Dearest Lizzy,
You write to me now with a guarded reserve which was heretofore unthinkable in our friendship. I daresay you think of me as a cold and calculating creature, one of such constitution as to disregard any use for those compatibilities of the heart which you hope for in your own marriage. I have chosen, I admit, your disrespect for this perceived flaw in my character, because I fear something far more consequential if I were to ever confess to you my true feelings, and the depths of those passions which I scarcely allow myself to feel, let alone express.
I am afraid I shall burn the paper on which I write this now, because I grow terrified of your incomparable eyes on these words. Eliza, I have never thought much of men or matrimony because the quickening blood and flights of fancy which should be inextricable from them have always been, for me, directed toward our own sex. I accepted your cousin's proposal because I could never, myself, make one to you.
My heart is impossibly heavy, and there can be no tears when one's primary occupation for the whole of her existence has been to stave them off. If I had any reason to believe that even for a moment you might wonder, at first, if I told you how I feel, then I would risk everything for that fleeting second between word and breath, even if, afterwards, you were to run from me, or worse.
But you will never run, and for that I am grateful. I choose your doubt and incredulity, even your pity, over that grave and unimaginable danger of frightening you away. You remain, if anything, more dear to me than you ever were, because, while I am now Charlotte Collins of Huntsford and therefore unrecognizable to you, you are, to me, forever Eliza: your spirit unfettered, your choices freely made.
Yours, etc.
Charlotte