I do not really know if this is necessary because everyone in here, (I assume) knows who really owns Pride and Prejudice. And really, I do not want to own it for myself else Miss Austen haunts me for life.

Here's a brief preview from the book before we go on to my story :)

The agitation and tears which the subject occasioned brought on a headache; and it grew so much worse towards the evening that, added to her unwillingness to see Mr. Darcy, it determined her not to attend her cousins to Rosings, where they were engaged to drink tea. Mrs. Collins, seeing that she was really unwell, did not press her to go, and as much as possible prevented her husband from pressing her, but Mr. Collins could not conceal his apprehension of Lady Catherine's being rather displeased by her staying at home. [Chapter 33]

WHEN they were gone, Elizabeth, as if intending to exasperate herself as much as possible against Mr. Darcy, chose for her employment the examination of all the letters which Jane had written to her since her being in Kent. They contained no actual complaint, nor was there any revival of past occurrences, or any communication of present suffering. But in all, and in almost every line of each, there was a want of that cheerfulness which had been used to characterize her style, and which, proceeding from the serenity of a mind at ease with itself, and kindly disposed towards every one, had been scarcely ever clouded. Elizabeth noticed every sentence conveying the idea of uneasiness with an attention which it had hardly received on the first perusal. Mr. Darcy's shameful boast of what misery he had been able to inflict gave her a keener sense of her sister's sufferings. It was some consolation to think that his visit to Rosings was to end on the day after the next, and a still greater that in less than a fortnight she should herself be with Jane again, and enabled to contribute to the recovery of her spirits by all that affection could do.
[Chapter 34]

Right! On with my plotty plots!

'Tis Too Much

While wallowing over her sister's ill-concealed desolation, her headache had gone worse she could hold it no longer, but she could hardly even lift a bone. Soon, the harsh information, the heat raging inside her, the fury she restrained with as much self-control she could muster, and the violent headache she had been sporting brought her to a restless sleep on the writing desk.

The ringing of the doorbell, and the opening of the door was masked by the ringing in her ears and her chaotic thoughts; and she chose to ignore whatever it was happening. She could care less. She was burning with mad mix of strong emotions rapidly heating her body with fever.

It was then in an unconscious condition that a very startled Mr. Darcy found Elizabeth. Her head was leaning in the writing desk in an uncomfortable position with clattered papers, making a most unlikely pillow. There were no inkwell and pen that he assumed she was reading letters before she succumbed to sleep. He noticed her slight shivering and flushed complexion. "Could she be terribly ill?" the horrible thought consumed him. In a hurried manner he immediately ran towards her. He was hesitant to touch her without her permission. But what choice does he have? He could not just leave her there alone. The maid was nowhere to be seen, and no; leaving her here in the most unpleasant condition was not a choice.

"Miss Bennet." Called he quietly, with a hope that she would stir with his voice alone. "Miss Bennet." Yet still there was no response other than her continuing slight shivers and slight frown marring her brows.

He could stand there no longer able to watch her suffer. "Elizabeth." Still hesitant, he let his hand gently settle on her shoulders, shaking her slightly. The thin fabric of her dress did little to conceal the abnormal warmth of her skin. Naturally so, this knowledge drove his worry in alarm that decided him to ignore propriety for the sake of her well-being. His hands now affectionately caressing her hot cheeks, along the way brushing off the locks that had escaped from their pins.

A moan escaped her, along with her sister "Jane('s)" name, then a sob.

'tis too much. His beloved Elizabeth was clearly in great discomfort and he wished, he hoped, to give her all the comforts she needed. "My love." He let out in scarce whisper.

Observing no other presence in the vicinity, he tried again to call out her name, and with lack of positive response, carried her in his arms. OH, how long has he desired her in his arms, but definitely not in circumstances such as this. No. Months and months had he longed to embrace her, to feel her body close to his, but not this way.

Searching for the stairwell had frustrated him and sarcastically commended his aunt for her overbearing love for complexities. It was only the light weight of Elizabeth in his arms that stopped him from blurting his ungenerous thoughts out loud. As he walked through the hallway of the guest wing, he found himself unwillingly approaching the door which the loquacious parson had intimated was her present quarters while staying with them during the tour of the parsonage. He remembered how flush she was then in embarrassment, and how lovely it had made her, too. Looking at her in such close manner, even in her fevered state, she was lovely still – extremely so.

It was with no little difficulty did he open the door to her room. How could he let her go when having her cuddled in his arms felt so exceptionally perfect? Relishing the delightful sensations her form had awarded him he reluctantly relinquished his hold on her to the comforts of her bed. Her squirming closer to his chest while laying her down elated him even more, thinking that she, too, must be unwilling to withdraw away from him.

Her shivers and breaths had become erratic, and Mr. Darcy presumed she was feeling cold. Why was she staying in a draughty room? 'tis no doubt the cause of her sudden illness. Talking to his aunt's parson about the draught in his house must be prioritized in their meeting. Oh, if only he could take her to Rosings and have her enjoy the much better comforts it had to offer. He looked around the room and searched for something he could use to cover her as the counterpane was underneath her.

Ultimately, seeing no other recourse, he decided the counterpane would much better serve its purpose. Gently, subtly, he slid his hand in between her head and pillow, with his other hand supporting her shoulders, and carefully lifted her to rest on his body. Oh joy! Even in unconsciousness, the power she had over his self-control was too much. It drove him even more to the edge when a moan escaped her. 'tis too much torment, my Elizabeth. He both hoped and dreaded her awakening in their present circumstance. Compromise was the last thing he would want to mark the start of their relationship. Not now. But soon, when after they have wed. Then, he would definitely make sure that they would both enjoy such activity. But. Not. Now. Control yourself Fitzwilliam. You're no rake!

Shortly, faster than he would have like, the counterpane was freed and he was soon tucking her to bed. In the quiet of her room, with the streaks of the waning sunlight over by the windows; and the sound of the rustling woods and curtains; and with a very tempting figure right in front of him; his heart constricted with love, restraint, torment and he was tingling all over. He wanted to warm her with his fiercest embrace. He wanted to kiss away her frowns. He wanted to voice out his adoration. To offer her his heart. To fill her with his overpowering love for her.

Clenching his fists to master his tingling nerves, he closed his eyes and breathed deeply letting it all out with one loud exhalation. He looked back at her lovely face. Unable to restrain himself any longer he decided to indulge himself just one thing. Just one kiss. Just one, my love. Allow me this. With a tender caress on her heated cheeks, his thumb brushing away the worry between her brows, he gave a passing look to her lips. He loved her too much to take advantage of her unconsciousness. There would be more time for it soon enough, he consoled himself. So, carefully he leaned in and kissed her forehead hoping to convey the deep emotions she had incited in him.

Sitting back, he was surprised to see her eyes half open. They were hazy, and almost tearful. She murmured unintelligible things that her elder sister's name was the only thing he was able to catch. "Sleep now, my love." A tender smile gracing his lips, but was quickly brushed away as Elizabeth's face contorted with anguish, and tears freely streamed down her temples. Oh 'tis too much! "What is it my love? What can I do for your present relief?"

But her reply stupefied him. "Detestable man." In such hoarse sobbing voice, her expression and accent betraying the anguish she felt. "How… how could you… why did you do that to Jane? Oh, Jane. My poor sister. Has she wronged you?... She was goodness personified, yet… yet, such heartache. My dear, dear, Jane… why did you take her love away from her?... Why…?" she trembled uncontrollably with her sobs.

Still her diatribe continued albeit haltingly "Unfeeling man… why break her heart … there were... some very strong objections against the lady… Oh Jane… objections… was it her uncle in trade?... Or her uncle as a local attorney? … her meager dowry? … was her family so intolerable? … do you despise me that much? ... your arrogance, your conceit, your selfish disdain of the feelings of others disgust me… wretched… wretched… and you call yourself a gentleman… Jane… Jane…"

Suddenly, she sat up, her eyes unseeing. Slowly, ponderously she lifted her arms towards him. "Papa…" she breathed as she clung to his neck, her sobs racking her body. "Take me back home Papa… I want to go home."

So badly did he desire to embrace her, to soothe her sorrow, to comfort her with his words… to take her home… his home… the home he hoped to make their home – yet he could not move. For a fleeting moment he was sure his soul, his spirit, flee from his body – leaving an empty shell behind. It was a miserable embrace.

She wept unceasingly. She was crying words alternating from her anguish, to her accusations, to berating herself and - to the utter devastation of his hopes - her abomination of his very character.

He wanted desperately to remove from her room, but he was too overwhelmed to even let out a sound. So deep was he into the pit that he could not shake himself from his stupor. It was long after she had quieted back to her tearful slumber before he had regained enough composure to rid her of his disgusting presence.

He savoured one last embrace from her before gently settling her down to her bed. But before fleeing her room, he tenderly wiped away her tears and the sweat from her forehead with his own handkerchief and securely tucked her in again with the counterpane.

"Good bye, my love. May God bless you." And lightly, almost fleetingly, he pressed a lingering kiss on her forehead. This time, she did not stir as she fully surrendered her being to sleep.

Oblivious of the tears from his own eyes, neither curious enough of the cause of his hazy vision, he hastily fled the parsonage. He only was aware of the desolate hollowness inside of him. How mistaken, how foolish! Foolish! Foolish! Indeed, he had successfully prevented his friend from offering for the woman who, if her fevered words were to be believed, loved him in return, while here he was, pouring out, ready to offer for the woman, who detests him.

How foolish? Devastatingly foolish! Oh, 'tis too much. Too much. How could he be foolish enough to love a woman who so despise his very presence? Who had so disparaged his character, his whole being, even in her fevered state? For undoubtedly, were she awake, she would have more to say! Heartbreakingly so.

It was a soulless, gloomy Darcy who entered the side entrance of Rosings. Nobody who claimed acquaintance with him would even recognize the irresolute man walking down the halls of Rosings. No, Darcy was anything but unconfident. Fitzwilliam Darcy was a man with confident strides, and stately demeanour. While the man walking down Rosings' hall was thoughtlessly letting his feet carry him to his chambers.

He wanted to drink himself to oblivion, but he could not even swallow the damn bitter liquid. Despairingly wanting to do something. Anything really that could drive away the thoughts of previous occurrence – such a confounding illuminating experience.

He was restless. He was hollow. He was… crying, sobbing, breaking.

'tis too much.

He believed himself to be doing his friend a great service. It was for Bingley's best interest! He truly believed Miss Bennet to be indifferent! And he believed her to be anticipating his offer… how wrong was he. How erroneous his observations had been!

"Detestable man… unfeeling… arrogance… conceit… selfish disdain for the feelings of others… you call yourself a gentleman…" Her cries could not resonate more soundly through his empty shell.

How fulfilled had he been earlier? So blissfully content with his beloved in his arms, so overwhelmed with joy to finally be able to embrace her. He was even creating images of their blissful future in each other's arm. And within seconds, it was shattered, devastatingly so. Mortifying!

His body continued to rack with sobs and shivered with the cold he felt inside.

It was only right. Indeed, it was only right. She was beneath him. She was dowerless. She was connectionless. She was spirited. She was too witty. She was too compassionate. She was lovely. She was brilliant. She was the only woman he loves.

No. No. Her family was beneath him. They act with impropriety. Indeed, they were brilliant examples of how to act not. Her mother was vulgar, disgustingly so. Her three younger sisters were too silly they could hardly fit in polite society. Her father was negligent. The elder sister smiles too much… and she loved Bingley, and yet Elizabeth detests him.

Oh! It was too much!

He could hardly breathe. His cravat was strangling him. His coat, his garments was constricting him. He would have called his valet if not for his current state.

Elizabeth.

Then a sudden thought broke him from his own pain. Elizabeth was alone in her room, suffering from a violent fever, enough to confuse him as her father. No one to care for her. The Collins's were probably still in his aunt's parlour leaving poor Elizabeth alone in the parsonage. It would be questionable for him to inform them about her fevered state, and quite honestly, he was unfit to be seen.

Wholeheartedly, he hoped for her to restore in good health. He could not bear the thought of having her living in the world thinking ill of him, worse still with the thought of forever losing her from this world. No! That was too much! He hoped very much for her to get better soon, and dare he hope, maybe when she wakes up that she had better perception of him. Improbable!

Yet, knowing now how she thought of him, how disgusting he was to her, could he face her still? Could he muster enough courage to face her. He feared very much that he would break merely by the sight of her, yet dreaded the awareness of never seeing her again. Even now, with only thoughts of her, with the wounds from her diatribe still raw, he could hardly compose himself. Master of Pemberly. Ten thousand a year. Owner of half of Derbyshire. Grandson of an earl. A very eligible catch. Yet detested by the woman he loves.

Oh 'tis too much pain Elizabeth… simply too much…

AN:

Hello everyone! I hope you have enjoyed reading this. I wanted to try writing something rather emotional, because if you were familiar with my other work, I I don't think I was able to touch strong emotions with it. And I confess, I feel a bit awkward writing something angst-ish, but I love reading them. They tug at my heartstrings. LOL

Thank you everyone. Please leave a review (even if only to soothe my soul).

And if you are kind enough to comment on its word flow :)

Any constructive criticisms are appreciated as it would be very helpful for the the betterment of my writing. And of course, any words of appreciation from you guys.

Again, thank you very much for reading 'Tis Too Much. :)

-Mollycious