AN: Did you forget about me? I wouldn't blame you if you had...
I'm sad to say that I put fanfiction on the backburner for a while. First my excuse was finishing my novel (and to that end I successfully won nanowrimo- a challenge that I highly recommend for aspiring novelists). But I finished that in November, and have been editing ever since. It's complete now, and I'm posting it on Fictionpress as we speak- .com/u/778220/9emilylime9 - and this one isn't a work in progress, so I update it ever day or so. So far I don't have any reviews, so if you like my writing and a good story, you would really make me happy by checking it out.
And I'm going to try and finish this story, if anything. I promise. It will happen.
PS
Charles was glad to finally be able to stretch his legs on land. Though he did love sailing, he often missed having the ability to just walk on a path without the occasional pitching of the ground, and the constant spray of the sea. Plants and shade, too, were nice, as well as the cawing of creatures other than gulls.
So, breathing in the crisp air, Charles walked through the bustling port. He purchased an apple with some of his cut of the Bennet treasure, and slowly but surely wormed his way around the stalls, ending at the post.
There, he inquired after any letters that had been sent to him, and received a parcel from his sister Louisa, as well as a letter from Caroline. He opened Caroline's letter and snorted. He'd been away at sea for months, and all she enquired from him was if Mr. Darcy had expressed any lamentations of her company. She sent not even an "How are you?" If she was anything, the woman was obvious.
He saw about retrieving Will's mail as well. Knowing the poor brooding man, he would be too caught up in his own thoughts to remember that people would send him letters. Caroline had sent him three. Charles debated doing his friend another kindness by throwing them to the gulls for him.
Charles had almost forgotten the incident with the mademoiselle the last time they had made land. He stopped walking in the door frame of the office, before turning on his heel, doubtful that Jane Bennet had written to her sister, but optimistic that he might be able to bring Mademoiselle Elizabeth some good news.
"Are there any letters for Elizabeth Bennet?" he asked. The postmaster cocked an eyebrow, but turned to look. Much to Charles' surprise, he returned with a letter.
"Thank you again," Charles said, giving him a shilling for his trouble. Then he strode away, meandering back to the ship.
As he walked he examined the envelope that contained the letter from the elder Mademoiselle Bennet. The hand that had written the address was lovely, with an effortless grace in the calligraphy. Charles admired it, as he walked, and nearly ran into an old sea wife's shop.
He was curious, if anything, to see what she might have written in response to Elizabeth's letters. He recalled those letters mentioning himself several times, and wondered if this Jane Bennet might write as favorably back.
He shifted the letter in his hands. Perhaps he could read it. After all, it was his duty to ensure that nothing of a dangerous nature to either party was allowed in this correspondence. With that excuse in mind, he broke the seal of the letter and read it:
My Dearest Lizzie,
On receiving your letters, you could not have found a more happy sister. We thought for sure you were lost with my father's ship, or lost to poor pirates, and never to be seen again. My father was quite distraught, and you can only imagine my mother's despair in losing her second most eligible daughter to the likes of an unholy band of men.
I am glad that you are well, and that you have found what sounds to be such favorable company. When I first read that it was the Darcy family that had taken you, I must confess that that news did little to ease my fears. But the men that you wrote of sound like proper gentlemen, and for that I and my mother are eternally relieved. And you could not hide my mother's delight in hearing that both you and Mr. Collins were alive and well together. I fear that she is convinced that your time together will foster an attachment, and that she will finally be able to boast to Madame Lucas that she has a daughter married and settled.
I know not how you managed to write me, but if you might manage it again, you could not know just how much more news would please me, if it only states that you are alive and well. Please write soon, if you are able.
Eternal Love,
Jane
Charles smiled as he read the letter. Never before had he met a woman that was half so considerate and amiable as this one sounded, even in her writing. Compared to Caroline, this woman was a saint. As he read, he had pictured an angel, impossibly beautiful brow creased with genuine worry about her sister's wellbeing, and affectionately staving off the more selfish intentions of the mother. Elizabeth had even mentioned her beauty in her letters, he remembered, as well as described this kindness in her disposition.
Charles sighed aloud. If only he might meet this woman. He wanted so badly to make her acquaintance, just to see if such an angel could truly exist.
He resealed the letter and refolded it, not intending to hide that the had read it, but to at least appear less meddlesome and controlling to the mademoiselle, for he very much wished for her to continue her praise of him to Jane.
"A letter from Mademoiselle Jane has arrived," he announced to Mademoiselle Bennet's closed door as he knocked.
She opened the door hurriedly, eyes wide and breathless.
"Really?" she said, snatching it from Charles' hands. Then she remembered herself.
"I apologize, but you can understand my eagerness," she said, still breathless. She examined the letter. "But why has it already been opened?"
"I had to ensure that there was not dangerous information being passed on her end," said Charles. "I hope you may forgive me, but I felt obliged to for the safety of myself and my friends." Charles internally winced at his words, though they were half true.
Mademoiselle did not probe further, however, she merely nodded and said, "Of course I may. Thank you for being such an attentive friend." She kissed him on the cheek and Charles turned red before remembering that that was a French custom, not an indication of an attachment.
When Elizabeth had finished reading, she ran over to the desk, seized the quill, and scribbled a reply to her sister, before bundling up the letters that she had continued to write and bringing them back to him.
He looked at the stack in her hand hesitantly.
"Please, Charles?" she said.
"I really don't know if I'm allowed-" but he felt his resolve crumbling, though it was not from Elizabeth's pleading, but from Jane's wish to keep up their correspondence. No harm had befallen them the first time, after all.
Charles bit his lip, looking from her, to the letters in her hand, and then towards the porthole, where the abundant people on the docks were striding and milling about.
Elizabeth stuck out her bottom lip in her best expression of destitute pleading.
After a moment, Charles sighed.
"Your wish is my command," he said. He held out his hand for the letters.
As he once again made his way to the post, he rifled through the stack of letters, ensuring that they did not carry any dangerous information, although, he could no longer say that that was his primary motivation for wishing to read through the letters. He found himself rereading several references to Jane's beauty and kind demeanor, and once again found himself picturing that lovely angel, forehead creased with worry as she sat at her writing desk. He then noticed that his feet had doubled their pace in an effort to ease this woman's pain.
He made himself slow again, and considered his new mindset. He had believed himself in love several times before, though each time he had had but few days at port to spend with his new beloved. Yet, this time felt different. He was not falling for a dainty smile, and a graceful demeanor, but for the kind nature and the eloquence with which this woman wrote. And if she were even half so pretty as her sister, he found that she would still bring him happiness for days on end.
The enquiring of the postman brought him out of his reverie.
"Oh… oh yes. I would like to send these letters, here," he said, putting the bundle onto the table. But then a sudden thought seized him.
"But first, may I borrow a quill and some ink?"
The postman shrugged and lent him the supplies. Quickly, Charles wrote down the proper address. And then, feeling as though his very move should be illegal, he opened Elizabeth's hurriedly scrawled letter from earlier.
Then, at the bottom, he picked up the quill and, seized with sudden courage, wrote:
PS…