It´s a truth universally acknowledged, as well as feared, that fate has its twisted ways to dispose of our lives. In my case, fate is not only whimsical but cruel.
It all started with a note I sent Darcy last year. A silly, innocent note and now I’m in this wretched situation.
You see, I was a regular thirteen years old Brazilian girl when I befriended a seventeen years old British boy through my school’s Youth Group. In short, this is how we became friends -although thirty something words can hardly describe twenty seven years: he was an arrogant douche, I hated him, we fought through letters (pen on paper, stamps, post – the old stuff), he won me over, we became best pen friends who never managed to meet in person, lost contact when young adults, found each other again in adulthood.
Now I’m forty and maybe I could see myself as a victim in my current life’s situation if I didn’t know better... Maybe if I had expected the onslaught of changes my PhD program abroad would bring me or the giddy happiness Darcy would produce, I could have had a plan but... The simple note, the flirt with my past, brought me a landslide of emotions I was not prepared to face.
He didn’t foresee the aftermath of our friendship’s renewal either. Fitzwilliam Darcy and I belonged to each other when teenagers, before morphing into the adults we became. Seeing him now feels like a travel back in time, a bubble, a portal between dimensions. The weirdness is that it almost seems allowed... Does such a thing as a bubble even exist?
We are irrevocably in love with each other and I dread what our planets’ alignments will bring us next. Gone are the misunderstandings and beating around the bushes, the metaphors and bashfulness... We were both swept off our feet and now... Lovers, cheaters but most of all, friends.
My sister Jane pesters me about it. Darcy’s cousin, Graham Fitzwilliam, tells him to find a way out.
How did it come to this? Well, like I said, it started last year with a silly note:
“Sorry to bother but, when a young girl, I used to correspond with the most presumptuous person I had ever met, so much so that he could only have blue blood in his veins. The heir of the richest estate-country in the whole England, His Royal Highness the Prince of Pemberley, had your name exactly and was a close friend who I miss dearly.
At the time, I was a passionate human rights enthusiast and HRH shared my views for a better world, as long as they didn’t disturb his kingdom’s peaceful life.
If, by an ingenious twist of fate it is you, please reply.
Your always loyal subject
Elizabeth Wickham, Bart. (Née Bennett)”
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