The dreadful silence that fell after Charlotte's words could be felt between them like the vibration of a tuning fork. On and on it went, ringing in Elizabeth's ears like the noise that it was not. Surely there was some mistake? She could not have heard properly! Or if she had she must have misunderstood her meaning.
". . . My cousin?" Elizabeth asked at length.
"Of course Lizzy." Charlotte's reply was quick and firm as she met her oldest and dearest friend's gaze with a look of iron, "Indeed, do you know another Mr. Collins'?"
The sinking feeling that had been blooming in her chest became a physical weight that pressed her into the chair as these words began to take hold. As comprehension dawned, Elizabeth could no longer maintain Charlotte's level stare, and her eyes fell to the ornate filigree of the chair leg peeking from behind the pale muslin of her friend's skirts. Her eyes traced the delicate arcs in the wood while her thoughts ran in circles around this new information. In her head, a sort of litany began as the words 'Mr. Collins and Charlotte. . . Mr. Collins and Charlotte. . . Mr. Collins and Charlotte. . .' echoed over and over again in her mind, as if the repetition would make what she had just been told any more believable.
It did not.
She looked back to the face she knew so well and at once her emotions came rushing in like a cold, gray tide.
"Charlotte, I. . ." Elizabeth began. Charlotte cut her off abruptly,
"The only thing you need say at such a moment is congratulations."
Elizabeth's face wrinkled in confusion, "Congratulations. . .?" Elizabeth could not understand for a moment what she was to congratulate her for.
"My marriage, Lizzy. You are supposed to congratulate me on my upcoming nuptials." After a pause she added, "to Mr. Collins."
Elizabeth's mouth tried to form the words, but they stuck like a lump of dry bread in her throat, so she swallowed instead. When she still did not reply, Charlotte's expression hardened further,
"Why can you not just pretend happiness for me, Lizzy?" she said, her words tumbling past her usual reserve with spiteful anger. "It was my choice. I am to be wed. I will be wife to Mr. Collins."
Charlotte's anger seemed to loosen Elizabeth's tongue slightly.
"... But…why?" Lizzy managed at last.
"Why?" Charlotte repeated, her anger now quite frank. "Would you dare ask anyone else such an uncivil question? Of course you wouldn't, for it is only your 'dear Charlotte'. Do you think I am so romantic, Lizzy?" she asked, heatedly. "I have outgrown the idea that men and women are expected to fall in love. He is a suitable man for me, and I am a suitable woman to run his home. I will be secure, respectable, and even improve my family's station. Is that not something worth congratulating me for? He has offered me a life outside of Hertfordshire and I. am. happy."
She said the last words with such force that it sounded like the expulsion of physical pain. Elizabeth swallowed again, surprised to find tears suddenly burning in her eyes.
"He is respectable, but Charlotte, he cannot respect you," cried Elizabeth in a fervent whisper as Charlotte crossed her arms and turned away. "Can anyone be happy if they are not respected? Charlotte, I beg you to think on it!"
"I do not need love to wed Lizzy. I am a rational creature. I will have all that I should need."
Elizabeth could not see how this choice was rational.
"I am not speaking of love, Charlotte." A small tear escaped her eye and she dashed it away quickly, feeling the heat in her cheeks. ".You need only look to my parents to see what this marriage could–"
"Do not insinuate that I am making myself a fool!" Charlotte cut in, turning back to face Elizabeth, her chin raised in uncharacteristic defiance. "I will not gamble my future on the hope that a gallant gentleman of sense and fortune will arrive to take me away from this place. I have reconciled myself to the fact that I will be no man's first choice." There was a strange bitterness in her voice now as she added, "I will never have Jane's beauty or your fire. I seem to exist only for comparison." Her expression dared Elizabeth to argue, but she was too shocked to speak.
"I am plain, relatively poor, not particularly accomplished – not to mention that I am too intelligent to suit the tastes of most men. I am rapidly losing the bloom of my youth and when it has gone completely, what then? What would you have me do, Lizzy? I was given a choice and I have chosen. For all your idealism, I cannot undo the promise I have made. Nor would I wish to."
Elizabeth was silent, burned by the heat of her words. What else was she to say? Charlotte obviously knew what sort of man she was binding herself to, and yet she would do it anyway. Her dearest friend did not believe she deserved more, and her belief made it a certainty. Elizabeth cried openly as Charlotte rose with dignity, fire still blazing behind her gentle brown eyes.
"Please give your family my news. I believe I have had enough Bennet felicitation for one day." And without a backward glance, she walked out of the room with her head held high. After a few moments Elizabeth heard the familiar rattle of the front door and she was gone.
Elizabeth's head fell into her hands and she began to cry in earnest. It was all too horrible! And soon, Mrs. Bennet would hear of this, and her misery would be made quite complete. She longed to leave for London before her mamma heard the news, for as soon as she did she would certainly begin again with renewed outrage at her most disappointing daughter, for because of Elizabeth there would never be another Bennet to occupy Longbourn after the death of her father.
After allowing herself a few moments to grieve for Charlotte, Elizabeth stood, trying to decide if she should find Jane or pen a letter to her aunt Gardiner begging her to come rescue her and Jane from their mother's agitation. A letter to London would not arrive on time in any case, even should she use her own pocket money to send it thought of sending an express simply to escape her mother's ire made her laugh even through her tears. She was being ridiculous. She had rarely had so many occasions to be upset as she had of late, and it seemed to be driving her to absurdity. Elizabeth was not a coward, despite how much she might dread the events that would certainly come to pass over the next few days.
Jane was away with their younger sisters in Meryton at present and was therefore unavailable to her for several hours. Distantly, she could hear the gentle plinking of the pianoforte in the music room and thought briefly of trying to commiserate with Mary about Charlotte and Mamma, but that notion was laughable. Mary would likely see Charlotte's decision regarding a union with their cousin as a wise one, just as surely as she would think Elizabeth's rejection of the man as foolishness.
It was then that she remembered the letter she had intended to write before Charlotte had been announced. The idea of penning a letter to Miss Darcy gave her a strange thrill that felt something like promise. She hurried off to her writing desk, dabbing away the tears on her cheeks with the handkerchief she had tucked into her gown. A touch of green on the cloth caught her attention and it was then that she noticed that it was embroidered with an elegantly scrolling 'D'. With a jolt in her stomach she realized that it had belonged to Mr. Darcy. He had given it to her when they had met accidentally on Oakum Mount. She had been crying then, too.
Mr. Darcy was beginning to make a habit of surprising her when she was overwrought. It was a strange circumstance indeed that he of all gentlemen kept intruding on her thoughts when he was least expected. Elizabeth raised her eyebrows in amusement as her thumb traced the fine green thread. She wondered if it had been made by his sister? If it had been, she was certainly adept, for there was not a single stitch out of place.
Inexplicably, she remembered their dance at Netherfield as he had struggled to find a safe topic on which they might pass the set.
"What think you of books?" he had said with no small amount of desperation. Whatever his thoughts were about her, he was certainly never at ease.
She wondered idly what sort of woman Mrs. Darcy would eventually be? She had once thought it was certain to be, if not Caroline Bingley, than someone very like her. Now, she was forced to concede that she was wrong in her assumptions on that score.
Elizabeth frowned slightly as she tucked the tiny cloth back into her short stays, deliberately putting the gentleman out of her mind as she perched herself lightly before the desk in her room with a heavy sigh. Drawing out a blank piece of paper and her writing implements, she took a moment to consider her words before she let them flow rapidly onto the page.
Dear Miss Darcy,
You cannot know how grateful I am to have received your letter. I know not what I expected, but I confess you have quite surprised me. You should not be apprehensive about this for it was a very delightful surprise indeed. I believe we must both agree to speak nothing of our own characters, for we clearly do not understand them at all. Indeed, despite your efforts to temper my expectations, I have found you to be a clever and engaging correspondent, and I am looking forward to knowing you better.
I truly had no notion of who you might be and had expected to find something of your brother in you. In my own defense, he is the only one of your relations with whom I am acquainted and therefore the only person available for me to draw on for comparison. Although I do recognize something of him, you must imagine my delight upon finding you to be a person who seems most similar to my dearest sister Jane. As you will no doubt learn, from me, there is no praise higher than this.
After only one letter, I have concluded that you have a gentle spirit and are very loyal to those you love – you and Jane have this in common. I also believe that you might be very witty – I must encourage you in this, for it makes for better reading. Have no fear of censure. will hear nothing of your sharp tongue from me!
I am of the opinion that one needs only a few very close friends in order to be satisfied, and I am hopeful that we shall soon be the very dearest of friends. I cannot help but be grateful for this, for I believe I may have lost one of my own dear friends today. I feel quite alone, for it is she that I would most wish to speak to at present and I do not know if our relationship will ever be what it once was. Even thinking about it is painful, but I am not so missish as to leave you in suspense so I shall explain myself.
This week has been quite dreadful. My poor mamma has been in a state of agitation at the loss of two eligible suitors in as many days. Although her fears are based on the reality of the entail of my father's estate to our cousin Collins, my mother's anxiety about the affair is quite an impressive thing to behold. She is not the first matriarch to be ever on the hunt for a good match for her daughters, but she is certainly the most shamelessly determined that I have ever encountered. It is quite an unfortunate blessing that she should be the one on whom I must depend to support me in making a match. I feel as though, despite her efforts, I would manage far better should she simply make no attempt at all. She shows no particular interest in finding a character that might suit, but rather judges a man as worthy if he has a situation that is good.
My mother had high hopes that my cousin Collins would offer for one of us Bennet women before his return to Kent. I was unfortunately his primary object, little though either of us would have enjoyed such a union (Mr. Collins I believe had not considered that there were never two such disparate temperaments than ours). I was grateful when his attention abated. However, this morning I have had news that my dearest friend Charlotte has accepted an offer of marriage from that very gentleman. I confess that I am heartbroken. I believe she has made a very unworthy choice.
Mr. Collins is a fortunate man indeed to have secured one of the most sensible and dependable women to have ever existed. Indeed, should she be wed to a stone, she would provide a comfortable home that thrived on economy and was the pride of the community.
The worst part is, she sees the defects in his character, and yet she has chosen him for the home he may provide her with no regard to the complete want of respect that she must certainly have for him.
I'm at a loss. She is the best woman that could have accepted him- and I fear that she has chosen a situation that will bring her more misery than happiness. I believe that fear for her own age and lack of prospects was her primary motivation- she certainly would not have accepted him if she had a whisper of any other choice. I thought I knew my dear Charlotte, and now I have come to realize that for all the time we have spent in each other's confidences, I never knew her at all.
Perhaps I am too harsh in my judgment of her, but I believe her situation is far more secure than my own and I would rather brave an unknown future than bind myself to someone of whom I should always be embarrassed. Oh! To bear such a man's children!
My dear Charlotte, what have you done?
The best that can be said of her groom is that he shows no tendency towards violence or indolence. I have already told you in my last letter what I think of his sense, but I believe the greatest trial my dear friend will face is that he dislikes that anyone (and most particularly any woman) should appear to be more intelligent than he. Wit will ever be a threat to those who have none, and Charlotte's considerable intelligence must now become her burden.
Collins only changed the direction of his 'affections' a few days ago, but this has apparently been enough time for him to know a woman well enough to wed her. I shall not call him capricious, for I believe that in order for the word to be aptly applied he would have been required to have sentiment in the first place. I imagine a potato capable of more passion than my cousin and for my part, if given the choice between them, I would throw my lot in with the potato. (I believe a potato would be infinitely more interesting to speak with.)
When Charlotte called this morning to tell me of her engagement, I confess that I could not keep my countenance from betraying my disbelief and sadness. Charlotte became very upset with me, and I fear now that between her decision to wed my cousin and her anger with me, we can never be as close as we once were and for that, my heart is broken.
I know I am being unfair, but you will not judge me too harshly. You must be always on my side – and most especially when I am in the wrong.
As if all this were not enough to make me unhappy today, I am also troubled by my dear sister Jane's recent disappointment. She is the most self-possessed woman that I know, but her peaceful countenance hides a very great depth of feeling. She does not like me to know it, but she has been profoundly affected by a sudden lack of interest from a gentleman who had been very partial to her. Though she says nothing of her disappointment, I know she feels it acutely.
Mamma speaks of him as though he has stolen something from her, which he of course has not. Jane must bear her own sadness, all the while pretending that she is not affected, for the sake of our mother, who would doubtless spin her situation into a tragedy before the local society. This would of course make it all so much worse. At Longbourn we are never allowed to indulge ourselves in our own misery, for our mamma must always have the greatest share of it.
My mother's disappointment is of course of a more material nature, but Jane would have cared for the gentleman regardless of his fortune. The entire situation is perplexing, for I have never seen a man so enamored who did not at least offer a courtship. I suspect that there were other forces at work to drive a young man so obviously in love away so suddenly. I believe it is best that I speak no more of it at present. I am not of a mind to view the topic reasonably – not while I watch my dearest Jane try to disguise her pain. I must not be too harsh, for Jane loves him still and perhaps someday he may yet be my brother. It is best for me not to speak ill of someone my sister thinks so well of, but I believe I am the only one who truly knows the depths of her despair.
You spoke of novels in your letter. I adore them, but at present I feel as though I am living in one and I believe that it has lost much of its appeal on this side of the ink.
The mundane tragedies of women is a subject on which I believe not enough has been written, or at least, not enough by those who truly experience them. What bothers me most about the plight of women is that even where there is a choice, it is so often the choice between one thing or another, rather than true self-determination in life. Our best chance as gently bred females is to marry a man who is liberal minded enough to allow us the freedom of an opinion and also who respects our intelligence enough to honor it.
I am sure I have shocked you. I should never say such a thing in front of a man, for I believe they have such delicate sensibilities that I would doubtless offend.
Fear not, my dear friend. I am certainly no wild bluestocking. I have accepted my fate quite cheerfully, and I hope to one day find myself in love and under the power of a man as much as the next lady – I may only wish to complain about it more.
As you can see, I am in need of a confidant just now, and I write to you, my friend, in hopes that by telling you something of my heart I shall lessen its burden. I cannot speak to those in whom I would normally confide, for it is their troubles which are my greatest burdens at present.
Now, you have asked me to tell you of sisters. I will do my best.
It is perhaps indecorous of me to say so, but although they are doubtless a blessing I believe that where some blessings are concerned, a little can go a long way. It is so with sisters.
My oldest sister Jane will always be, in my mind, a paragon of goodness and sense, although she is perhaps too trusting. Her kind heart cannot abide disapprobation and so she is always determined to be pleased. She is well loved wherever she goes, and this is not undeserved. She is my fiercest defender and believes I am a woman without equal. Were all my sisters as good as my dearest Jane, my opinion of my own consequence would be such that I should insist upon a guard of honor to see me about the neighborhood lest others accidentally tread on the great cape of erimine I should of course have to wear.
I must amend my opinion of Jane's good sense to say that when it comes to her opinion of me she is quite of my vanity what you will, but I shall never exert myself to correct her.
My next sister Mary does not really think of me at all. I am not offended by this, as she thinks of no one besides the Almighty and herself (how can one really compare to God?). She is devoted to her studies, and were they as comprehensive as most ladies' educations are, she would be an impressive specimen. But alas they are not, and she is not. Her singular focus on piety and godliness makes her dreadfully dull to talk to. She does play the pianoforte with equal zeal, but nothing too lively, lest she offend the apparently delicate sensibilities of our Lord.
I shall now say something good of her lest you think I am unkind. The natural consequence of Mary's devotion to her faith is that she is quite the most selfless of us all. She attends to the poor with all the same singular devotion she gives to her studies, and has done much good by them. There is no charity too small to be above her notice and she is well loved by people of Meryton.
I now feel guilt at ever speaking ill of her.
My youngest sisters Katherine and Lydia must be spoken of as a pairing for they are never apart. Before I go on, I must tell you that I love my sisters even when they try my patience, which they do often.
Kitty and Lydia are the very spirit of mischief and silliness. Unfortunately, this is true to the exclusion of nearly all rational behavior. Lydia is of the same age as yourself, dear Miss Darcy, and I doubt she has properly read three books together in her life. Kitty has perhaps more sense, but she lacks confidence in it. She therefore relies on Lydia to direct her in both thought and occupation – to the detriment of both. You will be surprised to hear that Kitty is a full two years older than Lydia. They both have admirably quick minds and joyful dispositions, however, as my parents declined the expense of a governess for us, these unfortunately shall be their best recommendations when searching for suitors.
I know your brother was quite shocked by their behavior on more than one occasion, and I must confess that I am more embarrassed on their behalf than they are on their own. They know not how they present themselves to others, and I fear their reputation is already such that a man of sense would be driven away before he had even been introduced. If they are to be chastised for their behavior, it only comes from either Jane or myself, but censure from an older sister whom one does not respect counts for nothing at all. I wish that my parents had taken more of an interest in Kitty and Lydia, but my mamma forgives them anything because they are as high spirited and beautiful as she was at their age. And although my father recognizes that their behavior is beyond youthful frivolity, he cannot be troubled to exert himself.
I am ashamed to admit that he laughs at them.
Now, I believe I have spoken too much of the truth. I must confess that there is something quite liberating about penning a letter to a stranger, but I must remind myself that you are not my diary and I must not always put my feelings in ink as they may alter, as such things are wont to do. Please promise me that you will not think too ill of those I speak of. I love them all so dearly, but I lack someone to whom I can speak the absolute truth. Since you know them not at all, I have decided that it must be you.
I fear that with this level of intimacy being thrust upon you, you must now call me Lizzy. Indeed we have confided more to one another in these few letters than we would have in a dozen dull morning visits.
I wish that I had a brother. You may envy my many sisters, and I shall envy you your devoted brother. I often feel that we Bennet women lack a protector such as you have in your brother, Miss Darcy. I despair because there is no one at Longbourn to stand up for me. I have been called independent, but I believe this is as much the result of negligence as innate confidence. I wish that I had less occasion for self-reliance, but alas there is no knight errant at my disposal and I have learned to carry my own banner. If only I were allowed a sword.
I must say that I was enchanted by your description of your life at Pemberley. I can readily imagine the delight of the biting flies (and all the creatures of Derbyshire for that matter) at being serenaded by you on a glorious summer eve. I only wonder that foxes and hare do not wander to the windows of the music room to hear you play. I am sure you are right and that your brother does not mind. I can think of few things that sound more delightful. You must try to convince him not to be too serious, for there is little I enjoy more than being read to by someone who has the talent for it – and in my opinion there are few who do.
Now, I want to say something of your troubles. I have always observed that those who suffer the most from sadness are also capable of the greatest love. The fact that you are capable of such emotion speaks of a depth of character that I should always admire. I would never wish anyone a sorrow such as yours, but indeed how can one truly feel the blessing of the sun if it never rains?
Do not despair that you will never find your happiness again. I believe it is always there for us – even if it is perhaps not always where we think it ought to be.
I am sorry for your rain, my friend.
Thank you for letting me tell you of mine,
Elizabeth
Elizabeth dropped her quill into the inkwell with a sigh. As she contemplated her finished message, she felt considerably lighter. She felt that she was perhaps rushing into this depth of intimacy with the young woman, but something about the earnest feeling embedded in the words of Miss Darcy's letter made her feel that she must respond with equal sincerity. It surprised Elizabeth how easy it was to speak the truth in this way.
When she thought about her relation to Mr. Darcy, she did feel a twinge of unease. What if she was more like her brother than she initially believed? Would she pass judgment on Elizabeth for her unvarnished words about her inner circle? Even if she should, it was not more than could have been supposed by her own brother after months of observing them in Hertfordshire. Some part of her felt instinctively that a creature of such apparently deep feeling would not also be callous and cruel.
Distantly, Elizabeth heard the faint sounds of merry voices and a shuffle of boots, which heralded the arrival of her sisters home from Meryton. Elizabeth quickly sanded and sealed her letter, wishing desperately to speak with Jane about Charlotte. Even before she could gather her shawl and make her way downstairs, Elizabeth heardJane's familiar tread on the landing. She moved to settle herself on the bed just as the door was carefully opened and Jane' peered inside. Jane's face was pinched, and she looked at Elizabeth with concern. She came inside and gently closed the door, resting her back against it as she paused to watch her sister carefully.
"We met Mr. Collins on our way home from Meryton," Jane said, simply.
Elizabeth raised her eyebrows, waiting to hear what the parson would have to say for himself.
"He told us of his engagement to Charlotte," Jane said, moving across the room to sit near her sister and take her hand lightly. "Oh Lizzy, I hope you are not too upset for her."
Elizabeth sighed and shook her head.
"She came here, and I am afraid that we argued on the subject."
"Oh," said Jane, squeezing her hand sympathetically.
"She knows she is binding herself to such a man, and yet she is determined to do it!" cried Elizabeth in exasperation. "She is angry with me because I will not congratulate her for it. Indeed, how could I? I do not believe she can be happy with such a man, and yet she asks me to praise her for her good fortune? It is entirely insupportable."
"I cannot help but agree with you, dear Lizzy," said Jane, her face falling into concern. "But perhaps we are wrong about her prospects. She may yet find her happiness in Kent. People can change, and Charlotte's influence can only temper that gentleman's. . ."
"Idiocy?" Elizabeth supplied helpfully. Jane laughed and nodded her agreement.
"I would not have used such a word, but you understand my point. She is taking a risk that we surely would not, but it is her decision to make. Who are we to say that it is not a good one?"
"Oh Jane, you are all goodness. I cannot be convinced that this marriage is not folly, but I must try to think only of my dear Charlotte or risk losing her friendship forever. What sort of a friend would I be if I abandoned her in Kent?"
"You could not. It is not in your nature to be inconstant."
"I flatter myself that I am too persistent to give up a friendship simply because I must now see more of a detestable gentleman than I would like. They shall both have to suffer my impertinence even after they remove to Kent."
"I am glad, for I fear Charlotte may have need of a friend when she begins her new life."
Elizabeth frowned as she recalled Charlotte's bitter words, 'I seem to exist only for comparison…'
Perhaps Charlotte would not wish for her presence when she left Hertfordshire? It was painful to contemplate. Elizabeth had had no notion Charlotte saw herself in such a way. She saw so much to value in her friend; she could not imagine how the woman herself had missed it. Elizabeth had never once thought there was any jealous feeling between them, but she had evidently been wrong about this too.
What else had Charlotte been too ashamed to say?
Elizabeth's eye then fell on Jane, and she felt her concern take a new direction as she noted the exhaustion that marred her sister's beautiful features. Elizabeth knew she had not been sleeping well. In fact, the last few nights, Jane had risen once she believed that Elizabeth had fallen asleep, only to perch on the wide window sill and gaze out into the darkness. She was unwell, but she was determined not to cause concern.
"Jane," said Elizabeth at length, watching her sister carefully, "you are well?'
"Of course I am," said Jane, with a determinedly bright smile.
Elizabeth pursed her lips and frowned. "I know you too well to believe that. You have not slept well since Mr. Bingley left."
Jane's eyes dropped to her hands but she said nothing. Elizabeth put an arm around her sister and pressed a kiss to her temple.
"Oh Jane," she sighed, "I had an idea of running away to London for a while to escape before our mother finds out about Mr. Collins and Charlotte. I am certain she will blame me, and I confess I could well do without another share of her ire."
Jane let out a small laugh, "It is not your fault, Lizzy."
"Oh, do not fear that I blame myself for it. I only blame Mamma for choosing the wrong daughter. Truly, could there ever be a finer parson's wife than our dear Mary? I doubt she would even need a parson to do the job well."
"Lizzy!" Jane scolded her playfully. Elizabeth smiled brightly at her sister.
"I think that it is you who must run away to London, dear sister," said Elizabeth. "I believe a change of scene would improve your spirits."
Jane looked contemplative for a moment before saying, "I confess, the idea is appeals to me"
"It is settled, then!" cried Elizabeth, leaping to her feet and moving to the writing desk once more. "I shall write to our aunt Gardiner directly!"
Jane laughed and shook her head.
As she began to write, she wondered how she might make it known to Mr. Bingley that her sister would be in Gracechurch street.
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