Letter 15: Mrs Darcy to Mr Darcy
February 10th
My dear husband,
You are sorely missed — and not only by myself — but of course you must remain at Ardsley. I am not at all surprised at the state it is in. Wilcox was rather like a clever Mr Collins — a frightening thought, truly. Perhaps the curate might be of some assistance? He is no Stanley, but I believe he could do considerable good in the village, at least, and some financial compensation for his efforts would certainly be welcome: a pittance to us would be unimaginable wealth for them.
As for George, I hardly know what to think, and you know better than anybody that that is not an affliction I am often subject to. He is very careful, very proper, but I am almost certain he is very much in love with Elizabeth. His intentions are all that I remain undecided about. His fear of you made him guarded; he takes much less care now, particularly since Elizabeth is less distant towards him. She is, however, nowhere near to reciprocating his feelings, or even enjoying his attentions. I have no doubt that her fortune and position are a large part of the attraction; I cherish no illusions as to his character, however amiable he may seem. He may intend a respectable courtship, but I doubt it; he must know that there would be objections from every possible quarter.
Darcy - I suppose I should say Rochford, now - is a welcome relief. Both young men pride themselves on their manners — charming and well-bred respectively — and that very pride ensures that they hold one another in exquisite contempt and refuse to act upon it. Their cordiality is truly awe-inspiring. Elizabeth and I can hardly keep ourselves from laughing.
She has spoken to me, a little, of the situation; I would wish for more, but I am certain every girl of one and twenty thinks it impossible that her mother could ever have been young. Except Bess: I have never been able to like her, but I pity her as I do them all, all those children paying for the missteps of youth. To this day I wonder, if I had been a little less credulous, would it not all have been avoided? Yet who am I to wish eleven children, my own nephews and nieces, unborn? I am fond of the others, as much as I can manage. Poor Jack and Bella, they are so out of place. I confess I would be delighted to have him here as well, I think he would be a very good influence on Christopher.
Alas, instead we have George. I like him, I do, but I do not wish him for Elizabeth, in character or situation. I am starting to think she has not really spoken to anyone. She has grown quite as nervous as my sister Stanley, all in barely six weeks' time. We are at such odds and ends, I am half inclined to send for every sensible relation I can think of, simply to keep the peace. Darcy told me himself that he would dearly love to run George through. Do you think he will ever learn that there is a line between honesty and tactlessness? Even Georgiana lacks his singular capacity for offence. Simply keeping the household intact is a feat of genius on my part.
Oh, did I mention that the servants dislike George, as well? —his food is always cold now and I have not the heart to reprimand M. Renaud for it. They are all conspiring to make his life as unpleasant as possible. I am practising a disapproving expression in the mirror for when they force me to confront them over it. Otherwise it will be so evident that we are all of one mind, they will simply attempt to subvert my orders in some newly creative fashion. There is no pride like that of an upper servant. I still remember the baleful glares I used to receive from old Roberts, or would have if he had been able to see me. Only you, my love, would keep a blind valet.
Fitzwilliam, I will not ask you to hurry. Your concerns there are far weightier than this parody of a courtship. Write back to me quickly, one of your delightful long, rambling letters full of advice and nerves and how dreadfully you miss me.
I have been thinking, if we go to town for the Season, Elizabeth would be exposed to much wider company and be free to go her own way without shunning George. Georgiana and Bella are such healthy girls, I am sure there is no danger.
Give Edward my love, and tell him that I have it from Lady Westmorland that her daughter does not think beards at all flattering so he might as well spare himself the trouble of growing one.
I remain your loving wife,
Elizabeth Darcy
Letter 16: Lady Auckland to Mr Darcy
February 12th
Mr Darcy,
I feel obliged to mention our anxiety over my cousin Elizabeth's situation. If you cannot go to town, Auckland and I would be delighted to have her stay with us. I hope I am not impertinent, sir, but a girl of her birth, beauty, and genius deserves to be seen, and I am certain that in no time at all, she would discover that this whole dreadful affair is only a molehill after all.
D. A.
Letter 17: Lady Anne Dashwood to Edward Darcy
February 13th
Edward,
I am certain you know all about your cousin Wickham's infatuation with Elizabeth? Darcy is quite concerned, and we all think that it would be greatly for the better if she went to London where he would just be one among many beaux. You know as well as I that his intentions cannot possibly be honourable. It would be very helpful, I believe, if you spoke to your father on the subject.
Anne
Letter 18: Lord Rochford to Mr Darcy
February 15th
Sir,
I fear my cousin is growing quite highly-strung. I wish to heaven that I could do more! Yet even I have seen nothing truly reprehensible in Wickham's behaviour. Perhaps, if she were in larger company, the effect would be lessened? I know my sister or cousins would be pleased to have her with them, if you do not care to go yourself. Forgive me if I am too impertinent, but I must confess that it makes me ill to see her peace of mind so destroyed, and in her own home.
Da Rochford
Letter 19: Lord Ravenshaw to Mr Darcy
February 17th
Darcy,
I have received incoherent demands from my children to persuade you to stay in town this spring. I daresay this has some connection to the urgency of Darcy's sudden desire to visit Pemberley? Come by all means. I should feel infinitely better if I knew you were sharing the misery of London life.
Letter 20: Dowager Lady Auckland to Mr Darcy
February 20th
Fitzwilliam, what on earth is the matter? Diana, Anne, Darcy, and Edward (yes, your Edward) are up in arms about going to town, as if Elizabeth's eternal salvation depended upon it. Of course I should like to see you all, but I am clearly ignorant of some great matter.
P. A.
Letter 21: Mr Darcy to Elizabeth Darcy
February 21st
My dearest Elizabeth,
I should be home by your birthday, as planned. I will be forced to leave some matters unfinished, but I believe Jamison will be fully capable of carrying on with Edward's guidance. It has been a good opportunity for your brother to learn how to manage an estate in practice as well as principle, but I regret that the matter has taken me from the rest of my family.
I will not mince words, my dear. George has given me no reason to suspect him of any untoward intentions. The only cause for distrust is my own impression of his general character as essentially immoral and faithless — completely unsubstantiated by his present behaviour, I must add — and your own discomfort. I do not wish to be the domineering father of novels, but on this point I must insist: if there is anything else, you must tell me, or your mother. Above all, even before affection, I owe you my protection, but I can with justice do nothing in this circumstance, without any more information than you have given me.
That said, I will confess that I do not believe anything more has happened, and that that is exactly what makes this so awkward and unpleasant for you. The very fact of this — that there is nothing firm enough to put your finger on — is what renders the whole affair so troublesome.
You should also know that your mother believes George is in love with you. Do not fear any conflict of her feelings. She does not love your cousin; she feels an obligation to him as her nephew, and she likes him — that is all. He will never be to her what you are. She would rather see him begging on the streets than see you suffer a moment of unnecessary pain. She worries as much as any mother could. The difference in your dispositions has prevented any great degree of confidence from subsisting between you, but the habits of childhood need not carry into the future. I know better than anybody that reserve is difficult to conquer, but just as well I know it can be done. I hope I need not remind you that she cares for you as much as your aunt and I do, and in this matter is as deeply concerned. It would not take a great deal, a word or two, to assuage her present fears. You should not forget, Elizabeth, that you are her child as much as mine, and you owe her a daughter's consideration.
As for solutions, the simplest is what you have yourself discovered — absenting yourself from his company. I have received a flurry of letters, and I imagine you have also, advising us to return to town this spring. If we choose to do so, George will undoubtedly be there also, but not the greatest of connections would allow him to associate with those you shall. This, needless to say, seems a near universal desire, and I am fully prepared to acquiesce unless there is an objection I am ignorant of.
Forgive the severity of this letter and know that it springs only from my affection and concern.
Your father,
Fitzwilliam Darcy
Letter 22: Mr Darcy to Mrs Darcy
February 21st
I shall begin straightaway by begging your forgiveness for the tardiness of my reply. My only excuse is that I am trying as hard as I can to finish my business here on time, not to mention the recent influx of poorly disguised demands.
Letters are very poor substitutes for your company. Mr Bellingham's chambers are as dreary as might be expected of such a man. He was seventy-one when I was born, and his tastes were that of the elderly and illiterate man he was. My great-aunt did little to alter the room, except replacing the portrait of his mother with that of her own grandfather. He was by all accounts a vicious, mercenary, sinister man whose general villainy forced his children to flee home by whatever means possible; I can easily believe it. If family legend had accounted him a deformed libertine who locked his wife in the attic, I could just as easily believe that. His portrait is something out of a horrible dream; he had the family looks and his face seems a twisted caricature of my own, except the eyes — his are, or rather were, brown, close-set, and beady. It is a fortunate difference; I only had nightmares every other night until I swallowed my pride and demanded that the thing be removed.
I am certain I could not have cared less about the misdeeds and ill-favoured looks of the first Alexander Darcy had you been here: you would have laughed me out of it fast enough. I sent for the portrait of Elizabeth and Georgiana when they were small to replace it; we never know where to put it and doubtless Alexander would have detested such gross sentimentality. My imagination, perhaps, but the thought comforts me.
Would you care to inform me if there have been any developments on the Pemberley front? I expect that the general anxiety is more a result of news being intensified as it passes — but this is uncommonly fast even for us. My sister, my nephew, my niece, my aunt and two of my cousins have already written, in addition to Edward's attempts at subtlety and your own letter. I know perfectly well that you would have written of less ethereal concerns, had anything of substance occurred. I have already been forced to lay down an ultimatum, likely an unnecessary one, to Elizabeth. If it would mean an end of this insanity, I would be perfectly happy to go to town; and if it ensures a cessation in separations I would be even more delighted. We have been spoilt by a life of ease, my dear; we have not wished to be apart and therefore we have not been. How long has it been since our last parting? Thirteen years? Fifteen? Yes — it was when your aunt Phillips and my uncle Dalrymple died in the same week.
Sometimes I really think the advantages of relocation to the Continent cannot be overestimated. Of course, if you were here, you would observe how little a sulky expression befits a man of my advanced years. It reminds me of when I tried running away when I was fourteen; I was miserable within an half-hour. Did I ever tell you about that? It was after my mother fell ill and I had violently quarrelled with my father. He lectured me on the importance of controlling my temper and I was so enraged by what I saw as his hypocrisy that I determined to leave at that very moment.
So you were quite right. I am rambling, and I miss you greatly. I have become quite grim and humourless in your absence, or rather, in mine. I had forgotten how cold I sleep; I have seen fifty years, and without your warmth, however much I generally complain about it, I feel every day of them. Your portrait, after all, is not here to remind me of the man I was when we were married, or of the possibility of joy beyond mere contentment, such as I constantly felt then. But I would not wish it here — I would not wish it moved at all. The very idea sends a chill down my spine, though as much out of — likely excessive — delicacy as sentiment. If Edward saw that! If anybody did! You would call me a prude and perhaps I am, but that young lady is fit for no eyes but mine.
The little miniature I have of you is not the same, just as letters are not the same. I feel as distant from 'young Mr Darcy' as 'that little nephew of Lord Ravenshaw's.' I am tired, I can almost feel my hair turning whiter. Yes, I think we should go to town. If George happened across me on a day like this, I would as likely order him off my property as not. It has been so long since everyone relied on my judgment alone, I have lost all taste for it.
I think I shall come home early. Do not tell Elizabeth; I should like to surprise her. In truth, though, my greatest desire is to see you again, to talk to you. Nevertheless be not alarmed by the dreary tone of this letter. There is nothing the matter with me; I am only in poor spirits. I blame Ardsley. I half believe the locals who claim there is a curse on this place. The Bellinghams are the likeliest people in the world to attract that sort of thing, I daresay.
I wish I had chosen a different phrase now. It is too close to the other letter. I suppose you still have the dreadful thing somewhere, it will become a family heirloom and in a few centuries be worth thousands of pounds and our descendants will puzzle themselves over what it could possibly mean. 'Be not alarmed' — that is the only part I remember with any accuracy now.
I have already written Elizabeth a very stern letter and begged her forgiveness for the manner of writing, so I might as well conclude by asking yours for raking up the past again. Give my love to the children, and I hope to see you a few days after you receive this.
Your devoted husband,
Fitzwilliam Darcy