Once upon a time there was a story called 'Thaw'. And now there is again, so I hope you haven't forgotten all about it. I'm sorry for being away so long - as anyone who reads my stories knows, I'm a lax updater at the best of times, and these past couple of months have definitely not been the best of times for me.
Gayle, as always, has had a hand in improving my grammar, she's the best.
(And for what it's worth, I'm sorry for the inclement weather we're about to face... Oops.)
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An express from Pemberley to Longbourn, March 6th 1813
Dear Jane,
I am sure you will excuse me for the short & incoherent form of this missive – I received yours a little more than an hour ago and have hardly recovered from the shock of it all. Lydia, eloped? With Mr. Wickham? How can it have happened? You need not tell me, of course, for I know exactly how. It is my fault, all of it. If only I had exposed to Papa the whole truth about Mr. Wickham, instead of vague warnings about the officers not being suitable company for our sisters!
My husband sits across from me, supposedly composing an express to Papa, but it seems that so far he has spent more time sighing & looking exceedingly gloomy than writing. With every shake of his head and with every contraction of his brow, I can see my power sinking. And why should it not, under such a proof of family weakness, such an assurance of the deepest disgrace? How frivolous the letter I sent you on Monday now seems.
But I should not be burdening you with my selfish concerns, not when I am sure that you are already carrying far more than your share of vexations. Dear, dear Jane. How I wish that I had the words to comfort you. Perhaps it will cheer you to know that my husband intends to assist in the search of our harebrained sister? To be sure, he is well-known for his ability to save wayward young Hertfordshire ladies from the grips of a scandal, so perhaps all is not yet lost.
I have enclosed a small box of hartshorn for Mama. I thought that the knowledge it came from the antlers of the finest deer in Pemberley might increase its effect on her – and perhaps lessen the attention her nerves require of you. Mrs. Reynolds assures me that it once saved Parker from death's door. (He had, apparently, made the mistake of trying to cure a minor headache with a potion manufactured by the cook and had later been found quite unconscious in the pantry! How unfortunate that Mr. Wickham seems to have escaped all the ill effects of the cook's remedies while he lived here, do you not agree?)
I will close now, for it appears that my husband has finally committed to paper everything that he wishes to say to Papa. (What it is, other than his offer of assistance, I hardly dare ask.) Do take care of yourself & remember that you have my love, always.
E.D.
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Pemberley House, March 7th 1813
My dearest Jane,
Do you remember how Hill always used to say that no adversity ever seems quite as daunting once you have slept on it? I have always suspected that there was not much truth to the matter, and now I am convinced of it. If I was grieved by this business with Lydia yesterday, it was nothing compared to my feelings on the matter this morning.
The succession of hail & sleet has turned in to a veritable snowstorm and very few traces of spring remain. My husband left for London early this morning, but looking out of the windows, I hope that he has not travelled far and is well sheltered in some nearby inn even as I write. It seems incomprehensible that only two days ago we were walking in these halls, my hand quite inseparable from his, making plans to become the happiest couple in the world. A stolen kiss in the nook at the top of the grand staircase or an exuberant giggle trying the patience of the staid portraits in the gallery now seem like distant dreams at best.
I have been going through my correspondence from these past weeks and months, trying to determine if there was some hint somewhere of Lydia's partiality to Wickham, but have found none. She mentioned him twice or thrice in passing before I sent my letter of warning to Papa and after that, not once. If I should have made a guess based only on her letters to me, I could have just as soon believed that she has run away with Harriet Wright's Parisian shawl (which, according to Charlotte, did not travel to England in the hands of a dashing smuggler, but was acquired from the marketplace in Brent Pelham when Harriet last visited her aunt) for she has spoken of it far more often and a great deal more fondly than she ever has of the man she intends to marry.
Oh, dear sister, I would not wish to shock you, but I fear for a disaster of even greater proportions than we have thus far imagined. A thought so vile has occurred to me that I can scarcely put it to words for the fear of its being true. Apart from the missives I have received from you, every single letter I have had from Longbourn lately has carried some mention of the misfortune that has befallen Mr. Brown's daughter. Do you suppose it might be possible that the child is Mr. Wickham's?
I have sat here a good half an hour, contemplating what I have just written, and the more I think of it, the more afraid I am that it is indeed the truth of what has happened. Dear, foolish Lydia! What is to become of her? A girl disgraced and abandoned by a philandering libertine or the wife of one? Oh! No, no – every feeling revolts!
I am afraid, dear sister, my gloomy suspicions have put you out of sleep for at least a fortnight, and for that I beg your forgiveness – and recommend that you burn my letter as soon as you have read it. As soon as the weather shows any signs of improvement, I will send an express to my husband and convey my fears to him as best I can. By the time he has read it, I expect he will wish he had never set foot in Hertfordshire, for such must be the disgrace of perchance having to call a man like Wickham a brother. My husband is a good man and I am sure he will do what he can to aid our sister – but the selfish being that I am, I cannot but wonder if, no matter how the situation is resolved, Lydia's lapse of judgment will have cost me my happiness?
With a heavy heart, your loving sister,
E.D.
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Pemberley House, March 12th 1813
Dear Jane,
An express arrived from my husband early this morning, telling that he had arrived to London in relatively good time despite the weather and was setting out to meet Papa and Uncle at Gracechurch Street. The letter was the epitome of short and formal, and like a fool I am hanging all my hopes on three poor, little words that seemed very lost amidst their rigid companions – in the beginning of the letter he had named me 'dearest' and at the end of it he assured me that he was mine always &c. I am sure he would use the very same phrases even if he was writing to his Great Aunt Althea; yet, I hope against hope that there is more to them than simple politeness and courtesy.
I received your letter yesterday and can only apologise for not penning a reply sooner – I confess that I wrote to you on the seventh, but the letter turned out so horrendously gloomy that I could not sleep at night, knowing that it waited down the stairs to be posted the next morning, and thus stalked down in the dead of night to retrieve the depressing missive and to toss it into the nearest fireplace. I advise you to not feel slighted for never receiving it, for it contained nothing but the most depressing musings on the situation of our sister and Mr. Wickham and, apart from a short description of the true origins of Harriet Wright's famed Parisian shawl, would only have served to needlessly distress you. (At present, I have decided to tell you nothing more about the shawl, for I am sure that pondering this Great Mystery will provide you with at least a moment's distraction from what has happened with Lydia!)
I would not worry overmuch for Mama's determination to stay in her chamber – she will have to come down eventually and meanwhile, perhaps her bed rest will offer some much needed rest for you all. And it is most convenient that the ladies of the neighbourhood are prevented from meeting her when they come to call; the less they know about Lydia's situation the better. I am sure that Mama could not help but divulge every sordid detail were she fit to receive callers. Kitty, I would hope, will know better than to spread her vast knowledge of the affair to our acquaintances, though in light of recent events there is reason to suspect her good sense and discretion. I am of a mind to pen her a long, angry letter, but then I imagine that you and Papa have already said your share to her, and I would likely have very little to add. I have gone through my correspondence with Lydia, trying to ascertain if there are some signs in her letters of her partiality to Mr. Wickham, but have found none. It seems obvious that she has been far more forthcoming towards Kitty than she has been towards the rest of us.
Miss Darcy has been quite downcast since she learned of Lydia's plight. She has even suggested that what has transpired is somehow her fault, but I have determinedly tried to uproot all such thoughts. Braving the inclement weather, we went for a walk yesterday afternoon, and she told me more about her dealings with Mr. W. By the time we crossed the bridge over the stream, I was feeling so resentful towards him & his deceitful ways that steam was quite blowing out of my ears. By the time we passed the orangery, both Miss Darcy and myself were in tears. And by the time we were ambling towards the stables, we were so uniformly desolate and miserable that it was only the timely appearance of Samuel Reynolds, chasing after one of my husband's dogs (which seemed to amuse him and distress the poor hound in equal measures) that helped us up from the depths of despair we had sunk into.
Dear, dear Jane. Let us be brave in the face of this new adversity. We have already weathered one scandal in the past year – surely there is only so much that this new turn of events can add to our notoriety? I know your heart as you know mine and worry for the distress the circumstances are causing you. Do not lose hope (yes, this is an order – now despise me if you dare!). However things will unfold, I am convinced that between the three of them, Papa, Uncle and my husband will find a way to make the best of an unfortunate situation.
Give my love etc. to Mary, Mama and Kitty – though I do not mind if you sprinkle Kitty's portion with a bit of reproach. As ever, you are in my thoughts and prayers.
With love, always,
E.D.
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* Hartshorn: the scrapings of the horn or antler of red deer (hart) containing ammonia, which powdered or distilled was carried about in decorative little bottles or perforated silver boxes and used as a smelling salt for fainting spells. (This information is the courtesy of The Cambridge Edition of Sense & Sensibility, brought to you via the incomparable Regency Encyclopedia.)
* A large-scale embargo, starting from 1806 and ending in 1814 after Napoleon's first abdication, aiming to prevent all trade with Britain and continental Europe was an essential part of French foreign policy during the Napoleonic Wars. The embargo, largely made ineffective by industrious smugglers and the fact that Britain held naval dominance, had consequences far more grand and interesting than the fact that Harriet Wright was unlikely to own an actual Parisian shawl – if you like, read more about the continental system in Wikipedia.
* Discussing Lydia's disgrace, Elizabeth is paraphrasing Emma's feelings on the idea of Miss Fairfax becoming the mistress of Donwell Abbey – every feeling revolts.