My dear son,
Happy 18th birthday, William. I feared when beginning these letters that I would not know what to say. Although there is much I wish to tell you, it is sometimes difficult to decide what is most important. After all, if I should have survived, you would — I hope — speak to and write to me with regularity and I to you. I hope I shall convey to you in these remaining letters all my love for you and my hopes for you as you come into your own.
If I recall correctly, eighteen shall be the year that you transition from Eton to Cambridge. I hope this change shall not cause too much difficulty for you. Of course, it likely will mean some of your close acquaintances will not be so readily at hand, but distance is easily overcome with pen, paper, and affection.
You shall also meet many more acquaintances, of course, and I hope they shall all be worthy of your attention. Your uncle often told me that at university was when people began to come after him for what they might gain from him, whereas in Eton this was not so prevalent. This was particularly the case when it came to younger sons, for they were well aware his father had two livings in his gift. Those who were to go into the church were most interested in becoming his friend.
Now that I have set you against meeting new people, I shall beg you not to assume everyone is simply after what they can gain. Even those who wish for something from you might also desire your company. The two are not mutually exclusive. How you may tell a friend from someone who only wishes for what you can give is if they abandon you when they do not get what they wish from you and how they act when you are in need of something from them.
You may wonder what you could possibly need from a friend. You, after all, are the heir to Pemberley and have an allowance to match that position. Yet, not everything can be bought. Friendship is much like marriage. Both are important relationships. The marriage vows say 'in better and for worse, in sickness and in health, richer and poorer' and that must be true also for friendship. Friendship requires mutual forbearance when a friend is in a foul mood or needs advice they might not wish to hear. It requires celebrating the success of friends without jealousy and grieving with them without belittling them. It may require caring for them, even if they do not wish to be cared for. It may require giving a friend monetary assistance, or telling them they need to learn to provide for themselves.
It is not always easy to tell what a friend needs. You might have to make hard choices, such as letting a friend deal with the consequences of their own actions when they fall into debt or break the law. Sometimes helping a friend might mean some discomfort on your part. You may have to act in a way unnatural to you or converse with people you dislike. Remember, dear boy, that your friends likely make similar sacrifices for you — even if you do not realise they are doing so.
All of us have faults that are difficult to deal with at times, but our friends do so out of affection. They may try to correct such faults in us, as well. It is not always comfortable to be made aware of certain defects in our characters. All of us have faults, some of which can be overcome with effort and some that cannot. I, for example, have two faults that annoy your father exceedingly. One is that I am terrible at recgonising faces and therefore sometimes am rude without meaning to be when we meet people to whom I have only been introduced once or twice. Another is my propensity to talk a great deal about subjects that are of interest to me, without needing much in the way of encouragement from your father, my favourite listener. The former is beyond my control, while the latter is not. Over the course of our marriage, we have had to determine which faults are which sort and if the effort is worth it to improve. You shall have to do the same when it comes to your relationships, both those of friendship and romance.
I must go, my dear boy. Your dear sister is awakening and demands her mother's attention.
I love you,
Mamma
Darcy sighed and again wished he had his mother's letter's when he was young. How much this might have assisted him with his dealings with George Wickham. Instead, Darcy had waited until Mr. Wickham tried to elope with Georgiana before cutting him off completely. It should not have taken so long, had he not been blinded by what he had perceived as his duty to his father's godson.
During university was when Darcy had realised that Wickham's character was likely beyond saving. Such propensities to vice and pleasure were not unusual among young men, but Wickham took his depravity to extremes. Yet Darcy continued to buy up Wickham's debts and save him from scrapes until the previous summer.
As for the rest of the letter, Darcy prided himself on being a good friend who tried to do right by his friends. He was not jealous or petty when a friend had success, nor did he relish any man's downfall. His mother's mention of defects in character reminded Darcy of a conversation he had with Elizabeth while she was at Netherfield. She had teased him by suggesting he was vain and proud. Had she been trying to warn him of how he was seen by others? Did she see him as vain and proud?
Darcy stored his letters away in their hiding place and began to pace the room. He began to reflect on the conversations he had with Elizabeth during her stay at Netherfield. Whenever she teased someone, she did so with a gentle, light-heartedness that made them feel charmed, not judged. Yet she had teased him about his pride.
Darcy had no more time to reflect on this matter, for Mr. Witting arrived to assist him in dressing for dinner. The valet was in an even more jovial mood than was his norm. No doubt the change was due to the good meal that was to be had below stairs in celebration of the holy day.
By the time Darcy arrived in the drawing-room, the other guests had already assembled and the servants were sliding the doors to the dining room open. His aunt's lips were pressed together in a thin line of disapproval as he apologised for his tardiness, and it seemed his words were not enough to placate her. She began to lecture him on the disrespect that tardiness showed and claimed his mother was of the same opinion as herself. Darcy was sure his mother didn't share Lady Catherine's opinion on many things, as her letters suggested, but this could be one they both agreed on. He therefore allowed the comments to pass without challenge,
He led his aunt and his cousin into dinner, as it seemed Mr. Collins was in great disfavour. As Colonel Fitzwilliam had taken up the place typically occupied by the master of the estate, he escorted in both Mrs. Collins and Miss Lucas. Mr. Collins and Elizabeth followed behind the others. Darcy felt sorry for Elizabeth, seated as she was between Mr. Collins and Lady Catherine. Such could not be a comfortable position on any evening, but tonight would be particularly unpleasant. Not that his seat was much better; he was placed between Anne and Lady Catherine, which would undoubtedly become uncomfortable if Anne had to make her views known. On the other end of the table, Colonel Fitzwilliam, Mrs. Collins, and Miss Lucas looked thankful for their placement.
The servants moved gracefully, their hands deftly filling wine glasses and arranging dishes on the table. The only sounds in the room were the gentle clinks of silverware against porcelain and the hushed requests to pass a certain dish or for a refill of wine. Elizabeth was situated directly opposite Darcy, and their gazes would frequently meet. It seemed they both were wondering when the bubble of relative calm would burst.
Once the servants had set out the meats, fish, and their accompaniments for the second course and left the room, Lady Catherine's fury was released. "My character has ever been celebrated for its sincerity and frankness, and in a cause of such moment as this, I shall certainly not depart from it. This morning's service was most alarming. Most alarming indeed! I expressly forbid you, Mr. Collins, from speaking of equality and other such drivel. Yet what do I hear this morning? An entire sermon on the subject! You forget what you owe to yourself and your family, Mr. Collin, when you disobey so completely."
"I did not hear you forbid it, your ladyship," said Mr. Collins.
Her ladyship roared in outrage at this, proclaiming that Mr. Collins was the worst sort of liar and unfit to hold the living she had granted him.
"You did not forbid it, Lady Catherine," said Darcy. "You were arguing with him on the subject, but after I showed the verses, you said nothing more. It was only right for Mr. Collins to then assume that you would no longer disapprove of his speaking on the topic."
"Have you no loyalty? No sense of familiar duty?" Lady Catherine turned her glare on Mr. Darcy. "You dare side with Mr. Collins over your own aunt?"
"I will not let family ties blind me to the truth of the matter, dear aunt." Mr. Darcy met his aunt's gaze. His voice was unwavering and stern; Elizabeth was quite certain he must have used that tone many times to settle tenant disputes and quarrels among his staff. Such resoluteness must have been a family trait, however, because Lady Catherine did not seem at all moved by his statement.
"Obstinate, headstrong boy! Your parents would be ashamed of you if they still lived!"
"I have reason to believe they would not be," said Mr. Darcy coolly.
Lady Catherine's eyes glinted with anger as she ranted about honour, rank, and the duty one owes to their elders and betters.
"Enough, Mother!" Lady Catherine's mouth gaped open in shock when she heard her daughter speak to her in such a brazen manner. "I will hear no more of this. Mr. Collins did right this morning. He is a clergyman, and his first duty is not to you. In fact, he has no duty to you beyond that which he owes to any other member of his congregation."
Lady Catherine made to speak, but her daughter cut her off. "No, you will not interrupt me. This is my home. I am its mistress. Mr. Collins is my rector, who was appointed after I inherited Rosings. If you wish to rule over others, you may do so in the dower house. That is your rightful place, Mother, now that I am passed five-and-twenty. If you wish to remain in the manor house, you will treat others with the respect they deserve. That includes not ordering them about when you have no authority to do so, not insisting on knowing what everyone is speaking of when you have no part in the conversation, leaving the belongings of others alone, and, beginning tomorrow, relinquishing your place at the head of the table to me."
"Disobedient child!" exclaimed Lady Catherine. She began to rant further on her daughter's perceived sins, but she was cut off when Miss de Bourgh ordered two of the footmen to escort her mother to her rooms. Lady Catherine's hands clawed at the table as she was dragged away, as she would not go willingly. The servants had long ago given their loyalty to the daughter, so the mother's insistence that they would be let go without references fell on deaf ears.
"Hodges," said Anne to the nearest footman, "please clear away the second course and bring in the next."
The servants quickly hurried to obey. Everyone else at the table gaped at the young woman as she stood, walked to the seat her mother had recently vacated, and sat down. Elizabeth, in particular, was shocked by Miss de Bourgh. She had seemed, to Elizabeth, to be a shell of a person with few opinions of her own. It seemed that in this instance, as well as many others of late, she had been wrong.
