Between Elizabeth Bennet and Fitzwilliam Darcy and Georgiana Darcy and George Wickham as romantic.
It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of nothing more than to maintain such a state. Yet, if one were to speak such words to Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy of Pemberley, whose fortune was indeed both large and secure, he would scoff at the simplicity of such a statement. For although the past year had indeed brought him a wife whom he loved most ardently, it had also brought him a measure of unease that he found quite impossible to shake.
The mists of autumn crept upon the grounds of Pemberley, weaving through the trees with a whispering chill. Mr. Darcy watched from the grand window of his study, the parchment in his hand forgotten and his thoughts a thousand miles away. By his side, where usually his stationery lay in neat order, a single letter sat ominously, its contents heavy with implication.
"Darcy? You have been in here for some time. Is something amiss?" Her voice was the gentle chime that often brought him back from darker reveries, and so it did now as he turned to meet his Elizabeth, whose countenance was ever so inquisitive.
Elizabeth Bennet, who was now a year married to Mr. Darcy and mistress of Pemberley, approached her husband with a concern that wrinkled the space between her fine eyes—a feature he found enchanting even in moments of distress.
"It is nothing, my dear," Darcy replied, striving to adopt a tone lighter than his spirits felt. "Merely the affairs of estate.”
Yet, as he spoke, the arrival of the post that morn came to mind. The letter, which came without announcement or indication of its gravity, now lay in the very hand that had often pledged its adherence only to truth and happiness. It was from none other than George Wickham, an old acquaintance and one attached to a history of which they both wished to be forgotten.
"I see," said Elizabeth, though her husband's countenance suggested something far deeper than the usual financial concerns or reports from their tenants. "If it were truly nothing, you would not have that furrow upon your brow, nor would I find you staring out the window with such intensity."
"Ah, Elizabeth, you see through me as an open book," Darcy admitted, laying down the letter upon the desk as if its physical absence might alleviate the burden it represented. "It seems our past has yet again come knocking upon our door, wielding the power to disrupt even the tranquility of Pemberley."
He watched as Elizabeth's eyes moved to the parchment, her lips forming a silent 'oh' as she grasped the situation's gravity. Though her husband had emerged victorious from his previous dealings with Wickham, the man's name evoked memories of distress for both her family and the Darcy lineage.
"Mr. Wickham has written to you? After all, this time? What could he possibly want?" asked Elizabeth, her voice a mixture of disbelief and resolve.
"It seems he is in some trouble—financial, as is his perennial state. He hints at delicate matters and speaks of urgent need," replied Darcy, his usual composure strained by the mere thought of the man.
They stood in contemplative silence, reckoning with the disturbance that had come into their lives, much like the autumn wind disheveling the calm surface of Pemberley's reflecting lake. It was a silent acknowledgment that the peace they had crafted so carefully since their wedding day might soon face the strains of a tempest.
Elizabeth took Darcy's hand, her touch a bastion of support. "Together, my love, we shall address whatever demands Mr. Wickham has fabricated. We must not allow him to cast a shadow upon our home or our happiness."
And with the resolve that had captured Darcy's heart a year prior, Elizabeth Bennet-Darcy assured him that the strengths of their love and union would weather even this unforeseen storm.