Prejudice and Rewritten Fate

January crept in with frostbitten toes and moody skies, the sun appearing only rarely as if too weary to rise. Longbourn grew still once more, the cheer of Christmas fading into the quieter rhythm of winter reflection. With each passing day, the snow lay deeper on the fields, and the fireplaces grew more essential than decorative.

It was during such a subdued morning that a letter from Pemberley arrived, sealed in navy wax. Mr. Bennet received it at breakfast and passed it to me with a raised brow.

"From the philosopher himself," he said.

I took it with careful hands, sensing before even opening it that it was more than a letter.

Inside were four pages. The first, addressed to myself, was written with a familiar calmness:

> *Lady Clara,*

>

> *I write now not only as your correspondent but as a friend who seeks your company. My sister and I are to spend a portion of the spring at Pemberley, and we should be honoured if you—along with your guardians—would consider a visit.*

>

> *We have planned a quiet season, without much company. But the company that matters most is already known to us.*

>

> *In all things, I remain—*

>

> *Yours,*

>

> *F.D.*

Enclosed was another letter, penned in Georgiana's delicate hand, echoing the invitation and expressing her hope to see me again soon. The third page bore more practical details—a formal schedule, travel arrangements, and suggestions for a month-long stay. The fourth, addressed to Mr. and Mrs. Ellingham, was a model of dignified assurance.

I looked up at Mr. Bennet, who observed me with mild amusement.

"Well?" he asked.

"I should like to go," I said, without hesitation.

"You need not persuade me. But you must speak with the Ellinghams."

---

Mr. and Mrs. Ellingham were cautious but not cold.

"A month is long," Mrs. Ellingham said. "And your acquaintance with Mr. Darcy is not… customary."

"True," I agreed. "But it has been built steadily. I do not believe it to be shallow or born of novelty."

"And you trust him?"

"I do. Entirely."

There was a pause.

"She has grown beyond us," Mr. Ellingham said, almost fondly. "Not in defiance, but in thought. We must let her walk her chosen path."

And so it was agreed.

---

Word spread quickly, as it always did.

Mrs. Bennet was beside herself. "To Pemberley again! You might be mistress of it one day, Clara! Do not forget us when you wear lace from Paris."

Elizabeth said little, but I saw the affection in her eyes.

"Write to me while you're there," she said, taking my hands. "And tell me everything—what books he lends you, what walks you take. All of it."

"I shall."

"You are not afraid?"

"I am," I said honestly. "But not of him."

---

We left in late February, travelling by carriage through increasingly clear roads. The snow had begun to melt near Derbyshire, revealing the bones of the earth beneath—the wet, dark richness of a world ready to bloom again.

When Pemberley came into view, its windows catching the late winter sun, I felt a stillness settle over me. It was like returning to a memory—not one you remembered, but one you had always known.

Darcy met us at the grand steps, dressed in deep green. Georgiana stood beside him, her smile more confident than I recalled.

"Lady Clara," she said, offering both hands. "Welcome."

"Miss Darcy," I replied. "You honour me."

Darcy said little, only nodded and stepped aside to let the Ellinghams be received first. But his eyes met mine—and that was greeting enough.

---

The first days passed gently. We toured the library, the solarium, the western gardens still bare of bloom but beautiful in their promise. Georgiana and I walked often, speaking of books and music and memory.

"She wrote to me once," Georgiana said quietly. "Your Elizabeth. After Ramsgate."

"She would have," I replied. "She cares more than she lets on."

"She said I must forgive myself. That everyone deserves to try again."

"And did you?"

"I'm learning to."

We paused under the branches of a leafless ash tree.

"I believe you've helped him learn that too," she added.

---

Darcy and I fell into our familiar pattern—morning walks, afternoon letters, conversations by firelight. Nothing improper passed between us. But everything meaningful did.

"I have seen how Pemberley runs," I told him one morning. "And how it waits for no one."

"It waited for me," he said.

"And now?"

"It waits for you."

He said it plainly, without flourish.

"Not as mistress," he added. "Not yet. But as its future heart."

I was not yet sixteen.

And yet, I had never been more certain of anything in either lifetime.

---

One evening, seated in the music room, Darcy read aloud from Milton. His voice was steady, modulated, precise. The words—so often cold on the page—found warmth in his cadence.

He paused after a verse:

> *"The mind is its own place, and in itself

> Can make a Heaven of Hell, a Hell of Heaven."*

He looked at me. "Do you believe that?"

"I believe the mind shapes what the heart permits."

He nodded once, then closed the book.

"I would not have believed that five years ago," he said. "But then… you are a better philosopher than I."

"I am only a girl with memory," I replied.

"And hope," he said.

---

As March drew in with its promise of renewal, the household began to prepare for the Spring Assembly in Lambton. It would be modest, attended mostly by neighbouring families.

Georgiana urged me to wear blue.

"It brings out something sharp in you," she said. "Not cruel, just… undeniable."

"I'll consider it," I said, smiling.

Darcy passed me in the corridor that evening. "Do wear the blue."

So I did.

And when he asked me to dance, I did not hesitate.

The music played. Our hands met. And in the spaces between notes and glances, I understood what Elizabeth had once felt.

But where she had once recoiled, I remained.

And he did not let go.