The 25th of May
Pemberley, Derbyshire
Dearest Jane,
Forgive me for not writing sooner – there has been a great deal of changes, and I required to process them properly as much as I could before sharing any opinions with anyone.
I am sure Aunt Gardiner has already informed everyone back home about my new employment as a governess. I can already hear from Derbyshire Mama's vexed proclamations about my entrance into the world of employment disgracing the family. Please, try to explain to her that there is nothing dishonourable or demeaning about my situation here. I have never entertained high hopes about my marriage prospects – even when discounting that disgusting affair in the past. This way, at least, I can honestly say I chose my position in life instead of it being forced upon me by necessity.
In your previous letter you mentioned our aunt's many opinions about Mr. Darcy, my employer. To put any doubts or fears to rest, I feel I must shed more light on the character of the man in question. Mr. Darcy is an intelligent man of twenty-six, and a surprisingly solemn disposition. I am yet to witness any breach of propriety on his part, which one would find surprising given his age and the position in life. The staff and the tenants profess the deepest respect and loyalty towards him; the housekeeper in particular seems to hold him in the same esteem as one holds their favourite grandchild.
I am uncertain of what I expected when I applied for the position. Mr. Darcy was looking for a governess for his little sister – but what he demanded was more akin to a lecturer in Cambridge. I guess being an alumnus of that institution, who attended it mostly because of his own pursuit of knowledge rather than merely meeting the social demands, forms a different sort of expectations of what "education" entails. Just because his sister happens to be of the gentler sex, she shall not be saved from the same rigours he underwent. Half of the interview was in Latin, to paint the picture.
It is peculiar, I know. But in a way, I find that dedication to broadening Miss Darcy's horizons particularly endearing. I remember exactly the almost vibrating sense of wonder when I first started my lessons with Madame Deval. As if the chaos surrounding me suddenly fragmented into a myriad of little pieces only to form a beautiful, awing image. I can see that exact hunger for understanding in Miss Darcy's eyes – it is most gratifying for me as her teacher. I am afraid that when the inevitable comes and I shall find another post in the future, any child will pale in comparison with Miss Darcy.
(Also, I am under no illusions I will ever earn wages as high as now – apparently, Mr. Darcy values his sister's education so much that my current wage is three times higher than the measly annuity of my dowry. I shall save what I can for later, I cannot expect to be this lucky yet again.)
I hope my letter has dissolved any misplaced feelings of worry. Please, reply as soon as you can. I miss you dreadfully.
Forever yours,
Elizabeth
PS: Before Mama asks; he is betrothed to some heiress with a fortune of forty-thousand pounds, immense beauty and great connections. (DO NOT READ ALOUD: No idea about his status; I only refuse to even entertain the notion of playing a matchmaker.)
. . .
The 28th of May
Longbourn, Hertfordshire
Dearest Lizzy!
I must admit, your post-scriptum came in handy. Mama was just about to inquire about Mr. Darcy's prospects when I reached that part. I hate employing untruths, but in this case, I believe, the situation called for such measures. I sincerely doubt Mr. Darcy would appreciate being a topic of such discussion.
You predict Mama's reactions with uncanny precision. When Aunt Gardiner informed her about your placement, Mama burst into tears, and was nigh inconsolable for the past month until the arrival of your letter. Now, she passes her time with speculations about the mysterious future Mrs. Darcy, and whether she is a great enough beauty. You can imagine the rest of the monologue.
I loathe to think ill of our Mama, but there are times I cannot help myself but feel so resentful.
Hertfordshire is yet to change. I am sure you understand exactly what I mean by the expression. The seasons may pass, the numbers on the calendar change with each day, people come and leave – and yet, in the essentials, our home is unyielding to the passage of time, like an enchanted castle in a fairy tale. I used to find peace in the constancy; the predictable rhythm of our life gave me a sense of safety. As if everything were set to stone, carved in an intricate detail. Only one thing is missing; at first glance it seems relatively small, but the longer one inspects, the more obvious it is: you left and took the light away.
Oh, Lizzy, I do not blame you at all. You had to leave. I am happy you found a place that gives you a purpose. Even though I miss you with every fibre of my being, even though I envy Miss Darcy that she can keep your presence, I urge you to enjoy the time in Derbyshire. You have always been the adventurous one, the one who would chase clouds and come home victorious. I sincerely hope you find that boisterous restlessness in you again. I want to see you whole and happy again.
Always yours,
Jane
. . .
The 30th of May
Pemberley, Derbyshire
Sir,
As you requested before your departure, you shall find the report on Miss Darcy's progress in this letter.
Your sister is a naturally bright individual, as you well know. I do not think I can teach her anything about music she does not already master. Physical education is, unfortunately, something she has been lacking in the past year, and she tires faster than her peers. In order to strengthen her health, we spend each morning walking through your lands – which provides plenty of opportunities for gathering plant specimens for her herbarium.
In the past two weeks Miss Darcy has also worked through French conjugation exercises, and now she feels confident enough to express herself in a more complex fashion than before. You shall be the judge; she has decided to share her short story with you.
No later than I wrote the last sentence, Miss Darcy decided that she is well prepared to test her French against Descartes whose works she found while rummaging through the library. It seems that the next month will carry lessons in French about natural philosophy. This shall be interesting. She is already scourging the library for star charts.
I will inform you about any further developments.
Best regards,
Elizabeth Bennet
. . .
Miss Bennet lifted her eyes from her letter to observe Miss Darcy, who seemed engulfed in the tome. A soft smile formed on her lips; the girl was indeed a ball of all-embracing inquisitiveness. She wondered if there ever had been – or if there would ever come – a time when the sheer brilliance of a girl would earn her the same accolades as it would do for her brother, when it would be spoken with the awe it deserved, when she would be remembered for her own merit – and not as the mere beautiful womb that carried great men.
Miss Bennet did not fancy herself a revolutionary – the chaos on the other side of the Channel made any such notion distasteful – but she was well aware of the reality of her worth and the worth of her charge that the society granted them.
At least, Miss Bennet mused, this young girl was so loved by her brother he was willing to go beyond what was considered to be the appropriate level of accomplishments for a woman of her class. It was to no one's benefit but to hers. Before he had left, Mr. Darcy insisted on being kept updated on his little sister's studies. Leave mathematics to me, he had asked her, and since he had studied the subject Cambridge, there was no reason to deny him.
(The governess suspected the main reason of the request was to keep some pleasure of teaching to himself. Anyone who saw the siblings interact had to realize how attached they were to one another. It must have been difficult to entrust a complete stranger with the care of his only family.)
What a difference to her own home; she could not recall a single instance of her own father inviting her or her sisters to the library. The worlds of Mr. Bennet and the Bennet women were divided by sturdy walls and dusty shelves, impenetrable. One was unconcerned with the other.
Until the walls came crushing down the day Lizzy Bennet took her daily walk near Netherfield. Whatever consequence the violent act itself caused, was exacerbated by the folly of the Bennets. No one understood what Mrs. Bennet suffered in the hands of her defiled daughter. Who would have her now? With her virtue gone, what could recommend her to a man, Mrs. Bennet asked anyone who lent her a sympathetic ear. Oh, if only that wild girl did not spend her days running around the countryside like some common hoyden… Oh, if only the seducer did the right thing!
In a few days, entire Hertfordshire knew about the illicit dalliance, and each retelling added a titillating detail here and there. Lizzy Bennet lost her innocence on Monday, her reputation on Thursday, and the last respect for her mother died on Saturday morning, when the master of Netherfield called.
A loud snap tore both Miss Bennet and Miss Darcy from their reverie, as the quill in the former's hand broke in half.
. . .
The 1st of June
Oakhill Abbey, Cheshire
Miss Bennet,
Thank you for letting me know of the state of my sister's studies. The short story about a young adventurous lady sailing through aether to conquer Uranus was truly inspired.
Apropos, given her newfound obsession with cosmology and astronomy, I suppose you might let her know there are a few well-preserved telescopes in Pemberley's repository. Sir Robert Darcy, my great-great-grandfather, was a member of the Royal Society during Newton's era. The family considers his reflecting telescope an heirloom. I would rather be present, if Georgiana wishes to use that. There is, I think, another reflecting telescope of a portable construction in my possession, which would be just perfect for a field trip. Perhaps we should make an outing of it? I would love to be there.
Have you been stargazing, Miss Bennet? Perhaps, you shall join the search for the charts. Georgiana can be excruciatingly insistent once her curiosity is piqued.
Best regards
FGD
. . .
That afternoon, once they grew tired of sewing and French, Georgiana expressed her wish to go for an outing to the outskirts of the estate. She liked the quick-paced walks around the garden and the orchards, but now she longed to stretch her legs more, since the weather turned warmer and pleasant. Miss Bennet looked apprehensive at the idea for some unknown reason, but after a lot of pleading, she relented.
Giggling, Georgiana considered it her privilege and duty to introduce Miss Bennet to every nook and cranny of her family land. The beauty of coppice woods, the streams full of trout – she recalled an old story Richard had told her once about a trout whose flesh provided one with all the wisdom in the world.
"I wish there was a trout like that! A bowl of fish soup would be a more cost-effective form of education than a university, don't you agree, Miss Bennet?"
Her governess laughed. "I would recommend first breeding the miraculous trout first, before throwing it into a pot. You cannot risk such magic in the hands of an incompetent cook."
"Our cook would make the best magical fish soup."
"Be sure to tell her."
"Absolutely."
The further they were from the sight of Pemberley; the quieter Miss Bennet became. Once they found themselves surrounded only by wide open fields and green groves, she uttered no word at all.
"Miss Bennet?"
Georgiana only now realized she had been walking alone for the last two hundred yards. In the distance, she saw Miss Bennet lean on a tree, bent over. Scared that the lady had been in pain the entire time without her even noticing, Georgiana hiked her skirts up and run back to the grove.
Miss Bennet did not answer to her pleas. Her shoulders shook as if a seizure of some kind took the control of her body. She was breathing in a most disturbing way – as if she was choked, each intake of air a struggle. But the most terrifying thing was Miss Bennet's motionless chalk-white face, her eyes wide open, her being so beyond the reach of Georgiana's voice.
In panic, she grabbed Miss Bennet by her wrists and cried out her Christian name. That snapped her out of her state, if only to make her break down in tears.
"Miss Darcy, I am so sorry… I am so sorry you saw this."
She did not understand what was going on, but she knew she could not just watch the woman who took care of her, who bore her never-ending questions with the fondest of smiles, to gulp down her sobs in shame.
So, she sat there with her, in green grass under a linden tree, her arms wrapped around her shoulders, offering the only comfort she could.
. . .
The 8th of June
Ashford Lodge, Caernarfonshire
My dearest Georgiana,
I must confess your debut into the French literary society has made my day. Forgive me for sharing the joy, for I have made a copy and sent it to Richard to Lisbon.
Your last letter unsettled me. Be not afraid, I am not angry at you nor Miss Bennet. I have noticed myself that despite her outgoing nature she is, sometimes, extremely skittish like an injured cat. I am sure Miss Bennet does not blame you for not realizing her distress sooner – you were walking in silence, of course you could not know at once. You assisted her once you realized something was amiss.
Please, be kind to your teacher. Do not pester her with questions on what happened. If she wishes to tell you, she will on her own volition.
I will be home by the next week. I miss you, my little sparrow.
Your faithful brother,
F.
. . .
The 10th of June
Pemberley, Derbyshire
Dearest Jane,
I do not think I will ever be whole again. The moment I delude myself that I escaped the past, it seizes me. Each time a man passes by, and the smell of that accursed French soap hits my nose, each time someone stands behind me, each time I am in an open space, away from witnesses. As if I were cursed to relive that moment, whenever a detail of the incident emerges from my surroundings.
I scared the living hell of poor Miss Darcy. I should have never consented to walk with her so far from the house. I knew it was a bad idea. The entire time I felt as if someone watched me, as if I were a prey animal soon to be devoured. I know, logically, no such thing was to happen there – but I have been robbed of that sense of profound safety that no amount of reasoning can silence the primal fear that possesses me.
I broke down in the middle of nowhere with a whisp of a girl as my companion and I cannot shake off the feeling that I failed her. She depends on me to be her example, and I just collapsed. The mere idea of her meeting my fate in one of her strolls, I cannot – no, I pray to God it will never happen.
Please, Jane, do not worry. This has been my lot for the past three years. I only cannot keep quiet this time. Forgive me for making you my confessor.
Please, keep an eye on the girls. Kitty and Lydia especially.
Forever yours,
Elizabeth
. . .
"Fitzwilliam!"
There were times for appropriate greetings. This was not one of those, Georgiana decided, as she run down the stairs to see her brother step down from the carriage.
"Georgie- "
The rest was forgotten. She was in his arms.