'My dear Friend,

'If you are not so compassionate as to dine to-day with me, we shall be in danger of hating each other for the rest of our lives, for a whole day's tete-a-tete between two women can never end without a quarrel. Come as soon as you can on receipt of this. My brother and the gentleman are to dine with. Yours ever,

Caroline Bingley.'

As much as you would hope to enjoy Miss Bingley and her brother’s company, you would wish not to go. The Bingley had a handsomely defined friend, named only Mr. Darcy. He was wonderfully rich, and as the eldest of your family. Your mother wished to marry you off to the man.

The only issue? He was incredibly stubborn and prideful. At the dance a fortnight ago, his nature got the best of him as he refused to go with anyone. Mr. Bingley had soon made himself acquainted with all the principal people in the room; he was lively and unreserved, danced every dance, was angry that the ball closed so early, and talked of giving one himself at his estate.

The wonderful man had even tried to set you up with Mr. Darcy.

Yet, he took a glance through you, and said:

“She is tolerable, but not handsome enough to tempt me; and I am in no humour at present to give consequence to young ladies who are slighted by other men. You had better return to your partner and enjoy her smiles, for you are wasting your time with me.”

Back to the present, the letter was ripped out of your hands as soon as your eyes trailed over the paper and quill, your fingers flexing around nothing as you turned to the perpetrator—your mother, who seemed delighted by the letter.

“Could I have the carriage?” said you

“No, my dear, you had better go on horseback, because it seems likely to rain; and then you must stay all night.”

'That would be a good scheme,' said your dear sister, sarcastically, 'if you were sure that they would not offer to send her home.'

“Oh, but I’m sure your father can spare the horses–correct?” Your mother smiled, stepping to him. He shook his head in response to her hopeful words.

After many arguments from you, you obliged with a huff. Your father lifted you to the saddle of the horse, handing you the reins and giving you a solemn, fake nod.

And your mother attended you to the door with many cheerful prognostics of a bad day. Her hopes were answered; it had not been long before it rained hard.

You certainly did not come back that evening, making it to the door of the Bingley’s, soaked and wet. Caroline greeted you at the door, dainty gloved hands reaching up to cover her lips. He, you spotted him. Mr. Darcy. He looked as handsome as ever with his pinched brow and distasteful expression. A man like that didn’t deserve such wealth…and, you couldn’t help but be frustrated about it.

“Mr. Darcy, fetch a servant for a warm towel.” Caroline turned her head to him, her hands not yet touching your form.