Page 99 of Pride, Prejudice, & Pretense

This confirms our phone discussion yesterday. Effective immediately, I am resigning my position as Special Agent.

Thank you,

Elizabeth Bennet

It was few words to seal a lot of years. She thought about adding something more personal but decided it would be inappropriate. TheThank youwas personal enough. It acknowledged what Kellynch had been to her but did not suggest she could be talked out of her decision. She initially typed “Sincerely” and then deleted it. It seemed wrong, toopro forma.

Anyway, she would still have to visit Langley for the retirement class, the final debrief, and exit interviews. You could quit the CIA but couldn’t simply wave and walk out the door.The maze-ways never end—until they finally do.She had miles left to travel along the corridor to freedom. Casper to D.C. The myriad halls of Langley.

And then what?

She still had no plan.

When she finished typing, she found Charlie staring at her as if gauging her reaction to what she had done. He tilted his head and smiled. "You look better this morning. Your color's back. It's good to see."

"I feel…better, physically…and otherwise. Thanks for bringing the computer. I hated to text last night and ask, but I wanted to get that done."

He nodded. "I understand." It was apparent that he meant the words in a more significant sense than they initially suggested.

The two were silent as they faced each other, and then Charlie cleared his throat. "I have something for you. Darcy gave it to me before he left. It feels a little…well,romance novel,but he was adamant—and he's undeniable when he's like that."

He put his hand in the briefcase in which he’d carried the computer and pulled out an envelope. “Elizabeth” was written on the front of it. After handing it to her, he left the room, giving her privacy. She opened it to find a handwritten letter.

Dearest Lizzy,

A coward's exit, I know. I'm sorry. Strong emotions tie my tongue. There's so much I want to say to you but, as has been true since I first saw you, I'm afraid to say it. Not because I doubt myself or my feelings. That’s not the problem. Not at all. The problem is that I doubt my ability to leave you once I confess I love you.

And I do. I love you. Dearly. Ardently. You are precious to me. You’ve returned preciousness to my life. Even if what I allowed you to do, or rather what I asked you to do during the mission suggests otherwise. I never imagined I could fall like this, so fast, so far. That I could be found before I knew I was lost. I may be a fool, but I am a happy fool.

Let me write it once more: I love you.

But I don't know if I can speak the words to you and still do what needs doing. Professionally, you were right to turn me away when I came to your bedroom in Chicago. For me, there'd have been no return from that bedroom, no return to the mission. Everything between us would have become and then remained much too personal.

I've shared my doubts about what we do. You've intensified those doubts. This whole damned mission has intensified those doubts.

Checkers. I can't keep sacrificing pieces to win a game. The checkers are never just checkers. They are people, lives?now loves?and I don't want to keep pretending I know how to do calculus with lives or loves and pretending that I'm not committed to doing it even if I don't know how.

I'm sick of pretending, sick of covers, sick of shadows. I've had a bellyful of them, to put it bluntly. Who knew falsehoods could weigh so much?

Someone compromised your cover. There's a leak or a mole in D.C. or London, in Langley or the SIS Building. Wickham may be dead, but the Wicker Man lives. I fear the consequences for you as long as that is true. I fear you will never be safe. Despite what happened to you and what happened to Georgiana, I'm no longer pursuing revenge. I'm not even pursuing justice. I only want this to be over, completely over, when I walk away?no spy world remainder, no residual questions.

Beyond that, the only thing I'm sure of is you, Lizzy.

I'm no longer sure why I ever started this job. I suppose I kept at it because I made a mistaken inference from "I'm good at doing what I'm doing" to "What I'm doing is good," which is a non-sequitur of numbing grossness. My elementary logic class should have been enough to render me immune to it. But life is not logic, and the maze-ways of self-justification are endless.

I have a hunch about where to start in my hunt for the Wicker Man. Please don't search for me. Bingley's been tasked with watching over you. I expect that you are planning to resign. I hope so.

Once the Wicker Man is finished, I intend to resign. And then I hope to take you, Lizzy Bennet, on a date. A real date with me, Fitzwilliam Darcy. No Fanny, no Ned. No Elizabeth Gaskell. Just us.

However, I will be hoping for a wife and (maybe eventually) daughters (or sons) as the finish to our story. Unlike Gaskell’s book, I want our final chapter, Lizzy.

I suppose it's absurd to admit all this before a first date, but I've already stated I am a fool.

Love,

Fitzwilliam

Lizzy folded the letter back in two and slipped it into the envelope. Joy and sorrow gripped her, each with equal force. He was full of her dreams. He hoped for the same things she hoped for.

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