My dear Georgiana,

There is not much to tell about the last week. I hope the same is true of your week, excepting perhaps a new piece of music from the formidable Mr. Pritchard.

Mr. Bingley and his sisters all send their best to you. One, in fact, is watching over me at present, eager to ensure that I have someone to mend my pen if it should break. I am sure you can guess who the solicitous young lady is.

After my arrival last week, there was an assembly held in the little town of Meryton. You can imagine that I attended with some reluctance, but as Mr. Bingley is my host and he was eager to go, I obliged him. There was not much to be seen there, except the overly eager new acquaintances of Mr. Bingley's. I did meet one young lady, however, whose company I think you might enjoy.

Miss Elizabeth Bennet is the second in a family of five daughters. Her father has a small estate neighboring Netherfield, entailed away from the female line. Her older sister is the only other that merits mentioning. Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst have taken a liking to the eldest Miss Bennet. She is, however, quite reserved. The younger three Bennet sisters are, in my opinion, too young and too silly to be out. Miss Elizabeth, however, is possessed of a sharp mind and quick wit. You and she would get along well.

Yesterday, Miss Bingley invited Miss Jane Bennet to dine with her and Mrs. Hurst while we were dining with the officers. It seems Mrs. Bennet sent her eldest daughter on horseback. She rode in the rain and was wet through by the time she reached Netherfield. She has taken ill and the Bingleys would not do but to have her stay. Miss Bingley also invited Miss Elizabeth to stay when she came to nurse her sister.

That was an odd enough circumstance in itself. It seemed that Miss Elizabeth's father had needed the carriage – again – on the day following Miss Bennet's falling ill; however her sister was not to be deterred. Rather, she chose to walk the three miles from Longbourn to Netherfield, in mud ankle-deep. Miss Bingley observed, after Miss Elizabeth had been shown to her sister's sick room, that she was not fit to be seen, and was quite all astonishment at what she perceived as a spectacle made upon her sister's behalf. She immediately demanded my assurances that I should not like to see you do the same. Of course, I acquiesced, but I could not help teasing her a little by commenting that Miss Elizabeth's eyes had been brightened by her exertion.

My brother goes on for another quarter-page, in his smooth handwriting, about Miss Elizabeth Bennet. He has never mentioned any of his new female acquaintances to me in his writing. I had assumed this was because he had made no new acquaintances – he is not an easy person to speak with, and when he is with Mr. Bingley, his sister Caroline – who has quite made up her mind to marry Fitzwilliam – tends to circle round my brother like a vulture when there are other young unmarried females in the room. I used to think her kind, before I realized the motive behind her attention. Now I do not know what to think and try to avoid her as much as possible. Most of the time it is easy, since she is dressed all in beads, feathers, and swooshing silk, and can be seen and heard a mile away. Mrs. Reynolds, our housekeeper at Pemberley, calls her a peacock when she thinks no one is listening.

I ponder this Miss Bennet and wonder what she looks like. I assume she is at least tolerable, since there is no mention of her looks anywhere in the letter.

I have gotten another letter today, from my cousin Anne. She is only about five feet tall, prefers and mostly wears saffron-tinted yellows but does not look well in them, has hair so dark it is almost black, skin almost the color of milk, and eyes that are small and gray. I was afraid of her as a child and have always thought her looks putrid. However, she is as warm-hearted as a person who has been raised to think chiefly of herself can be. She writes brief but constant letters to me, and when I visit Rosings she does her utmost to sit with me, which can be difficult at times, as she is always being shown to her rooms to rest.

This letter is no different than most which I receive from her. The lovely thing about them is that she never bothers with opening pleasantries, and she writes just the same as she speaks – bluntly.

Dear Georgiana,

It has been at least three weeks since your last letter; I had expected one from you sooner. You know you are the only person with whom I ever correspond. I am not allowed out my other cousins cannot be spared the time.

Mother is well and sends her best wishes. She will assist me in selecting a new maid this week. Nicole has gotten too old. I did like her, inasmuch as I ever liked any servant, so I wonder what she will do after she is finished here.

Anne's kindness is not perfect – she has been through more abigails in two years than I have bonnets, dismissing all of them either because of age or attitude. I do think her more sincere than curious about Nicole's future employment, however. She may be just as demanding and blunt, but she is more gentle and generous than her mother. I do not mean to say that Lady Catherine is not charitable, rather, that her charity has a certain, diminutive limit.

Anne is right, on one point – I believe I am the only person to whom she writes. I try to make my replies cheerful and interesting, but I am sure I fail miserably most times.

Sighing, I put down her letter. Each time she writes she speaks of the same things – first her mother, then herself, and then, if she is permitted to write so long, of other goings-on in the world with which she is acquainted. It is a very rare occasion indeed when I receive a letter from her that does not bore me to tears. However, it is a nice challenge to come up with things to write about. I have the same difficulty thinking of things to speak of in company.

I leave the letters on my writing table and wander to the music room. Sitting down at the keys, I am determined not to play, even though my fingers dance across them involuntarily. I wonder on the young lady mentioned in my brother's letter – Miss Elizabeth Bennet, of Hertfordshire. Given that my brother clearly likes her, I am predisposed to approving of her. Second of five daughters, living in an estate entailed away from such children . . . she would not be so very self-important or imposing, as Miss Bingley is. I wonder if she has any fortune to speak of, or whether she has any noble family. I should like very little more than to have a sister to love – a friend my own gender and relative age.

Ensuing letters from Netherfield are quite full of Miss Bennet. Fitzwilliam talks about the day on which the Misses Bennet leave Netherfield and how quiet the evenings become. He talks of meeting her at other homes in the neighborhood, and that he watches her interact with young Lucases and older Philipses, and how much he enjoys talking with her, when he does speak. And in one letter, I am struck by his saying, quite bluntly, "She is so expressive, and so full of life, with such striking eyes." He gives no indication, however, that his sentiments are returned. When he speaks of their conversations, it occurs to me that they debate more than they discuss, so I wonder whether there is any tenderness of feeling for him on her side.

He does, apparently, pay her more attention than he has ever paid any woman, excepting perhaps Miss Bingley, but that can only be because she asks for such attention. In his last letter he mentions that Mr. Bingley is not as satisfied with Netherfield as he had hoped to be, and that they will return to London as soon as matters there are settled.

He arrives sooner than expected and within a few days of his return, we fall into that same, comfortable routine which we have both come to rely upon. I adore my brother and cherish every moment that can be spent with him. It does not really matter that neither of us are terribly inclined to speak.

My dreams of Mr. Wickham are becoming less frequent, but they still trouble me. I do not sleep well and am afraid that Mrs. Annesley notices my fatigue. The dreams are generally the same – my mind flashing back to moments when we were alone together. Things feel so real that I wake up confused, and then feel my anger at him renewed.

One morning, after I have slept very, very little, I try to plead illness with Mrs. Annesley.

"You are not ill," she says gently. "Miss Darcy, I know that you are not sleeping well. Is there not something that I can do, to help you? Will you not tell me what is troubling you?"

I remember the day she invited me to speak to her, and said she hoped that I felt that I could trust her. There is not anything to tell her that my brother does not already know, so I take in a breath.

"If I were to tell you something in utter confidence," I begin in a low voice, "would you keep it to yourself?"

"I will keep any secret you tell me, as long as it is not to your detriment."

I sigh. Taking Mrs. Annesley's hand, I lead her to the settee and sit myself upon it. She sits next to me. "Let me first assure you that there is nothing that I am about to disclose to you about which my brother does not know every particular," I say. Tears begin to well in my eyes; Mrs. Annesley squeezes my hand. I take a deep breath and continue. "When my brother was a younger man – a boy, really – he had a good friend named George Wickham. He was the son of our father's steward, and our father was very fond of him. He supported him at school after his father's death – he died so very young, you see. My father had intended him for the church, and had left provisions in his will for the living at Kympton to fall to him." I pause and let a smile come over my face.

"Your father must have been a generous man," says Mrs. Annesley in my silence. "I had wondered where your brother got his example."

I nod. "My father was an excellent man. I wish I could have known him better. He had such faith in Mr. Wickham. My father, you see, lost both of his parents at an early age, as Mr. Wickham did. I suppose that is why he was so fond of him." My smile falters and I heave another sigh. "But his faith was misplaced. Mr. Wickham learned to enjoy gambling and whiskey, and other things a young lady is not supposed to know of, more than his studies. His relationship with my brother crumbled. Mr. Wickham asked him for money, and he asked him to lie.

"Fitzwilliam, of course, would have none of it and tried to encourage Mr. Wickham to be an honorable man. He did not succeed. Of all of this, of course, I was perfectly unaware." I pause here, letting out a breath and looking around the room a little.

Breathing deeply again to steel myself for Mrs. Annesley's reaction, I continue, determined not to stop until I am finished. "When I first met Mr. George Wickham at Ramsgate I was surprised – I recalled a young man who paid almost no attention to me as a child. I had always thought him handsome, and if I am at all honest with myself, I still do. I was quite surprised indeed that he even approached me. I did not recall at that time, as he smiled charmingly at me, that he left Pemberley the same morning my father was discovered to have passed away. I did not know at that time, that upon leaving Derbyshire he left debts, knowing full well that my brother would discharge them. I did not recall that he did not write my brother at all, and though his relationship with my brother was quite thinly worn, Fitzwilliam was distressed by this. All I could see was that he was paying attention to me. It was not many days later that he told me that I was beautiful, and that I played the pianoforte more brilliantly than ever he had heard. A few days more and he was falling in love with me, until a fortnight after he first encountered me – quite unexpectedly, mind you – he declared himself and made the suggestion that, since he and Fitzwilliam were estranged, if we married and then sought consent, he could not but give it. He would see that his sister was happy, and that they could renew their friendship.

"All the time he knew what he was doing – he knew what he wanted and it was not me. I trusted Mrs. Younge, and she deceived me. But I ought to have known that none of it was true – nobody falls in love in two weeks' time, except in romance novels."

I pause for a long time, and examine my fingers. "I was thoughtless, and I hurt my brother," I finish finally.

Mrs. Annesley turns to take my hand. "What happened to stop you?" she asks.

"He came to Brighton. Fitzwilliam came to Brighton."

"And did he confront Mr. Wickham?" she asks, her brow contracting.

"I told him what Mr. Wickham said to me," I say, my eyes flooding with tears at the memory of my brother's expression. "I asked him for his blessing. He asked me if I loved Mr. Wickham."

"And what did you say?"

"I said that I had very strong feelings for him which I believed constituted love. He simply shook his head, kissed me, and sent me to my room. He wrote to Mr. Wickham; I do not know what he said. I expected some kind of response – a letter, a visit, anything. There was none. I have not seen him again."

"And do you still have those feelings for Mr. Wickham?"

I look away. "They are waning." I sigh and shake my head, thinking on it. "My brother, generously, never told me that I was not in love, nor did he ever attempt to direct my feelings in any other manner. He simply explained some things to me . . . the things that I mentioned earlier, and reminded me of the consequence of my fortune." I sniffle a little and take the handkerchief from my sleeve to pat at my eyes. "I wish the whole thing had never happened."

Mrs. Annesley takes my hand and squeezes it. "Miss Darcy, I think it is probably true that your brother has suffered because of this, but it may not be so much because of your actions that it is so. You are young; Mr. Wickham is not. His actions were calculating; yours were not. Consider that your brother and Mr. Wickham were friends as children. Do you not think that perhaps part of what your brother is experiencing is the pain of a betrayed friend?"

I smile sadly, truly never having considered this part of the matter. "I had not thought that, no."

"Your brother adores you, my dear. He almost lost you, and I think he may be blaming himself for what he allowed to happen. He may feel that he left you unprotected. Do not take too much upon yourself."

I smile and thank her, and though I do not know whether I believe them or not, I try to remember her words.

(c) 2008 J. H. Thompson