Just shameless reblogs of things from various fandoms. I enjoy this content, and I want to support the creators by reblogging. Expect a lot of Inuyasha, Miraculous Ladybug, and Bridgerton. Side blog of needlecream. 90% queued posts.
“That’s very pretty,” George remarked, gesturing at Emma’s needlework. “Perhaps a bit elaborate for Harriet’s baby, but she’ll appreciate having something elegant for church.”
Emma paused, the lacy cap resting on her lap, its silk ribbons trailing nearly to her hem.
“I’m afraid I am less generous than you imagined,” she said.
“You’ve heard something from Isabella then? Mrs. Weston?”
Emma noted he did not mention Jane Churchill, that his suppositions did not suppose her angelic.
“No. I’m entirely selfish again, as I used to be,” she smiled.
George looked gobsmacked.
“Though Mrs. Weston did eat all those pickled walnuts.”
“Oh, Elinor, how prosaic—to be compromised in a library,” Marianne sighed.
It occurred to Elinor that her sister said library in much the same way as she might have said pig-pen.
The thought was madness, but perhaps she was mad or caught up in madness, because Marianne was more concerned about the location than the event itself.
Anne Mitchell had tried to put on a turban like mine, as I wore it the week before at the Concert, but made wretched work of it—it happened to become my odd face, I believe, at least Tilney told me so at the time, and said every eye was upon me; but he is the last man whose word I would take. I wear nothing but purple now: I know I look hideous in it, but no matter—it is your dear brother’s favourite colour. Lose no time, my dearest, sweetest Catherine, in writing to him and to me.
Elizabeth had come to the library intending to read. Truly, she had. But Fitzwilliam was already there - coat discarded, sleeves rolled to the elbows, hair rumpled as though he had run a hand through it - and she felt suddenly far less intellectually inclined.
Fandom: Pride and Prejudice Relationship: Darcy/Elizabeth Rating: General Tags: Canon Compliant, Mid-Canon, Missing Scene, POV Fitzwilliam Darcy, Fluff, Hope, Family Word Count: 603 Series: Pride and Prejudice missing/retold scenes
All Darcy’s life, he had striven to keep himself unentangled from anyone else, with few exceptions. Georgiana, of course, he gladly carried along with him in life, but she would eventually marry and set her course onto a separate track from his. Close to his, he hoped, but they would still be parallel lines running alongside each other, not twined together, as they were now. That was what was natural and right, and for himself, he was happy unentangled.
And then he had met Elizabeth Bennet, and gotten all his feelings, hopes, and plans completely jumbled up with her, to the point that somehow, his aunt had even heard a rumor that they were already engaged to be married. Her telling him so astonished him, for he had told no one of his hopes with regard to Elizabeth, and certainly not that he had proposed and been rejected. He knew Elizabeth would not have told anyone either, except perhaps her sister Jane, but he doubted she would spread such gossip. It must be that his feelings had been in such a disordered state that the knots could be plainly seen by people outside of himself.
He wanted to make it even plainer to see, however—he wanted to tie himself to Elizabeth for the rest of his life, to marry her and never leave her side, for everyone to know she was his other half. His aunt’s communication had given him fresh hope that this might be possible.
That was why he was now darting back and forth about his London home like a rabbit, calling for his carriage to be prepared, quickly telling his valet which articles to pack, dashing off a note to a friend to apologize for having to break his dinner engagement that evening, giving the housekeeper fresh instructions since he had expected to be in residence for some time and now expected—hoped for—the opposite. There was a flurry of things to do, when all he wished to be doing was sitting in his carriage on the road back to Elizabeth.
It wasn’t until he had finally set out upon his journey that he had a quiet moment to contemplate his plans. They involved more than just Elizabeth. If she accepted his second proposal, it would not only be her he would be entangling himself with for life, but Wickham as well. He could hope the Wickhams might live a vastly separated life from his, but even so, his and Wickham’s lives would always run in parallel, touching; he was certain there would always be requests for money or assistance of some kind. He would never be free of him.
The idea was utterly repellent. And yet, he would bear the mortification, and worse, to have Elizabeth. There was no question of that whatsoever. If he could twine their lives together into one, he could bear any other connections that came knotted along with it.
How curious it was, he thought, that his aunt had come to him to express this very same concern, of how he would be tying himself and the family to repellent connections, and yet by telling him so, she had vastly increased the chance of those connections being made. Had she never told him of the way she confronted Elizabeth and was told off by her, he most likely would never have proposed again. But now, thanks to his aunt, he was sure to.
Whether he would be accepted was another matter entirely, but at least he had hope.
It was almost enough to make him not angry with his aunt. Almost.
—
I had not planned to write another fic Day 16: Gossip of @janeuary-month, but the FFF prompt sparked this little idea.
Jane and Elizabeth had scarcely returned from their walk and made their way into the drawing-room before they were pounced upon by Kitty and Lydia, each talking over the other.
“You will never guess what we have heard,” Lydia cried.
“Mrs. Long has just left, and she says—”
“Do hush, Kitty, I was going to tell them.”
“I can tell them just as well as you can!”
Mary rolled her eyes. “It is hardly worth this fuss. It is only that a young gentleman has come to Netherfield Park.“
“This is marvelous, Elizabeth!” Darcy enthused, appearing boyish in his excitement. “It does not write as smoothly, perhaps - I would want a final copy, likely - but to be able to write while traveling!”
“I am well pleased,” she beamed. “Happy anniversary, my love.”
The difficult thing about being married to a rich man who wanted for nothing was that gift giving involved wracking one’s brain for sentimental ideas - her husband was forever secreting away trinkets that meant much to him from their time spent together - or constantly hunting for things he did not know existed. Happily, Fitzwilliam Darcy was fascinated by new inventions, so when Elizabeth heard of a pen that stored its own ink within, she tracked one down at once. She had been practically dancing with anticipation since, and had nearly caved when he had spilled ink the week before, but was determined to wait on gifting it until their special trip.
“What an age we live in,” he marveled, peering out the window of their train carriage as the scenery whizzed past. “Travel is so much faster, and life is so full of little conveniences. I cannot even imagine what will come next.”
How she loved seeing him like this, so unreserved and happy. Even the children, who had access to his unrestrained affection, did not have access to his unfettered thoughts as she did. She was fully aware of how precious such a thing was.
“I care not, as long as you love me through it.”
He gathered her into his lap, all the better to kiss her. “Always, my dearest wife.”
Frederick Wentworth understood yearning, or so he thought. He had seen and heard enough during the early years of his career in the Royal Navy. His shipmates talking about their wives or sweethearts while on a long mission; clamoring for any word from them when mail pouches arrived on the ship. His sister Sophie, writing long anguished letters to him the winter she spent in Deal when Captain Croft was sailing in the North Sea. Yes, Frederick thought he understood yearning.
That was until he experienced it for himself. After separating from Anne Elliot In the year 06, he spent many months angry at the injustice done to him. But once the indignation burnt itself out, another emotion took hold. He acknowledged that it was more than just missing someone. He missed Sophie and his brother Edward, he missed the friends he made in his early years in the navy; but this was more.
When he became close to Captains Harville and Benwick he began to really understand the emotion. Late nights on patrol or during shore leave, the two men spoke at length of the women in their lives, and the depth of their devotion to them, and how they did not feel whole without them by their sides.
The feeling never went away, he realized; no matter how many years went by, where he went or who he met, it was always there. He thought about her daily, wondering where she was, what she was doing, if her hands and lips were still as impossibly soft as he remembered.
As the years flew by, he learned to live with the ache. Eventually he likened it to a pebble in his boot, not painful per se, but always there making its presence known, never completely healing.
There were opportunities for Frederick to move on, of course there were. After his daring exploits at sea, he was quite sought after. Many an Admiral and Captain had tried to introduce him to a sister or a daughter, but to no avail; Captain Frederick Wentworth was not interested.
It might have continued that way indefinitely; if Frederick had not been put ashore, and Sophie and the Admiral had not found a home, her home, in Somersetshire. Frederick thought to meet her with indifference. Show no emotion. It would be difficult at first, but if he persevered, perhaps this feeling would finally go away, and he could at last begin the rest of his life.
Such was his resolve before arriving at Kellynch. It had been years, he reasoned. If nothing else, she would have moved on with her life. Frederick was sure she was married, perhaps with children. It was not possible that the feelings he harbored for the past eight years were shared by Anne Elliot.
He hoped he was the only one suffering, and the yearning he felt was his alone.
Thank you @janeuary-month for the prompts! Day 12: Looking Glass
1824
Elizabeth paused in the doorway to Darcy’s dressing room, noticing him frowning into his looking glass, turning his head slightly from side to side. This would be unusual enough, but he then raised his eyebrows, squinted his eyes, and generally contorted his face into all manner of unusual expressions.
“Fitzwilliam?”
He jolted and turned around, the air around him heavy with his embarrassment. “I have grey hairs,” he announced defensively.
She would not laugh. She would not laugh. “Yes?”
“You cannot pretend you have not noticed them.”
She crossed the room to take his hand with a smile. “You have had them for some time, my love.”
Darcy turned from her slightly, but did not relinquish her hand. “That is the problem. I am showing my age, especially when I stand next to you, for you are as fresh faced as ever.”
Elizabeth snorted. “You must be getting older, for your eyesight to be failing you so.” She was under no illusions that she retained the figure or skin she had been blessed with before childbearing and life took its toll.
“You are as beautiful as the day we wed,” he insisted stubbornly, resting his weight against the edge of his dressing table so he could comfortably draw her close, nestling her between his legs with his hands around her waist. “You still turn heads in an evening gown, even with the skirts seeming to puff up more each year to hide your figure.”
“And you are forty,” she teased - but instantly she knew it was the wrong thing to say, for he looked away instead of kissing her for her impertinence. “Darling…” she took his head between both of her hands. “Your grey hairs make you look distinguished, not old. You are still the most handsome man of my acquaintance, and I am the envy of half of any given room we are in. We are no longer in our twenties, but you are able to run after the children and dance with me when I desire it. Never fear I am displeased with your person! Far from it.” She gave the last in a tone he knew well, and pulled his head down to capture his mouth with hers.
Then she kissed the slight wrinkles on the outside of each of his eyes, and the ones between his brows from his years of frowning. With great reverence, she kissed the patches of silver at each temple, and the lines around his mouth from his years of smiling. He held still, submitting to her ministrations. She pulled back and waited for him to open his eyes to meet hers. “The next time you look in the glass,” she whispered, “I hope this is what you think of.”
In a move much more common ten years before, he bent forward so his arms were wrapped underneath her rear before standing again, lifting her into the air so he could kiss her deeply.
Darcy did not think of the next hour every time he looked in the mirror, but he certainly never forgot it.
ALT
