Chapter Twelve: A Letter or Two

The post office has a great charm at one point of our lives. When you have lived to my age, you will begin to think letters are never worth going through the rain for.

—J. Austen

Mrs. Bennet was never one to allow a plan to fall through, once it had been fixed on; and the plan for her two daughters to visit Mrs. Darcy was no exception. She wrote her response to the latter's letter, with such fluidity and ease as was not her wont, for letter-writing was usually more of an obligation than a pleasure with her; and a date was fixed on, which was satisfactory to all. Upon Elizabeth's recollection that Lady Rosaline was to visit at Easter, it became very natural for she and her sisters to arrive at about the same time; and so a party, though of a size considerably smaller than that which was gathered at Christmas, would be made up for a while.

Once these arrangements had been made, Catherine spent many weeks in wretched suspense for their fulfillment. Her only consolation was her correspondence with Edith, which Catherine fancied as more flourishing than it was, for Edith had not quite mastered writing—her sentences were awkward, and her script had not the typical elegance and neatness of an accomplished lady's hand; and such deficiencies prevented her writing as regularly as her correspondent wished, for she could not derive much pleasure from the task. Mary, being of a more sedate temper, and being more capable of amusing herself, than her sister, was considerably less apprehensive; but still, she looked forward to continuing her acquaintance with the library, if not the people, of Pemberley.

It was several weeks before this desired event, that Simon Mulligan, who had been previously enjoying tranquility of mind since the end of Christmastide, received a letter which excited his interest. It was intriguing from the first, as he did not recognize its writer's hand; and, pushing aside the other notes, letters of business, etc., which he had received with that day's post, tore open the mysterious seal of this letter, and read the following epistle:

20th January, 18—

Dear Sir,

Though you may regard my request as impertinent, do not suppose that I have not the expectation of such. If I could, I would inquire into the particulars of Miss Edith's parentage, as I believe the referred to young lady is under your guardianship. I have no claim on your confidence, but very interesting letters of correspondence before me, which suggests more than I am willing to believe without confirmation. What might be done with such evidence, I am certain is already blatantly clear to you; therefore, if you wish maintain the status of your well-guarded secret as such, I strongly recommend that you enlighten me as to the whole of your knowledge about your young charge.

There was then listed an address to which his response could be sent, preceded by a pair of initials which Simon was certain was merely the invention of the writer. The letter was not signed; and so, with the color now drained from his face, Simon was left only to his own unhelpful contemplations and conjectures. Once he had finished reading the letter, with only the margin to fix his eyes upon, he instantly threw the letter aside with more violence than was very practical; and, with his mind too full for thinking, he paced back and forth through his library, alternately running his fingers through his tousled flaxen curls, and covering his blanched face with his hands. Hot, girlish tears eventually streamed down his cheek; but soon, he instead of continuing to indulge in such a useless outlet, he choked them back between his irregular breaths, and then managed to clamber back into the chair placed before his handsome mahogany desk.

With a newfound ability for exertion, and the palpitations of his heart becoming more subdued, he took the strange letter back up into his hand, and re-examined it with a discerning eye. When, his eyes fixed on the top of the paper, he saw the date, it suddenly struck him as very strange that it was dated the twentieth of January, when it was at present well into March; why his antagonist would wait so long to post the letter after it had been written, seemed very odd indeed. And then, though he could find no hidden meaning in the words themselves, for they spoke very plainly to him, there was in the script peculiarities he had not been at leisure to notice in his first reading. The writer clearly did not compose his epistle with ease, for there was a multitude of careless smudges, and the handwriting itself lacking the smooth undulating appearance that characterized that of a confident writer. In fact, some words were nearly ineligible; and Simon wondered that he had not had more trouble with comprehending it; though he supposed his frenzied mind had given clarity to the scrawled, smudged script, when a soberer reader might have been stupefied by it. He concluded, therefore, that the writer must not have written with ease and confidence; that he had had some reason to falter; which did not become such an excellent rascal as his words suggested, but rather gave the appearance that it had been nearly written against that unknown person's will.

But what mortifying convictions followed! Whether its author was easy about it or not, here was the letter before him, and here were its directions! Could he ignore such despicable blackmail?—indeed, it seemed the easiest thing to do; he could burn it, and later protest he had never received any such thing; and what did he owe to whom the other half of the correspondence alluded to concerned! That person may go to the deuce, as much as he cared! With an agitated sigh he gazed into the flames of the hearth-fire, his fingers itching to dispose of that which gave him such displeasure; but soon reason persuaded him otherwise. Even if he was not to blame (and really, wasn't he in part?), he would still be tied to the scandal; and with gossip and careless tongues, no doubt the tale would be made something much more fantastic than it actually was.

But what else was he to do! To submit to his adversary's requests, seemed the most abominable thing; his pride, his conscience—everything within him revolted against it. And what of poor Edith?—there was no promise contained within the letter, which said she would not be harmed, nor one which stated Simon's good information would not be revealed if he were to disclose it.

"But," thought he, "it was implied." And to what advantage would not responding have? It would eliminate any trace of a doubt, of the information not being made public. And that which he had tried to conceal for so long! He felt that he would once more be insensible with rage. Never had he heard a whisper of it from any other person; not till her indiscretion, undoubtedly excited some curiosity; and from there, who could tell by what means the contemptible stranger obtained the letters which he claimed to possess! Simon had never supposed her to be discreet; indeed, proof against that was very evident in her conduct; but what could possibly motivate her to have come thither! There was simply no rational explanation for it; and he could not readily believe she wished to expose herself.

Simon knew not how much time he spent shut up in his library, with thoughts which constantly contradicted themselves coursing through his mind; deliberating over what ought to be done; what was the right thing to do. At length, he came to the sad conclusion that his correspondent must be obliged; and that, if that person kept to themselves, it would only be one person who was privy to the terrible truth, instead of all of England gossiping about it. He did not delay composing his response, which, though he tried to make it as brief as possible, for the sake of giving relief to his agitated feelings, and a wish of not acquainting his recipient with cumbersome details, took a considerable period of time; and when the final stroke of his pen marked its completion, he looked very much relieved, and was very glad to put that wretched writing utensil out of his sight.

He was reading over his composition, with a discernible grimace etched into his features, though he found nothing unsatisfactory in his writing itself, but rather what the writing communicated; and so when he was called for dinner, he started up very suddenly, astonished that he had been shut up in his office all day; then glancing out the western window, which, by his observation of the sun ray's filtering through it and falling on the various objects in the room, only confirmed that that much time had passed. So he placed his letter face-down on the desk, and hurried to the dinner-table.

"Are you ill, Simon?" was the greeting which he received from Edith as he sat down. Though he was considerably calmer than upon his first perusal of unwelcome intelligence, he was still considerably altered; his fingers trembled when he picked up his fork, and his pallid lip and cheek was not his usual appearance; and then there was that his brow was frequently knitted in frustration, when he was not exerting himself to appear unaffected. And then there was that Edith had not seen him all day; so her presumption was a very reasonable one.

"Only a little," he said quietly, averting his eyes from her; which was not entirely a lie, though he by no means planned to make his poor girl his confidant, and therefore said nothing further on the subject. Edith was satisfied that this was the whole truth, though she was still sorry that Simon was not well, and her countenance reflected it; and she tried a few times to bring up some indifferent subject, in hopes of cheering his spirits; but each attempt was only repelled by her companion; and so dinner passed by in relative silence.

After Simon's interruption, he hastened back to his office, where he took up his letter, and finished his proofreading of it; and though several things caught his eye which he might have otherwise taken the time to repair in a second draft, such as a sentence he could have worded better, or a word in which two letters had been transposed, he was too much vexed to make any corrections. So he quickly sealed the letter, that he might not have to look at it any longer, and ended the day with many unhappy reflections which kept him awake well into the night, though he was exhausted beyond anything.

----

But it was a while later when Rosaline was making preparations for her visit to Derbyshire. She was in a fever of anticipation, as she dashed hither and thither, unable to fix herself in one of the handsome parlors in her brothers' townhouse for long, before feeling restless. What activities she could participate in, were no doubt no more interesting than those which occupied her time in town; indeed, the activities there would probably be actually fewer. But still, Rosaline would be glad to be free of the smoky air, and the dirty streets; would be glad of wandering the countryside, and spending hours at a time without crossing paths with another soul. And then, there was once more looking upon the faces she had seen a thousand times in her reveries and dreams, but had not seen in the flesh for what was too long!

"I shall spoil myself," she thought, with a light heart; "I was separated for so many years, and now I cannot bear a few months: shame on me!" Her earnest, penitent contemplations she would save for another day; to-day she was determined to be pleased with everything, and think not of what she had lost (or rather, what she had never had), but what she could still gain. It was true, that her folly and weakness had led her astray; but she was by no means ruined; and though many opportunities, large and small, she had lost through it, she had not lost everything. Indeed, she still led a rather favored life, and as these merry thoughts tumbled through her head, she wondered how she had been so melancholy before.

She had just climbed the stairs with unusual alacrity, and entered her chambers with a shimmer in her eye which she had been long devoid of; smiled upon the honey-colored room into which she entered, with the windows thrown open to allow in a warm spring breeze; for it was an exceeding good day. La!—how could anybody have any misfortunes, when nature bestowed such kindness upon her, and when the prospect of being at the one place she loved best drew so near? Not even Kitty Bennet could have been as happy as her, at that moment.

Rosaline's trunks had been packed, and were closed and leaning against the wainscoting near the doorway; and Rosaline, her eye quickly scanning the room, so as to ascertain that nothing had been left behind. The servants seemed to have done a very thorough job; but as Rosaline was always very careful to be sure that she never left anything behind (since she knew that if some things were left behind, she would live to very deeply regret it later), she took her trunks and began to scour through them. She was cheerful enough that she did so very willingly, and derived much more pleasure from it than she normally did. As she examined the last one—yes, everything was packed neatly—everything in order. She lounged back in satisfaction, a smile smoothed across her features.

And then: a recollection.

Rosaline started as it came upon her. And it would be the very possession which she so wished to keep hidden! Oh, could she have overlooked it? She silently prayed that she had as she frantically researched her trunks: no, her first search had been quite thorough, as she had done it in so leisurely a manner. But then! What if it had not been packed at all; it was easy to suppose that a servant had mistaken it for one of Peter's things. She went to where it had sat very peacefully hitherto; but no, it was gone: but gone where? Locked, unattractive, uninviting! Who would want for such a thing?—but could she be sure it was theft?

With the frantic beatings of her heart preventing her from finding a more comfortable resting place, Rosaline threw herself on the window-seat and wept from frustration, fear, and the vivid contrast of her present sufferings with her silly glee of former hours.

----

Elizabeth, having rummaged through the post-bag herself instead of waiting for her husband to hand her letters to her, extracted those addressed to her from the mass. This was one of the daily rituals of Pemberley; and it was a very informal affair, as its three principal occupants languidly laid on whatever piece of furniture suited their whims best, busying themselves with letter reading, letter writing, etc. They didn't acknowledge each other a great deal during this period; Georgiana especially keeping to herself; for, though she was becoming gradually more open with her sister-in-law, and as affectionate as always towards her brother, she always felt especially awkward when it was the three of them together, and with no other person to break up her unease.

So this morning was not out of the ordinary. Georgiana sat with her chin cradled in her knees, which she had drawn up to them, as she held a letter before her soft hazel eyes. They were all in some parts anticipating and dreading the arrival of Catherine and Mary Bennet, which was now imminent; within the week they would be coming: Elizabeth was assured of such by the happy exultations in her mother from the letters she sent her. And then there was, of course, also Lady Rosaline to expect; and Elizabeth had no reason to regret this addition any more than her sisters; for, though she had no particular fondness for the lady herself, she was pleased at how well her husband enjoyed her company, and that was recommendation enough for her. There was also that her ladyship had always behaved to her with the utmost civility, and was never obtrusive; certainly not the most colorful character, in her opinion; but sometimes a little blandness is preferable in a house-guest.

Derbyshire had not exactly the most desirable temperature in April, so a warm fire was burning in the hearth, with the three Darcys all settled around it; Georgiana in an arm-chair facing the east wall, so that when the sun gleamed through that set of windows, it illuminated her pretty features very well. And then Darcy and Elizabeth sat across from her, with the post strewn about on the table betwixt them all.

Anyway—as Elizabeth was browsing through her letters, she spied one which caught her particular interest, as she instantly recognized the handwriting to be that of her sister Lydia's. She had not heard from her for a few months, the last letter more worthy of the term 'note' than letter, which contained a very straightforward application for funds to pay off some debts that she and her husband had accumulated, along with the inelegant declaration that she had a "sprained ankle". Elizabeth had grimaced at her sister's want of propriety, and in reply sent an equally candid refusal; but as she unfolded the several sheets of paper which this present letter was comprised of, she could hardly believe its extraordinary length.

She first scanned it, catching words and phrases which piqued her interest; then, poring over it carefully, gradually becoming totally engrossed and disturbed by its contents, with her eyes glued to the page as she reached its end; and, shoving the letter in her husband's hand, did not have to give any sort of explanation as to why she wanted it read by him, as he understood her sentiments perfectly well as they were reflected in her perturbed expression.