Fitzwilliam Darcy was a man that was born with good principles but was left to practice them in pride and conceit. However, between years of denying his own heart, and giving into the belief of marrying a woman of means and money, his taciturn disposition has transitioned to that of a cold and hard misanthrope.

With the end of the year being a time of miracles, Darcy is home, in London, for the Christmas holidays—quite alone. But not fully, because, on Christmas Eve, he finds himself visited by a series of four ghosts, who remind him of a time where he almost married a woman who would have been the love of his life: Elizabeth Bennet.

Here comes a Christmas tale, in the spirit of Dickens!

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Release Date: October 27, 2025
Genre: Historical | Christmas

A Pink Satin Romance

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Excerpt

Chapter One
The Young Sinner

“Unsupportable!”  Darcy hissed as he was leaving his theatre box after watching a play at Drury Lane. When the show ended, Darcy didn’t even applaud.

Between the nature of the play, and the lack of love that he had for that time of the year, he was not in the habit of finding joy in anything.

A handsome man of large fortune, a vast estate in the North and with a lovely townhouse in London would naturally make Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy the perfect candidate for a man to marry.

Yet that would not be so, because time had rendered his best qualities into blandness, and his disappointments in life—disappointments that he had created from his own decisions—that it led to a sourness that crossed his features.

His handsome looks would quickly sink into plainness, because of the constant scowl that crossed it.

His lack of spark of life led to him drifting away from his friends, and soon every common acquaintance sank into a distant indifference. He had many in the ton who would invite him to parties, under the distinct impression that they would receive no reply.

Mr. Darcy had given up being social.  People confused Darcy. And the word ‘duty’ became his chief frame of mind. But, soon that sense of duty came at a heavy price.

As such, when the play was finished, Darcy found the performance to be lackluster and there was nothing remarkable to see. He thought the acting was horrible, the leads were miscast, and that he had wasted his time.

As he left the box, there was an usher there to hold the door open for him to go downstairs.

“Did you enjoy the play, sir?” he asked.

“Not at all,” Darcy said. “There was nothing to recommend it, this was a waste of effort and did nothing to elevate the typical story that it brings forth.”

The usher raised an eyebrow, shocked by this harsh criticism.

“Oh, well, I am sorry that it did not suit you, sir.”

“I am even more sorry that I decided to leave the comforts of my home to come to this dismal attempt at dramatization. Why I even come to see plays at all is tiresome. I ought to give it up entirely since it does nothing but give a poor representation of reality.”

The usher was so overwhelmed by the man’s harshness that all he could do was look away and mutter.

“Good evening, sir.”

Darcy did not even respond but only put his hat back on and left Drury Lane.

 

* * *

 

As he emerged from the theatre, he was among those in his social circle. Those who did notice him gave him a gentle nod or pretended not to notice him altogether.

Lowering their voices, they spoke amongst themselves, wondering at the misanthrope that the Master of Pemberley had become.

“I know that he was always a little serious,” a Mrs. Brownell said to her husband as they were waiting for a cabby. “But he turned into pure stone.”

The wealthy widow, Mrs. Canby, who inherited Jellaby estate, stood with her son and gently moved her daughters to the side.

“Do not look at Mr. Darcy,” Mrs. Canby whispered. “Never engage in discussion with him.”

“But why, Mother?” their eldest daughter asked. “He looks handsome enough, and everyone says that he’s rich.”

“Rich and handsome is as rich and handsome does,” the eldest son said, “to an extent. Penelope, I went to school with Darcy, and I can tell you that he went from serious at university to a state of worse every year. He’s not worth catching or look at.”

“And if he looks at you,” the mother said, “his looks only find something wanting, and something to criticize and insult. Darcy likes being cruel and finds no woman good enough for him. He still hasn’t even married the woman that he chose to marry.”

Another set of gentlemen, one named Sir Marymoor, also whispered harsh words to his friend.

“Why does he even go out into society when he knows that he hates everything?”

All these questions, concerns, and remarks were unnoticed by Darcy. Even if they had not been spoken low, Darcy had reached such a disconnected disposition that he did not take heed of those around him, unless he could absolutely help it.

Internally, Darcy was dead, somewhat like a coffin nail.

 

* * *

 

Despite the lack of life that exuded from the dreadful Darcy fellow, it cannot be helped, nor prevented, that during his days, something would have no choice but to shock him.

Something to make him feel, to second-guess his mindset and manners.

Something to make him feel that thing called ‘remorse’. And as he waited for his coach to be brought round from where it was parked, he heard a familiar voice from further down the way.

Through a large collection of people, he saw an old friend of his, being swarmed by a small crowd who were speaking to him. After all, despite being of the Novo riche, Mr. Charles Bingley was always a popular man.

When seeing him, Darcy blinked, and his expression shifted from intense stoicism to being slightly unnerved.

Three years!

That was the last time that he and Bingley spoke—the last time that they argued. And that argument cost Darcy a great deal. Marking his old friend, who was swarmed by others around him, Darcy was not wholly surprised that Bingley had many friends.

Being a solitary man, Darcy never regretted the loss of his social circle, but now, he felt strange.

Bingley was surrounded by many.

Darcy stood there alone.

And, surprisingly, Darcy felt something strange—something almost incredible: Darcy felt insecure.

However, Bingley had not gone to the theatre alone, for he rarely ever did any social event alone. Next to him, were his sisters, Caroline Bingley and Louisa Hurst. And while Bingley did not notice his distant friend, Caroline was good—rather she was expert—at observing her surroundings.

From the side of her eye, she glimpsed Mr. Darcy. Seeing her note him, Mr. Darcy whipped his head back towards the road, appearing preoccupied.

Still, he could see, from his peripheral perspective. He saw her tug at Charles Bingley’s arm, and whisper that Darcy was near them.

He also saw how Bingley looked in his direction, and Bingley’s eyes darkened with awkwardness and apathy, he said brief words to Caroline, showing that he was dismissive of the subject.

But Caroline Bingley was Caroline Bingley. Being the sort of person who liked pressing her point—as many of us have the desire to do—and she must’ve had a point to make.

After briefly arguing with her brother of him advising her to leave Darcy alone, Darcy saw Caroline approaching him.

Darcy’s chest tightened, as he still looked ahead, and saw his carriage being brought round.

“Well,” Caroline Bingley began, “Mr. Darcy, good evening.”

“Good evening,” Darcy said, tilting his head slightly and looking at her, without any emotion.

“It’s been so long, but you have always been a busy man, since every invitation to my parties have been too inconvenient for you to attend.”

“I find that parties no longer suit my palate.”

“Well, they still suit me. After all, that is how I have found my fiancé.”

When hearing that, Darcy looked at her with a raised eyebrow.

Any reaction at all was spice to the brew that Caroline had begun concocting because she dared hope to find jealousy in his eyes.

“Fiancé?” Darcy asked.

“Yes.” Caroline gestured to a man who was standing near Bingley. The man was of a medium height, and Darcy found that the gentleman smiled too much. When analyzing the man’s appearance, Darcy noticed that the man lacked a strong jaw, had a short forehead, indicating that he might not be the smartest man in the world. Especially since he did recognize him as Mr. John Hayter.

“John Hayter,” Darcy uttered.

“Yes. I made his acquaintance at one of my parties, and who would have thought that would be one of the happiest moments of my life.” Caroline stressed that last word, and Darcy knew why. He was hoping that this announcement would make him jealous. Especially since Darcy had always been aware of the soft feelings that Caroline had for him, back when they were tossed into each other’s lives.

Unwilling to give her satisfaction, Darcy immediately lost all interest, and his gaze returned to apathy. Especially since he always found Mr. Hayter to be a very dull fellow who lacked anything like intelligence.

“I congratulate you,” Darcy responded. “And I hope you both will be very happy.”

Ever the keen observer, Darcy noted the disappointment in Caroline’s eyes, and sadly, he reaped satisfaction from it.

“He is the perfect man for me,” Caroline stressed, attempting to convince him of her success. “He has much conversation, and his rank and lifestyle work for my wealth. Now I know what true love is, and how we both feel it keenly.”

“Love?” Darcy echoed.

“Yes, Mr. Darcy. We are in love.”

Darcy rolled his eyes.

“I should have thought that there was more sense in that than love being the chief thing. But do as you will. Again, I congratulate you.”

Caroline didn’t know how to respond to it, because she was pained at seeing that she drew no warmth from him.

Naturally, she would want some sort of retaliation, and she was now giving it.

“I heard that you and Miss Anne de Bourgh   had broken off your engagement. I am sorry that your life has not progressed.”

Unaffected by his broken engagement, Darcy still had no reaction.

“It was for the best,” Darcy responded curtly.

“How unfortunate! That some people just cannot find their happiness.”

Darcy gave her a side glance.

“Have you really found your happiness, Caroline? Truly? Because I am not so certain.”

“What proscription could you give instead?” Caroline asked, eager to know that he would mention himself as a potential suitor.

“Anyone but the one you chose,” Darcy responded, “but do as you wish. It’s not my business, nor my care.”

Caroline’s eyes filled with indignation.

“Good evening, Mr. Darcy,” she said, her tone like ice. “And Merry Christmas.”

“Quite frankly, I don’t see anything merry about it.”

“You wouldn’t, would you?” she asked, then she turned her heel and rushed away, happy to be far from a man who she got no pleasure of ever saying the very thing that she wanted to hear.

Darcy’s carriage came around, his servant helped him in, and Darcy rode off, leaving his one-time friends behind.

Despite himself, he did give a backwards glance at Charles Bingley, who had no choice but to watch Darcy’s carriage roll down Broad Street, to the West End.

Looking through the window, Darcy saw pain in Bingley’s eye, which Darcy understood but did not regret.

Bingley said that he would never forgive Darcy—and he never could. And Darcy never apologized because Darcy was never, in his eyes, wrong. Because, when it came to righteousness, Darcy was a tight-fisted hand at the obstinate. Hard and sharp as flint, he was, from which no steel had ever struck out generous fire.

Having once been a man who had developed great compassion, an open agreeable heart, Darcy’s soul fell and shifted to being secret, self-contained, and solitary as an oyster.

 

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