Thu, Dec 5, 1811 – Longbourn, Hertfordshire
Musical Accompaniment: Adele - Set Fire to The Rain


Two hours later, Elizabeth was very glad that she had an inside seat for the evening's mail coach, because the rain had begun in earnest. Mr. Bartlet offered to escort her to the coaching inn with his umbrella, for which she was eternally grateful. With a great sigh, she stood up, stretched her aching back, and examined the fruits of her labor. The letter said all she had to say, and Mr. Bartlet would mail it in a few days, after it was too late to stop her.

7 December 1811
Lambton, Derbyshire

Mr. Thomas Bennet
Longbourn, near Meryton, Hertfordshire

Father,

It is with some sadness that I write this letter to you, regardless of how disagreeable it is for me to write, or for you to read. I assure you, that you will find it very difficult, but I implore you to strive to finish it. I write without any intention of paining you, or humbling myself, by dwelling on events which, for my own health and happiness, cannot be too soon forgotten; and the effort which the formation and the perusal of this letter must occasion, should have been spared, had not my character required it to be written and read. You must, therefore, pardon the freedom with which I demand your attention; your feelings, I know, will bestow it unwillingly, but I demand it of your justice.

As you have no doubt noticed, I have decided to make my own way in the world, rather than having the entire rest of my life decided between my father and a man I met six weeks ago. I freely admit that I am doing this for selfish reasons and make no bones about it. Perhaps Mr. Darcy might turn out to be a good husband, and maybe he would not. All evidence to date indicates that he would not, and I would prefer not to bet the rest of my life on my observations and analysis being incorrect. While I doubt being Mrs. Darcy would be terrible, it would be a fate done against my own wishes, and I will not be forced.

Father, I will own my own share of culpability in this debacle, so long as you will accept yours. In many ways, I am my father's daughter, and I fear I inherited all your bad characteristics as well as some of my own invention. For years, you and I have smirked and ridiculed our neighbors, freely giving ourselves permission to feel smug and superior, all the while ignoring the fact that we have no cause to feel superior at all. Nay, in fact, we have ample reason for shame.

For example, my mother –your wife– is a mean-spirited woman of little understanding and improper manners, who makes everyone in the house miserable every time she is discontented. She cannot pass up any opportunity to disparage other women such as Charlotte Lucas (or me) to promote her own favorites or simply to her herself speak. She has passed the worst of those behaviors onto her youngest daughters. The two of them are ignorant and ill mannered. You cannot pretend otherwise. You are the head of the family, and had years to address this, and yet, you chose the path of laughing at the defects of your family as if you had no responsibility at all.

I on the other hand once told Mr. Darcy in Netherfield, 'your defect is to hate everybody', while in fact, I believe it is more likely to be my defect. After being forced to examine my own behavior, I have become ashamed of it. I have courted prepossession and ignorance, and driven reason away, where any interactions with our neighbors were concerned. Till this moment I never knew myself.

For example, poor Mr. Collins is indeed not a particularly intelligent man, but he means well. He is to inherit the estate, and while you may think him mercenary coming to pick a comely daughter to seal the bargain, nothing required him to do so. He could have found a wife anywhere. He is a man with a good living and a future inheritance, and many a woman would jump at the chance. I suspect that within the fortnight he will have proposed to Charlotte Lucas or Janet Golding, and they will happily accept. Yet, from the moment he arrived, you and I spent all our time looking for whatever bad we could find in him, while ignoring any possibility of any good. For certain, he is not the cleverest of men, yet is he unteachable? He is as clever as my mother, and has shown no tendency towards viciousness, so why did we feel it is our right to needle and tease him.

The reason is quite simple, my dear father. We did it because we are both lazy, indolent, mean‑spirited people. We laugh and cajole our way through life, with nary a thought for the future. Mary, I will admit took a decided dislike to the man and I conspired to keep him away from her, but should she not have been taught to stick up for herself? Might she be suffering from the same defect you and I possess, made worse by entirely too much of Rev. Fordyce? Was ignoring the man, needling him, and teasing him really the best way to ensure your family's future security should you meet one too many rabbit holes? Nay! You and I between us, made not the slightest effort to make an ally of the man.

I have been led to believe you intended to stick me with him, which I would have found every bit as disagreeable as being forced on Mr. Darcy, but even then, I see no evidence you were trying to make my situation better, or even manageable. Perhaps you thought that I was a grown woman and should well have learned to fend for myself. Well, I had not – but I have now.

Let us now discuss the matter of finances. Uncle Gardiner once showed me how a man of £600-1,000 per annum could readily lay aside a reasonable dowry for five daughters. I imagine he did not pick that example arbitrarily. He could also have easily afforded tutors, masters, and the like to ensure that they were marriageable. Yet you, with double that income have done nothing – absolutely nothing.

Your indolence has rubbed off on all your daughters. I have a vast knowledge of literature, but my accomplishments at playing, singing and the other silly sorts of things that attract suitors is no better than it was when I was sixteen. Jane has depended entirely on her beauty and a façade of agreeability. She does not play at all, nor draw, and her needlepoint is bad enough to scare small children and animals. Mary does nothing but read Fordyce all day, and her skills on the pianoforte compete with Jane for awfulness. Your two youngest need not be mentioned, being so obvious. In the end, I believe all your daughters, including myself, carry an amalgam of your worst characteristics and our mother's.

I do not bring all of this up out of malice or bitterness or spite, much as it may sound like endless whining. I have a purpose. You are now 44 years old. Uncle Gardiner once showed me a study that indicates that if you reach your fortieth year, you are very likely to reach your sixtieth. There is still time for you to take your parental responsibilities seriously.

For a certain, my disappearance will hurt the family's 'reputation'. We all like to think that is a calamity that will have no end, with fifty-year-old Lydia still nattering away about bonnets, but that is not how it really works. I can clearly remember at least two families in the last five years who suffered similar fates. Some of them even resulted in unexpected early additions, but all of them are still part of our society. Over time, the nattering gossipers found something more interesting to do, and eventually, they managed to reenter society. I am certain it was blisteringly uncomfortable for them, and I admit that I did them as much damage as anyone else, but they did recover. You can do the same thing. You will have a period of ostracization, but you can recover, and if not, you can always send the girls somewhere else to get husbands. London alone has over a million inhabitants, so finding four rather silly men should be a surmountable problem.

Let me make a few suggestions. Kitty and Lydia should not be out. They should be in school, and you could easily do that. If they are to be ostracized anyway, send them to a school where their secret can be kept while they learn to act like ladies. I assure you that such things exist, and they probably cost less than those two spend in a year. Mother will scream her head off about it, but you can exert yourself to guide her instead of ridiculing her.

Mary is probably too old for school, so maybe send her to stay with the Gardiners. Being away from her sisters and her mother would be good for her, and I do not doubt that they could find her a good match without a lot of effort. For a certainty, she will not marry a gentleman, but there was never much chance of that anyway. She would be quite well suited to marry a clergyman or tradesman, and dare I say it, she would be happy doing so.

Jane is another matter. I broached the idea of substituting her for me with Mr. Darcy. I doubt the gentleman could tell us apart, and Jane seemed enamored with the idea of a sacrificial lamb – although to be honest, she had a lot more enthusiasm for me as the lamb than herself. Be that as it may, as crazy as it sounds, that would probably work. If not, then she should just go to London husband hunting. She would have as good a chance as Mary, although sticking the Gardiners with all your problems seems unfair. Maybe the whole family should relocate to town for a season.

As for me, well, I do believe we make too much of our status. I once met a man in London who was obsessed with numbers. He told me that the Gentry encompassed less than 1.5 percent of the population of England. That means that at least 98 people out of 100 are not gentry, and yet they mostly seem to lead lives that are no more or less happy and fulfilling than ours. They must work, and we do not, but it does not seem to kill them. In fact, I believe there is a bit of nobility in honest work, and frankly, if I must embroider one more cushion I may scream. I am under no illusions that this new life will be easy. It will be very hard, and there is a reasonable chance it will turn out very badly – but I shall not be dissuaded. I will choose my course. I am only resolved to act in that manner, which will, in my own opinion, constitute my happiness, without reference to you, or to any person so wholly unconnected with me.

In a way, I feel bad for Mr. Darcy, since he is basically being jilted at the altar, but he will recover his reputation much faster than I would if he had not offered, and since we both found his proposal more insulting than gentlemanly, I assert that he will live and experience no more than his usual level of misery.

I do understand that I am leaving you and my sisters in an awkward situation, and for that I am sorry; but I am not willing to spend the rest of my life saving you from a couple of months of self‑imposed embarrassment because you cannot control your family.

Elizabeth Bennet