Mending His Pen
Chapter One
"Cousin Elizabeth!" bid an entirely unwelcome voice from over her shoulder. Flushed with embarrassment at being caught out and dreading what those unfortunate lips may say next, she turned and in doing so, nearly bumped into her host and cousin, Mr. Collins. "I see you are admiring Miss de Bourgh's hand," he said.
It was true she had been fixated on a letter penned by none other than Anne de Bourgh, but her attention had held no admiration. Miss de Bourgh wrote with a weak, uneven hand. The envelope bearing the direction had blotted quite spectacularly. When Mr. Collins arrived, Elizabeth had just finished her contemplation of the letter's recipient and moved onto the question of if he could ever expect to receive it.
Disregarding the unfortunate appearance of the missive, Mr. Collins's effusions continued: "Such elegance! Finer writing, I have seen only in her mother, Lady Catherine! Of course, such fine paper and ink is rarely seen, and the combination of excellent materials and excellent breeding can only produce an exquisite product."
"I am to the inn," Elizabeth interrupted. Mr. Collins was evidently insensible to all that she wished him to be ignorant of, but that knowledge did not inspire in her any desire to linger. "Have you a letter to post?"
"Indeed, I do!" he said triumphantly, handing her a thin letter with a flourish. Elizabeth accepted it without comment. "It is so good of you," Mr. Collins added, "dear Cousin, to take on this simple task while you are with us. My Charlotte, of course, is an industrious girl and does it herself with nary a complaint each day. Both my humble parsonage and the great Rosings Park benefit from her travels. Even so, the mistress of any house, even one such as this, has many duties. Your contribution, while small, is still a tremendous boon for Charlotte, as the time you have gifted her allows her to accomplish many other tasks!"
"I am pleased to do it," Elizabeth said simply. "I enjoy it."
He smiled, said a few more words in her praise, then many more in Lady Catherine's, and let Elizabeth on her way.
She did enjoy the task. She walked out every morning before breakfast. It was no hardship for her rambling to take her into the village, where she could peer into shop windows or watch the parishioners go about their daily lives. At the inn, Elizabeth would post the letters, pick up all that had arrived for the Collinses or de Bourghs since the previous day and take the long way back, through the grove. As she walked, she swung her reticule. Being filled with letters and coins to pay for postage gave it a satisfying heft. She looked forward to seeing the villagers again. Watching people was nearly as interesting as admiring a well landscaped park. There was always something amusing happening in Hunsford village.
As she walked, she let her thoughts drift, as they so often did, to Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy. Though she was lately accustomed to berating herself on his behalf, to-day she was more concerned with Miss de Bourgh's letter. Mr. Darcy had left Rosings Park not a se'nnight ago, after spending several weeks visiting his aunt and cousin. It was rumoured Mr. Darcy and Miss de Bourgh were engaged, something that Elizabeth had good reason to doubt. In any case, neither of them had paid the other any particular attention during his visit. She wondered what had caused Miss de Bourgh to pick up her pen and write such a blotted letter so soon after he had left. It was not as though the two had ever been inclined to speak to one another.
Because Mrs. Collins was normally in the habit of walking to the inn twice a day for the post, a footman from Rosings brought all of the de Bourgh's letters each morning. Lady Catherine was of the opinion that a rector's wife must be industrious. Privately, Elizabeth supposed her ladyship did not want to spare any of her own servants for the time it took to walk to the inn and back. Soon after her arrival, Elizabeth assumed the job of posting the mail. Between the two of them, Elizabeth was the one who especially enjoyed walking. It was no hardship to give her rambles a practical purpose.
When the footman brought Miss de Bourgh's letter, Elizabeth had been seized by a mad whim to copy Mr. Darcy's direction. As soon as she was finished scrawling the address on a scrap of torn paper, it struck her - as whims so often did - as a foolish thing to have done. Miss de Bourgh, by consequence of their being related, may write to Mr. Darcy as often as she chose. Elizabeth, of course, could do no such thing. With half a laugh, she had slipped the scrap of paper in her reticule. Mr. Collins had come upon her immediately afterwards, but thankfully appeared not to have noticed. Elizabeth hurried out of the house before he had the opportunity to think much on the scene he had just entered. Alone, her thoughts returned to Mr. Darcy.
She used to amuse herself with hating him. He was rude, overbearing and above his company. She had never heard him utter a pleasant word until one evening, in a fit of lunacy, he professed to love her, Elizabeth, and asked for her hand in marriage. She rejected him soundly. Against all reason, he had responded with a letter. It had been in her possession for five days now, five days that she had spent reading and rereading, until her thoughts about him were all jumbled around. There was very little about him of which she was certain.
First, Elizabeth knew, Mr. Darcy had a respectable character and her former favourite, Mr. Wickham, did not.
Second, though he admitted to being one of the primary forces to separate Elizabeth's beloved sister Jane from her favourite beau, Mr. Bingley, Elizabeth was willing to concede that the greater responsibility for Jane's heartbreak belonged to their family. To Elizabeth, who loved them and was used to their ways, a nervous mother, indolent father and three silly younger sisters were a minor annoyance, incapable of doing serious harm to anyone. Their oft-displayed ill-breeding, irresponsibility and mercenary ways, however, reflected poorly on angelic, serene Jane. To Mr. Bingley's watchful friend, Jane had - perhaps logically - appeared more like a poor girl in need of a rich husband than a lady in love.
Third, these concessions aside, Elizabeth had no desire to ever see Mr. Darcy again.
Yet, her sense of justice was stronger than her dislike of a young man who was more honourable than he was amiable. She had levelled very serious charges against his character, charges he was able to defend himself against. Though Elizabeth knew writing him to be impossible, she still wished for some way to communicate to him that she had credited his words. Copying his direction was a foolish thing to have done, but the desire that lead her to do so was just.
"Father," Elizabeth said, "I wish to speak to you on a matter of some urgency."
Mr. Bennet lowered his book, but evidently saw no reason to put it down. She squared her shoulders. A request that required he put down his books and pick up his pen was likely to be too much of a chore for her father to do gracefully - if he was willing to do it at all. "What is it, Lizzy? Has Lydia embarrassed you in front of Mr. Wickham?"
She pressed her lips together. "I have embarrassed myself," Elizabeth replied.
That confession was enough to have her father close his book. "And not one of your sisters saw fit to crow about it? That is urgent, indeed. Shall I send for Mr. Jones?"
"I am in earnest," she protested. Sitting on an unused ottoman, Elizabeth continued, "It happened while I was visiting Charlotte."
Her father chuckled. "Dear, do not fret if you made yourself appear foolish in front of Mr. Collins. He is such fine company for it, you can hardly avoid it."
"No," she heaved. "While I was visiting Charlotte, Lady Catherine had visitors of her own." She hurried on before her father could interject more commentary. "One of them, in fact, is a gentleman we are all already acquainted with: Mr. Darcy."
"Lizzy," Mr. Bennet said, "do not let that man get the better of you. We all know what he thinks of country girls. Nothing you can do will change his opinion for the better and I dare say his opinion cannot be changed for the worse."
"One evening," Elizabeth continued, forcing herself to disregard her father's ignorant words, "towards the end of his visit, Mr. Darcy called at the parsonage. He said some things that I found offensive and uncalled for, and I responded in kind. I made some rather serious allegations against his character. At the time, I thought my information to be very good, but have since learned that it was not. He wished for me to have this better understanding, but as he was leaving Rosings Park, I was not given the opportunity to tell him that I had received and corroborated the new information with another, interested party." She had not actually found consulting with Colonel Fitzwilliam as to the veracity of Mr. Darcy's claims necessary. The information itself was too damning for him to have invented it.
Mr. Bennet said, "I don't know what you expect me to do about it. Seems a hopeless business."
"I have his London address," Elizabeth went on hurriedly. "I had hoped, perhaps, you could write a few lines to him to say that I am sorry for what I said."
Her father sighed. "Lizzy," he said, "your heart is too generous. Your words did not wound Mr. Darcy. He does not need an apology."
"His sense of justice should demand one," she argued. "As does mine. I cannot wrongfully impugn a man's character, then ignore it when I learn the truth."
"Tis a pity," her father said drolly. "I believe that is the foremost joy in life for most women."
"You would not have a need to write more than five lines," Elizabeth insisted. "I am not asking that you begin a regular correspondence with him."
"He would not read it."
"If he chooses not to read it," Elizabeth said firmly, "that is his own doing. My sense of justice demands I try. I cannot write to him myself nor do I believe I will have any occasion in the future to be in company with him."
Pointing sharply at her with the tufted end of a quill pen, Mr. Bennet said, "Your sisters must not know of this. They will have me writing to all their young men. Where is that blasted paper?"
Merrily fetching a sheet of paper for him, Elizabeth agreed that she would not share the secret with anyone.
Before sealing the letter, Mr. Bennet allowed Elizabeth to review what he had written, though under no circumstances would he write another missive. If she was not satisfied with this attempt, she would have to accept that her apology would go unsaid. On a trimmed leaf of paper, it read:
Longbourn, 10th May
Dear Sir,
Forgive my impertinence in writing you. Miss Elizabeth Bennet wishes it be known she is heartily sorry for her allegations against your character. She knows what she said to be false and begs your forgiveness.
With his daughter's approval, Mr. Bennet signed, sanded and sealed the letter. Considerably cheered, Elizabeth walked to Meryton to post all of Longbourn's letters. Free to look upon her dealings with Mr. Darcy with naught but satisfaction, Elizabeth did so.
Greedy eyes feasting on a letter from aunt Gardiner, Elizabeth dropped the rest of the morning's post into her reticule. She had all but forgotten the other envelopes until, after relating an anecdote from Mrs. Gardiner at the breakfast table, Mary asked, "Lizzy, were there any other letters?"
"Oh, let me see." Her reticule was in her hands in a moment, placed their by a diligent footman. Producing the rest of the post, Elizabeth announced, "Jane, you have one. Mama. Lydia. And Father."
The letters were passed around the table to their owners, where their seals were immediately broken with the exception of one poor packet that was thrown onto the table with a grunt of disgust. Seated at her father's left, Elizabeth snatched the letter he had thrown down. The familiar handwriting filled her with a sense of foreboding. She hardly need turn it over to know its author, but she did so. An elaborate D was stamped in the wax.
Trying to sound nonchalant, Elizabeth wondered, "You are going to read it, Father?"
"Perhaps in a fortnight," Mr. Bennet said, getting up from the table. "Perhaps not. I have nothing to say to the man, nor do I see why he should have anything to say to me."
Elizabeth slid Mr. Darcy's letter into the sheets from Mrs. Gardiner. Tucking them all into her reticule, she looked up to see Jane frowning at her from across the table. When Elizabeth left the table, she was unsurprised that Jane hurried after.
Catching Elizabeth by the elbow, Jane hooked her arm into her younger sister's. "Lizzy," she whispered, "why did you take Father's letter?"
Though she had told not even Jane that she had begged Mr. Bennet to write to Mr. Darcy, now that she had been caught out by someone, there was nothing for it but honesty. "Because I am afraid of what it says."
"Who is it from?"
"Mr. Darcy."
Baffled, Jane asked, "What reason could Mr. Darcy have to write to my father?"
"Before I left Kent," Elizabeth explained, "I learned Mr. Darcy's London address. I am evidentially a princess of Serendip, finding things that I was not in search of, but nevertheless are very useful. After much thought, I asked Father to write to Mr. Darcy."
"Whatever for?"
The girls had by now reached Elizabeth's bedroom. Shutting the door behind them, she said, "When Mr. Darcy gave me his letter, he immediately walked away. He has no notion at all of if I read it or if I believed him. The history he related of Mr. Wickham and his poor sister...I could not bear the thought of him wondering if I had read it or what I thought. I asked Father to write a short letter stating that I had learned new information and was sorry for what I had said."
"Poor Mr. Darcy," Jane sighed. "He must be wondering what you told Father. I cannot believe my father would be angry at Mr. Darcy for having written you, but surely he does not know Father's temper so well."
Elizabeth sat on her bed, fighting a swoon. "Jane, I could not bear it if Father knew Mr. Darcy offered for me."
"You do not think Father would be upset at your refusing! He does not like Mr. Darcy! Father would not want you to marry him."
"No," Elizabeth agreed, gripping the nearest bedpost with white knuckles. "But if Father knows, Mama will know. He could not resist teasing me for it. A fortune like Mr. Darcy's would cure all of her worries." She swallowed hard. "Mama would not forgive me, nor could she keep herself from spreading all over the neighbourhood. Poor Mr. Darcy," she said, quite insensible to repeating Jane's adage, "A man's failures should not be the stuff of gossip."
"Father likes to tease," Jane admitted, "but he has a greater sense of propriety than you give him credit for. He would not say anything to Mama."
"Jane," Elizabeth said, her breakfast threatening to return, "I think I must read it."
"No!" Quieter, Jane continued, "Father's letters are his private affairs. You cannot open it."
"If it was the letter of someone diligent in their correspondence, I would agree." Breathing deep, Elizabeth continued, "He will not miss it. He will not wish to read it for weeks yet. If, when he wants it, it has become lost, he will be perfectly pleased."
"And suppose Mr. Darcy has written nothing you object to?" Jane suggested. "How could you hide having opened the letter?"
"If Mr. Darcy had nothing to say that I objected to," Elizabeth replied, "he would have nothing to write. Look, this letter is much too large for a simple 'apology accepted.' No, he has written in reference to what took place in Kent."
"Even if he has," Jane protested, "Father does not want Mama making a fool of herself any more than you do. He will be prudent."
Elizabeth shook her head. "No," she said, sliding her finger beneath the wax seal, "He will not."
As she feared, the letter contained a great deal more than an acceptance of Elizabeth's apology. She read it over twice, before hurriedly getting up. With shaking hands she rifled through her own writing desk, pulling out sheets of paper three at a time, dull pens and nearly spilling a pot of ink.
"Lizzy?"
"I have to write back," Elizabeth said, voice trembling. "I have to write back. I have to say no."
Jane drew back the chair at Elizabeth's desk and guided her to sit. Holding her sister's hands, she asked, "Did Mr. Darcy ask Father for your hand?"
Grateful that, at least, had not been the case, Elizabeth shook her head. "He apologised for his conduct. He does not specify what conduct he means - if it is rudeness or his proposal or writing to me...he must have thought I told Father something - but he offers to make amends in whatever way Father sees fit." She dabbed at her eyes with her handkerchief. "Father did not ask questions when I asked him to write my apology. He could not read this and disregard it. I would have to tell him everything. It would be only a matter of time before Mama knew. If she did not demand a marriage, she would demand money."
Delicately, Jane suggested, "Perhaps that is the right thing to do."
"Jane!"
"Mr. Darcy must be very sorry for what he has done," she said, "To have offered reparations shows he sees it was wrong. While I do not agree that Mama should try to pressure you to marry a young man you do not wish to marry, he did risk your reputation by writing to you. If a small gift of money would relieve his feelings, all this upheaval and ill-feelings would be put to rest."
"I will not let it be said in London that the Bennets bleed the young men who are so unfortunate as to fall in love their daughters." Having recovered her equanimity, Elizabeth selected one sheet of paper and returned the rest to the drawer. "I shall simply write to Mr. Darcy to say nothing further is necessary. I will post it myself. No one need know I wrote him."
Jane frowned.
"You must not tell anyone," Elizabeth pleaded. "I would not dare write to him myself for anything less urgent, you know that."
"Oh, Lizzy, I wish you would not do this," Jane implored her.
She wrote:
L-, 22nd May
To Mr. Darcy:
In reference to your letter dated 20th May, no amends necessary. Pray do not worry yourself with concerns on my behalf. If you are willing, I am prepared to Forget & Forgive all. I may even do so without your permission.
God bless you,
E. B.
