I am evil (aka the entry wherein I post a mercifully short AP)
The title of this entry isn't so much a description as a warning. I decided to write a series of very short APs, just for the fun of it. This is the first one.
Warning: Fitzwilliam Darcy/Canon Female. Consider yourself thoroughly warned.
FIVE WOMEN FITZWILLIAM DARCY NEVER MARRIED -- 1
Emma Woodhouse
Mr Woodhouse has never been a robust man, but after Emma’s seventeenth birthday, he falls into a rapid decline. She consults with Mr Knightley and Mr Perry, and within a few weeks, father and daughter - and paid companion - are settled in Bath.
Emma does not quite approve of Bath society. She receives none of the deference owed to Miss Woodhouse of Hartfield, and there is certainly nothing elegant about the crowds jostling her in the Pump Room.
She far prefers to walk outside with Miss Taylor, whenever they both can be spared.
“One man almost knocked me to the ground,” she protests, “and then gave me the most impertinent look! He did apologise, but only after another lady - who I have never before seen in my life - told him my name and fortune. It took me fifteen minutes to get rid of him.”
Miss Taylor murmurs something indistinct and soothing.
“Then a Lord Clare asked to be introduced to me! An Ir - ”
“ - Irish viscount,” a crisp male voice is saying, as Emma’s quick, indignant stride propels her around the corner, “just good enough to be quality at Lyme. Oomph!”
The voice belongs to a tall, handsome, and very startled young man. “I beg your pardon, madam,” he says, instantly earning his way into her good graces.
“Oh, it is quite my own fault,” Emma replies frankly. “Most things are - but thank you nevertheless.”
Everybody laughs, and the young man’s companion, who she vaguely remembers meeting a few days earlier, introduces him as Mr Darcy of Pemberley.
Emma curtsies, Mr Darcy bows, and within short order they find that he is her fourth cousin once removed, and heir to her great-great-grandfather’s family.
Mr Tilney looks on with an air of distinct satisfaction.
Five meetings and one dance later - just one, because Darcy is the only man in the world who hates dancing more than Mr Knightley - they discover that their opinions coinide on every conceivable subject. He is solemn where she is lively, and satirical where she is earnest, but none of this matters - theirs remains a tie of affinity, an instinctive accord that permeates their every conversation.
They cannot talk fast enough, the words tumbling incomprehensibly together, grasping each other’s thoughts in dangling half-finished sentences. It is not a matter of understanding; sometimes Emma doesn’t understand him at all. But she knows him, simply by knowing herself.
Warning: Fitzwilliam Darcy/Canon Female. Consider yourself thoroughly warned.
FIVE WOMEN FITZWILLIAM DARCY NEVER MARRIED -- 1
Emma Woodhouse
Mr Woodhouse has never been a robust man, but after Emma’s seventeenth birthday, he falls into a rapid decline. She consults with Mr Knightley and Mr Perry, and within a few weeks, father and daughter - and paid companion - are settled in Bath.
Emma does not quite approve of Bath society. She receives none of the deference owed to Miss Woodhouse of Hartfield, and there is certainly nothing elegant about the crowds jostling her in the Pump Room.
She far prefers to walk outside with Miss Taylor, whenever they both can be spared.
“One man almost knocked me to the ground,” she protests, “and then gave me the most impertinent look! He did apologise, but only after another lady - who I have never before seen in my life - told him my name and fortune. It took me fifteen minutes to get rid of him.”
Miss Taylor murmurs something indistinct and soothing.
“Then a Lord Clare asked to be introduced to me! An Ir - ”
“ - Irish viscount,” a crisp male voice is saying, as Emma’s quick, indignant stride propels her around the corner, “just good enough to be quality at Lyme. Oomph!”
The voice belongs to a tall, handsome, and very startled young man. “I beg your pardon, madam,” he says, instantly earning his way into her good graces.
“Oh, it is quite my own fault,” Emma replies frankly. “Most things are - but thank you nevertheless.”
Everybody laughs, and the young man’s companion, who she vaguely remembers meeting a few days earlier, introduces him as Mr Darcy of Pemberley.
Emma curtsies, Mr Darcy bows, and within short order they find that he is her fourth cousin once removed, and heir to her great-great-grandfather’s family.
Mr Tilney looks on with an air of distinct satisfaction.
Five meetings and one dance later - just one, because Darcy is the only man in the world who hates dancing more than Mr Knightley - they discover that their opinions coinide on every conceivable subject. He is solemn where she is lively, and satirical where she is earnest, but none of this matters - theirs remains a tie of affinity, an instinctive accord that permeates their every conversation.
They cannot talk fast enough, the words tumbling incomprehensibly together, grasping each other’s thoughts in dangling half-finished sentences. It is not a matter of understanding; sometimes Emma doesn’t understand him at all. But she knows him, simply by knowing herself.