom she had guessed to be a friend of Mr. Darcy's from prior evenings, approached him.

"Come Darcy, I must have you dance! I do not recall Lady Eleanor's ball ever being quite as grand and popular as tonight, and there are some uncommonly pretty girls here tonight."

"Don't waste your time on me, Bingley. Go dance with your uncommonly pretty angels, and leave me in peace." Elizabeth thought that Mr. Darcy sounded more gruff than usual, and wondered what had happened to cause his ill humor.

"Now, Darcy, just take a look around. Look, there is a lovely lady sat just behind you, and there is Mr. Eaton with her. I am sure we could ask for an introduction."

Elizabeth's breath caught as Mr. Darcy turned around and appraised her for half a second. He then raised his chin indignantly and replied to his friend:

"She is tolerable, I suppose. But not handsome enough to tempt me. Besides, tonight of all nights I am in no humor to give consequence to young ladies slighted by other men." Without waiting for a response form Mr. Bingley, Mr. Darcy determinedly walked away.

Elizabeth felt her eyes prickle, and excused herself hastily from Mr. Eaton, another amiable friend of her father's, before he could see her tears. Out on the terrace, in the midst of her sobs, she resolved to better herself, to do all she could to be one of those beautiful accomplished ladies, to be worthy of Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy. In her love, she allowed herself to overlook that first slight, never blaming her favorite for his rudeness or for her tears.

She spent hours on the pianoforte. She donned on the best gowns she had. She straightened her back and lifted her head and practiced accomplished walking. Determined, she sought to transform herself into the kind of woman worthy of her somber hero.

Her efforts paid off, though not in the ways she had wished for. Over the following weeks, the refined lady that Elizabeth Bennet was quickly becoming in her desperate attempts began to garner much male attention.

"Oh, my dear Lady Eleanor, do you see that? Young Mr. Brody is dancing a second set with my Lizzy tonight! And his father with almost eight thousand pound per annum! And he the eldest! Oh, what a lovely thing for my girl!"

"Indeed, Fanny," Lady Eleanor responded disinterestedly, mentally seeking an escape from the loud woman's unwelcome company. She understood why her husband, Lord Cramson, enjoyed the company of his old school friend, Mr. Bennet. She also saw the merit of the Bennets' two eldest daughters. Beautiful Jane Bennet had been an instant success, and were it not for her meager dowry, she would easily be one of the most sought after young ladies of the season. Elizabeth Bennet, while too young and innocent to be out, had shown exceptional maturity and grace over the past several weeks. Mrs. Bennet was the only member of the Bennet clan whose company Lady Eleanor absolutely did not enjoy. She was relieved to excuse herself when Martha Samuelson approached them and Mrs. Bennet redirected her boasting tirade to the newcomer.

Mrs. Samuelson, one of the greatest lovers of gossip, was a much better candidate for Mrs. Bennet's converstaion partner. "Mr. Brody does indeed seem taken with your Eliza, Mrs. Bennet. But is that Lord Drenson that I see dancing with her now?"

"Aye, indeed it is! A Lord! How lovely. He is a little old, perhaps, but not too much so. And still exceedingly handsome! Yes, indeed, he too would do very well for my Lizzy."

"He is not only old," Mrs. Samuelson whispered, "but also a notorious rake." Gratified by Mrs. Bennet's gasp, she continued: "Indeed, he has a new mistress every few months. I have heard he had just let go of his latest one, Mademoiselle Angelique, a delightful little thing from the continent. I would wager he is searching for his next conquest."

Mrs. Samuelson was not far from the mark, and the horrified Mrs. Bennet was not ill-advised in her subsequent worries, as she watched Lord Drenson escort her daughter to the refreshment table after their dance.

Elizabeth, for her part, rather enjoyed the older gentleman's company. He was intelligent, humorous, and candid. He was self-possessed enough not to allow his lascivious looks to be evident to her, and he was not dishonest. Noting Elizabeth's mother's worried look on them, he leaned closer to the young lady's ear, and spoke frankly:

"I am afraid your mother has just gotten a full account of me, Miss Bennet. She need not worry, I will not kidnap and dishonor you against your will."

Elizabeth gasped. "Sir! That is a highly improper topic for conversation, even as a joke."

Lord Drenson sighed. "It is no joke, my dear. I have enjoyed your company greatly over the past few weeks. I believe you have enjoyed mine as well?" At her brief, confused nod, he added: "But you view me almost as an uncle. Believe me, I think of you as nothing akin to a niece. You are a beautiful young lady, and I adore beautiful women. For personal reasons, I have never had any intention to marry, and that will not change. I do not have honorable intentions towards you. But fear not, I hardly have any intentions towards you at all. Should you ever decide to descend into the demi-monde, however, I would be happy to oblige."

She did not respond, her eyes wide with shock and horror. She had indeed grown to think of the older gentleman fondly, almost as an uncle, as he had guessed. Never in a million years would she have expected such a speech from him.

"I see I have scandalized you quite enough, my dear." He gently patted her hand. "For the sake of your reputation and your mother's nerves, it is probably best that we do not continue our acquaintance." He bowed, and walked away.

For the first evening in almost two months, Elizabeth Bennet was too preoccupied to pay any attention to Fitzwilliam Darcy. She learned a lot that evening. Or at least enough to pay at least a fraction of attention, in the evenings to come, to men other than her favorite. Unfailingly polite but distant, she worked to dispel their interest.

And eventually, Lizzy was introduced to the only man whose interest she wished to capture rather than dispel. It was terribly anticlimatic. Fitzwilliam Darcy's dismissal of Elizabeth Bennet during their first formal meeting was as quick as her accelerated heartbeat. Their subsequent meetings consisted of terse greetings and one-sided conversations.

Perhaps their near-nonexistent acquaintence could have devolved into nothingness. Perhaps once the season ended and they both removed to their respective countrysides, her puppy love could have withered away. Perhaps all their future misfortunes could have been avoided, had it not been for that one fateful encounter in Hyde Park.

She went out walking. She loved to walk. She loved to spin and run and jump. A country girl, she was not used to the city parks. By the time she noted the horse riding on the lane into which she had so carelessly run out, it was already too late.

Worried, Fitzwilliam Darcy hurried to dismount from his steed and check on the lady who had jumped out into the lane so quickly that he had not had the chance to halt in time to avoid hurting her. He was relieved to note that her pulse was still beating, and she was still breathing, albeit heavily. Fortunately, she did not sustain a head wound, although her right shoulder appeared to have been hurt. There was a small amount of blood on her sleeve. It was very fortunate, indeed, that he had been riding so slowly. Otherwise, the lady would have been in danger of very serious harm. As it was, however, she had only sustained a minor injury and fainted from shock.

Darcy quickly searched for help, and was annoyed to note that they were quite far out from the popular area of the Park. There was not a soul in sight. He could ride out in search for help, but that would necessitate leaving the lady unconscious and quite alone. It was against his nature to leave a vulnerable creature in such a perilous condition. Sighing, Darcy determined that there was no other course of action than to take the lady with him on his horse, at least until they encounted someone else who would be able to watch over her.

Darcy looked closely at the lady before him. She looked vaguely familiar. Concentrating, he recalled that her name was Miss Bennet… Eleanor? Elmira? Elizabeth. That was it.

Irritatedly, he decided to get the ordeal over with. Placing her on the horse and lifting himself behind her, he urged his stead to ride at a soft pace, doing his best to maintain as little physical contact with the lady as possible.

The next day, it was all over Town. How the gallant Mr. Darcy rescued the poor Miss Bennet from a fall in Hyde Park.

"Oh, how terribly romantic!"

"It was positively scandalous, the way they rode on that horse together."

"Do you think she fainted on purpose? It is such a compromising situation; he will be forced to marry her now."

"Who is Elizabeth Bennet? Is she one of those penniless Bennets from Hertfordshire who have been imposing on their friends hospitality?"

"I have predicted this all along. The mother is so obviously trying to marry her daughters off, and it should come as no surprise that the daughter tried to compromise Mr. Darcy!"

"I always knew that Eliza Bennet set her cap at Mr. Darcy. But he is too smart for these games. He will not be forced to marry her by her arts and allurements, I tell you."

"What a romantic tale – do you think they were meeting secretly in the Park?"

Elizabeth was mortified. Mr. Bennet was angry. Jane Bennet was worried. Mrs. Bennet was aflutter.

"He must be prevailed upon to marry her! You must speak with him and make him marry her, Mr. Bennet!"

"I have had quite enough, Mrs. Bennet. I will do no such thing. It was an accident, and the rumors are not so bad as to make the poor man pay for having done a decent thing in rescuing her. I will, however, disallow any future unaccompanied walks while in Town. Do I make myself clear, Elizabeth?"

"Yes, papa."

Elizabeth Bennet thought long and hard. After the initial embarrassment, the dominant emotion in her heart was admiration. He rescued me!

All the warmth of affection she had gradually built for the taciturn man now grew tenfold. Her love was overflowing.

And she allowed it, quite literally, to overflow onto paper. She decided to write him a letter, expressing the full extent of her sentiments. Had she been four years older, she would be far too sensible to put herself at such risk. She would chastise her younger sister Lydia for this kind of foolish behavior. But Lizzy Bennet was only sixteen. As much as she had strived to be the perfect society lady of the past weeks, and as much as she was succeeding, she was still a young, naïve, hopeless romantic.

Dear Sir:

I write to you; that mere fact is evidence enough of my affection. All too fully, am I aware of the extent of impropriety of my behavior. But I cannot be silent. Forgive me, dear Sir – for dear to me you have been for 'nare a two-month now! But I can hold this inside no longer. Believe me, I have tried.

I love you. I have loved you, I believe, from the very first time I saw you. You did not see me until much later. And it was another several torturous weeks before I had the pleasure of your introduction. But I have loved you from the start, and that love has grown ever so much stronger, until it consumes me. I dream of you. I watch you. I listen to you and only you. I delight in every rare smile you bestow, albeit never onto me. I live and breath for you, dear Sir, and I feel as if I had not lived at all until I knew you.

I shudder now to imagine what you must think of me, reading this letter. I am too terrified to reread it myself. I would never allow myself to put my shame, my reputation, my entire livelihood so delicately in another's hands, had it not been for the events of two days prior. I must tell you, my dearest, loveliest Mr. Darcy, how grateful I am for your brave, gallant actions. You are a true gentleman, sir, and a man worthy of utmost admiration.

I am aware of the rumors that my unfortunate accident has incited. I am mortified, embarrassed, ashamed, to have occasioned any discomfort to you with my thoughtless ramble. It was unconsciously done, but I reproach myself most heartily for my foolishness and inattentiveness.

As I wrote, I am aware of the rumors. I do not expect you to marry me. I would not wish to ever force you into anything that is not agreeable to you, my good Sir. I love you far too much for that. But I thought, perhaps, if I were to tell you of my utter devotion, and if you felt in your chest even a fraction of the regard that I so ardently hold for you, that we might have a future together. And so, I put my fate, my name, my entire being in your capable hands. Do with it as you please. No one need ever know about this letter. You need never feel any obligation towards me. But should you feel something different, something infinitely more precious, then know that you will be delightedly received.

I remain forever yours,

Elizabeth Bennet

"What vile, base, tasteless machination is this, madam!?" He walked straight up to her in Montgomery Street, as she exited the milliner's store for some fresh air, while her mother and elder sister were shopping. He threw two sheets of paper at her. His eyes were burning with rage, his voice loud and angry. Several passersby turned towards them at his exclamation.

She was too shocked, too mortified, and stood absolutely still, unable to either move or form a sound. The sheets of paper were picked up by the wind, and fluttered over the cobbled street.

"If you think, even for a moment, that your schemes will come to success, then think twice, madam!" His voice was dangerously low, but still loud and commanding. The curious passersby were beginning to form a circle around them. "I will not be tricked into marrying you. First staging that accident, then sending me improper letters. Have you no dignity, no reputation? You should be ashamed of yourself!"

"I – I – …I love you," She at last sobbed out, to the astonished gasps from their audience.

"What a stupid, disgusting lie! I will not be made for a fool, young lady." Then, noting the tears now streaming down her face, he added scornfully: "And if you wrote me that dreadful letter because you truly think yourself in love with me, then you are nothing more than a silly naïve little girl, who should not have been let out into society."

And with those parting words, he stormed off, leaving her alone and humiliated in the crowded street.

The rumors became far, far worse after that. What was a mere salacious accident, the account of which would have died down within weeks, had transformed into a full blown scandal. For a lady to declare her love to a gentleman, and in a letter, no less – it was unheard of! Worse, the windblown pages of the letter had somehow made it into the paper the following morning, much to Elizabeth's never-ending shame.

The mood was dark in the Bennet household. In Mr. Bennet's office, even Mrs. Bennet was too upset to lament aloud.

"What were you thinking, Lizzy?" Mr. Bennet looked at what used to be his favorite daughter with disappointment. "I have no words to express my grief at your behavior. You have put not only your own reputation at risk, but that of all of your sisters. To be known across all of London as the girl who wrote a love letter to Mr. Darcy! You should be very ashamed of yourself, Lizzy!"

In response, Lizzy hung her head. She felt worse than ashamed, she felt… despondent. The man whom she had loved so ardently had treated her with more cruelty than she had ever imagined possible in anyone. She had fancied him honorable. She had thought him a gentleman. She had been so grateful and admiring of him after their unfortunate encounter in the park. And now, he proved to be everything to the contrary. With no concern for her reputation, he had effectively put an end to any decent future she might have. What she had done was stupid, naïve, and thoughtless. But it was innocent. It was well-meaning. And, ultimately, it was harmless. As she had clearly written: no one need know about her letter. He could have burned it, and no one would be the wiser. He did not have to marry her. But neither did he have to make her the pariah of the season.

Having chastised his daughter, Mr. Bennet next statements mirrored his daughter's thoughts.

"Yet your Mr. Darcy's behavior is far worse than yours. You were a fool to put your fate in his hands, but he was a rake to have discarded that fate so callously. The rumors after your accident were nothing special. Other rumors would have replaced them next week. But to expose you so cruelly for all the world, and to throw your letter quite literally into society's hands! Why, that is atrocious. No, he has caused this scandal, and he must be made to do the honorable thing. I will go speak with Mr. Darcy on the morrow, and demand that he marry you."

"No," she shook her head, then fiercely wiped off the tears. "No." She had loved him. She could not marry him, not like this. Anything but this. "No."

It seemed that no matter how many times she would shake her head and utter that word – "No" – her father would not desist from his course. She could not fault him; her obstinacy would cost her sisters, her lovely innocent sisters, their future. Yet she could not agree to marry that man – the man whom she had loved so ardently and who had crushed her so callously – either.

She let her protests simper down. She let her father believe that she would be persuaded before they retired to bed. And an hour later, she left. She would not allow her sisters to partake in her ruin. But neither would she allow herself to be forced to spend every day of her life with the man whom she now hated the most in the world. Perhaps he had enough honor to marry her – but what good would it do, when he did not have enough decency to spare a naïve little girl her pain? If he were to consent to marry her, how much more cruel would he be in his subsequent resentment? And if he did not consent, could her fragile heart survive this further evidence of his dishonor? No, it was better this way. Her family would pronounce her tragic death. The note she left instructed them to do as much. Perhaps the callous Mr. Darcy would at least have the goodwill to go along with a pretend engagement with a deceased country girl. It would cost him a few months of mourning and would spare her sisters from ruin.

Thus decided, she waited for the family to be soundly asleep before leaving her uncle's townhouse armed with her twenty pounds of savings and an address in Mayfair scrawled on a torn piece of parchment.