Page 48 of Desperately Seeking Mr. Darcy

“I was fifteen. I’ve matured since then.”

“There was also the rollerblading incident, the shopping cart incident, the microwave incident.”

“You almost burned your house down,” I say, in my defense.

“I could go on.”

Hearing her tell stories from our past makes something churn in my stomach. That Macey, the mischievous one who wanted to try everything and didn’t care about the consequences ... where did she go? She may have hopped on a horse, but that was only because it was expected of her.

“Well, you’re welcome for not saying it this time,” I say, and this gets her to let out a soft laugh.

I’m happy to hear it. I want to do more to keep lifting her spirits.

But for now, I grab her by the hand and walk her back to the house where she’s staying.

Once we’re both changed out of our riding clothes and into new costumes—Macey in a pale-pink gown that makes her eyes sparkle, and me in a navy-colored waistcoat, courtesy of Dunley—we head back to the main house.

When we enter the dining hall, the rest of the group is already sitting down for lunch. The food is simple: some cold cuts, bread, and fruit. Nobody’s really talking much, though. The whole morning’s been a mess, and it’s pretty clear it’s still weighing on everyone.

Macey sits next to me and is mostly quiet, only picking at her food. I think the only thing that will cheer her up now would be to find out that Monroe is okay. Hopefully we’ll get some news soon.

After lunch, we return to the drawing room, where Lady Catherine launches into a dramatic lecture on the art of letter writing.

“In Jane Austen’s world,” Lady Catherine begins, now in a lilac-colored fluffy dress, her voice commanding the attention of the room, “letter writing is elevated far beyond mere correspondence—it is an art form, a reflection of one’s wit, sentiment, and decorum. Every word must carry purpose, every phrase must resonate with refinement. You must approach this task with intention, ensuring that your letters embody the elegance and authenticity that Austen herself might admire. They are not just part of the story—they are the story.”

“This is ridiculous,” I say mostly to myself, but Macey must catch it, because she snorts out a laugh.

We’re all sitting at these little writing desks they’ve set up around the room. Mine is tiny, and I feel like a giant at a dollhouse table. There’s barely any room to write. Each one has a candelabra on it—because, I don’t know, they wrote by candlelight back then or something. But it’s still daylight, and the room is already lit up by fancy electric chandeliers, so the candles are kind of pointless.

We each have our own writing supplies: cream-colored paper, quills with ink, some other smaller papers that Macey says are for blotting up the ink, and the coolest item is the waxand a stamp. My mom had a wax and stamp set when I was a kid, and I got in trouble more than once for playing with it.

“Now, I would ask that you compose a letter, something your character might write,” Lady Catherine says, instructing us like a teacher in front of the class, “and approach it as though your very honor depends upon it. Choose your words with precision, let your penmanship mirror the grace of the era, and imbue each sentence with the spirit of Regency England. These letters must be more than mere props—they must breathe life into your characters, as if they stepped straight from Austen’s pages.”

“Bloody ‘ell,” Kitty says out loud, and we all turn to see that she’s got ink all over her hands, her ink pot spilled on her desk.

“Miss Bennet,” Lady Catherine says, her tone sharp with displeasure. “See to it that you compose yourself at once and mind your tongue. A lady ought never to speak in such a manner.”

After some instruction on how to use the quill and ink and practicing a few words (mine look mostly like chicken scratch), we are left to write a letter.

“I have no idea what to write,” I say to Macey, who’s nibbling on her bottom lip as she uses her quill with ease, like she’s done this before. Actually, she probably has.

She looks over at me. “Pretend you’re Mr. Darcy and write Elizabeth your feelings.”

I’m glad to see her looking less sad right now as she concentrates on her letter writing. I hope she can find a way to have fun despite everything that’s happened.

I’m not sure why it’s become important to me that Macey has a better time. Maybe it’s Amelia’s words that she needs this win, and then having to watch her deal with disappointment after disappointment since we got here. But for some reason, it’s become my sole purpose to make sure this trip goes well for her. I can’t explain why I want it so badly—I just do.

“Right,” I mutter under my breath. Like it’s just that easy to channel Mr. Darcy and spill my feelings. The guy barely talks in the movie. How am I supposed to know what’s going on in his head? Maybe I should have read the book. Amelia has like ten copies, all different print versions in her room. Maybe I will when I get back. Or, I’ll have had enough of anythingPride and Prejudiceto last for the rest of my life.

My first instinct is to give up and scribble something generic, but then I just start writing. Not a letter to Elizabeth, but to Macey.

When I’m done, I seal it with the wax—which is just as fun as it was when I was a kid. I should get myself a set when I get home. Then I hand the letter to her.

Macey raises her brow in question as she takes it. “What’s this for?”

“It’s my feelings,” I tell her.

Her cheeks turn the softest pink. “Don’t you mean Darcy’s feelings?”

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