"Oh, Fitzwilliam, where are you?" Whined Elizabeth, placing her head on the pillow. She was tossing in her bed for more than two hours. Morphs didn't want to come. She was lying on her back, staring into the ceiling. Her bed seemed as uncomfortable and cold as never before and she could not help it. About an hour earlier, she crawled out of bed and searched for another blanket but it didn't help. She hid her head under the pillow and rubbed her face against the sheet. No change, her body wanted no rest. Her brain was calling for sleep. She wanted to sleep through the hours and forget but in vain. She kept awake. If I get out of bed and cool off, so that my feet begin to freeze, I'll wrap in the sheets and fall asleep she thought.
The house was silent. She went to the window and stared into the night. It was beautiful and starry. "Where are you Fitzwilliam Darcy? Why did you go away?" she whispered, breathed heavily and then scolded herself: "Stop thinking about it. Get on with your life." But she could not. He was in her thoughts, most inner and most private, intimate, she'd call them. He didn't even tell Jane about them but she wondered how it would be if she fond herself in Fitzwilliam's arms. Yes, in her thoughts, when she was alone, she called him Fitzwilliam. He wasn't Mr Darcy or Fitzwilliam Darcy. He was Fitzwilliam or William. She closed her eyes and shivered. She imagined, him approaching her from behind. Encircling her with his arms and placing a kiss on her neck, and her cheek and murmuring: "My darling wife, come to me." But it was so impossible, now. He was away from her and he... No, she couldn't bear thinking about it. It was cold, her feet freezing, her arms clutched around her chest. She ran towards her bed. And wrapped herself in the sheets. The warmth of the bed made her eyes close slowly. She was drifting into land of sleep.
She tossed in bed. "Fitzwilliam, come, please." She was running after him. She was in a forest. It looked strange and then she realised she was being chased. She turned back. It was a huge cat, like the one Lady Catherine used to have at Rosings but this one was even bigger. It was red-haired and ...there was something scary about it. She ran even faster. "Fitzwilliam." Suddenly, she found herself in a hall of a great house. It looked familiar. It was Pemberley. She ran across the hall and ... there he was. With his arms open, he was there to protect her from all the evil and just as she was approaching him... she was sitting in her bed, at Longbourne and he was not with her... he was away... somewhere in London or on his way to Kent. He would never come back to her. Now that she has finally realised that she loved him like she loved no one on this world, he left for good and would not come back, not after what Lady Catherine had told him today. Now, he would not be back to disgrace himself by proposing for the second time.
Her head was so heavy, she could barely lift it up. The past three nights, she slept terribly. The same dream had been repeating itself. The big cat of Lady Catherine's chased her and just as she was to be saved by Fitzwilliam, by his arms, she woke up, cold and... alone. Every morning, going to breakfast, she half expected to hear Mr Bingley say: "My friend Darcy apologizes but he will not be coming back to Netherfield. Urgent business regretfully keeps him in London." But Bingley never said it, every day, he readily assured that his friend sent him no word and is to come back as planned. Elizabeth didn't know what to think. She didn't want to live hoping and wishfully thinking. If he was not to come back, it would be better if he declared it openly and crashed all her hopes. Right now, she was dying for him, her soul her body, all of her. Why couldn't she just go to him and throw herself into his arms?
She was sitting on her bed. The day seemed to be lovely. It was her soul that wasn't happy. She closed her eyes, hid her face in her hands and then sprung out of bed, straight to the cold water, she had in the bowl. She splashed it over her face. "A few more nights like that and I shall suffer from nerves." She imitated her mother.
Putting on her gown, she reflected on her fantasies about Fitzwilliam Darcy. He was strong, masculine but also tender and...how he would kiss her... She looked out of the window... Were her eyes deceiving her? It was impossible... It was impossible for him... for him to be here... to come with Bingley... Maybe, maybe... maybe he did come back for her... maybe he loved her... maybe he would do what few men would do and ... and propose to the same woman for the second time.
She ran downstairs, light as she was never before.
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