The rain of the previous day had subsided to a fine mist, rendering the sleepy village of Meryton awash in dull gray light. In the wavy reflection of the shop window, the familiar storefronts and small houses blended into hazy impressions in the damp winter air. Elizabeth tugged her pelisse a little closer, clutching her new book tightly to her chest. She was beginning to feel the cold now and was eagerly anticipating the moment when she could settle near the hearth to examine her purchase.
In front of her, Lydia and Kitty babbled and squealed in rapid tones, heads bent, as they conferred over their own acquisitions – a bundle of ribbons in varying shades of pastel. Elizabeth had no doubt the bits of finery were destined to cause a feud long before embellishing either girl's wardrobe. Elizabeth sighed heavily, wishing again that either Jane or Mary could have been persuaded to come on this excursion. Unfortunately, only the three most intrepid Bennet sisters were not put off by the abysmal weather, leaving Elizabeth in the unenviable position of chaperone.
Just as they rounded the corner from the milliner's, Elizabeth noticed a cluster of red coats in the street. At that moment, a shrill cry of recognition erupted from Lydia. With her typical over-exuberance, Lydia bounded forward, leaving a startled Kitty to scurry along in her wake. Elizabeth sped up with no small amount of trepidation as the gaggle of officers opened their ranks to accommodate the enthusiastic newcomers.
"Oh, what a perfectly wonderful surprise!" said Lydia, smiling broadly at the men. "We were just on our way back to Longbourn. How fortunate that Lizzy made us stop at that horrible dull bookshop, else we may have missed you! This is far better, is it not, Kitty?"
"Oh, yes. Far better," said Kitty, emulating Lydia's eagerness.
"Will you not walk with us in that direction?" Lydia asked, stepping forward to take the arm of Captain Denny, who looked mildly surprised but not displeased.
Elizabeth's vexation grew at the ease with which her sister made such casual contact with the gentleman without invitation.
"Lydia," she said in a light but firm voice, "we ought not to importune the gentleman; it seems they have just arrived and likely still have business to attend to in the village."
"Oh nonsense!" said Lydia, rolling her eyes at her sister. "They can walk us home and then return to their business later, I am sure." She cast her gaze hopefully around the faces of the officers.
Before Elizabeth could open her mouth to protest, Captain Denny gallantly preempted Elizabeth's reproof, "Indeed, Miss Lydia, I, for one, would be delighted to accompany you to Longbourn."
Lydia and Kitty cast each other gleeful looks before Lydia threw Elizabeth a triumphant smile. It was only then that Elizabeth noticed Lieutenant Wickham at the rear of the group. He cast her a long look and subtly tipped his hat in a way that made Elizabeth blush. The gesture quieted her reservations in an instant. It was settled upon that Denny, Carter, and Wickham should accompany them to Longbourn. Wickham subtly moved around the back of Carter so that he was nearest to Elizabeth. Captain Carter bowed to Kitty, who giggled and blushed prettily, taking his arm.
Wickham deftly offered his own arm with his usual open and amiable smile. As their party began to move off in the direction that would take the ladies home, Elizabeth stole a sly glance at her companion. He was as handsome as ever, his honey-brown hair in elegant disarray under the jaunty set of his hat, the ghost of a smile playing about his lips. The whole effect was undeniably dashing, and Elizabeth could not help but be affected by his easy manners and classic good looks. Wickham's voice broke her out of her subtle inspection of his person.
"I am glad to see you, Miss Elizabeth," he said earnestly. "I have been hoping for just such an opportunity since the ball at Netherfield. I wanted to apologize to you personally for my absence."
"I am sure there is no occasion for that. As much as I enjoy your company, Mr. Wickham, I had a delightful time in spite of your absence."
"I had no doubt that you would," he said with a chuckle. "I only wished to tell you that I regretted missing an opportunity to dance with you."
"I believe you shall recover from your disappointment in time," said Elizabeth lightly, "Was it the regiment that stole you away from your pleasures?"
Wickham cast her a sideways glance before answering.
"No, indeed. I found as the time drew near that I had better not meet Mr. Darcy. To be in the same room, the same party with him for so many hours together might be more than I could bear. Scenes might arise unpleasant to more than myself."
Elizabeth's forehead crinkled at this.
"I am sure if Mr. Bingley were to know of your sacrifice, he should thank you for your efforts on his behalf. I am sorry you were obliged to miss it, though; it was well attended and most certainly a credit to the Bingleys."
"I had heard as much from Denny and Carter," he said before adding, "I assure you hearing of it did nothing to ease my disappointment."
"Indeed, for you, it would have been better were it a tedious evening full of uninspiring company." Elizabeth offered him a subtle smile. "I confess I would have enjoyed it more had I not been so vexed by Mr. Darcy. He had the audacity to request as set with me, and I could think of no reason to refuse him."
As Elizabeth said it, she wasn't sure if this was strictly true, but in such company, it was hard to admit to anything less than an adamant opinion about the gentleman.
"I am sure you are one of the few ladies who would not be honored by such attention," said Wickham. "I believe it speaks of your estimable character that you are not swayed by his impressive standing."
Elizabeth laughed, a memory of Mr. Darcy saying much the same thing on Oakham Mount after intruding on her notice. She pushed the thought aside, saying, "Oh, his standing is impressive, but I cannot abide rudeness in anybody, and he is quite liberal with his disdain for his company. I wonder that he condescended to dance with me at all?"
"Perhaps his taste is not so very bad after all," said Wickham, flashing her an attractive smile and squeezing her arm gently. "Even he cannot deny there is something to admire in you."
Elizabeth shivered. For some reason, a touch of apprehension rose in her at his bold attention. She was unsure why she was now so disinclined to the gentleman's flirting when she had so recently enjoyed it. Resolved to turn the conversation away from his veiled admiration, Elizabeth said, "I must admit that I have become quite curious about that gentleman. He, as you know, is disinclined to speak openly about himself and so leaves much to the imagination. How did it happen that he became guardian of his sister at such a young age? I understand there is an aunt in Kent who would have perhaps been better suited to the rearing of a young lady?"
"I imagine Miss Darcy would have been better served by such a situation, but the Darcys have ever been a family which does things to suit only themselves."
"The whole family is proud?" Elizabeth asked
"Yes, I would say that," replied Wickham. "Old Mr. Darcy was truly a good man and very likable, too, but I think most would describe him as proud. His wife, on the other hand, was shrewish, and her temper bordered at times on cruel. She was beautiful, but cold. I believe both her children have more of her character than their father's, and Georgiana's looks are certainly her mother's.
They walked on in silence for a few moments while Elizabeth pondered this information. This seemed exactly the reverse of her experience with Georgiana Darcy. Admittedly, she knew her but little, whereas Wickham had the benefit of years of close acquaintance. However, something about this conversation made her long to be home and out of this gentleman's company. For the first time since meeting George Wickham, Elizabeth felt uneasy.
"How long have you been in disfavor with that family?" Elizabeth asked, her heart suddenly hammering.
"It has been three years since Darcy refused me the living his father bequeathed me," he said easily.
Georgiana would have been thirteen. How could any man call a thirteen-year-old cold and cruel? Even if this falling out was a result of a misunderstanding, Elizabeth could not like how he had painted her friend. Elizabeth suddenly wanted to hear no more of Wickham's association with the Darcys. Instead, she steered the conversation to talk of the militia, and they chatted comfortably on such nothings until they arrived at the safety of Longbourn.
Elizabeth made her curtsey to the gentleman and, before Wickham could offer her more flattery, she slipped into the house and up the stairs to her room.
It was there that she discovered a letter lying on her bed, sealed with the now familiar Darcy crest. She had taken her meal outdoors this morning and had evidently missed the post. Jane must have taken the letter for her. Elizabeth tossed her new book aside, taking the note instead and perching herself on the wide windowsill to read.
Wednesday 10th, December
Elizabeth,
As we are beginning by dropping formalities, I hope that you will call me Georgiana from now on. It is my deepest wish that you might be one of my own 'very few close friends', for I feel as though I am corresponding with someone I have known my entire life.
This week has been a dull one. I am struggling just now to tell you something of London and, upon reflection, I fear I have nothing much to report. I spend much of my time with my companion or in my own pursuits. My days are full, but I fear it must make for boring reading material. How can one write of stitches, or relay poetry and make it something worth reading? I fear I have not that talent.
I am often complimented on my accomplishments by ladies of our acquaintance, but I shall let you in on a secret. On the whole, I do not much enjoy these pursuits. I have learned that proficiency is the surest way to not be obliged to practice so much, and so, that is what I have done. I would much rather sew canvas into sails and take myself away on a sloop bound for open waters than listen to Mrs. Annesley's instruction on needlework.
I was once on a boat when I was a girl of twelve. My brother and I went the year after my father died on a short pleasure tour of the lakes with my governess and my cousin Richard. We took a ferry across Windermere Lake, and I have rarely experienced anything more invigorating than looking out over the lake with the flapping sails at my back. Is there anything to equal such a thrill? My governess did not find any joy in the activity, however. The poor woman would not open her eyes the entire journey and could not be persuaded to release her hold on the mast. Indeed, the only words she was able to speak were appeals to the Almighty until we were safely docked. Richard spent much of the journey keeping her from tears, but my brother and I pretended that we were out to sea on a great adventure.
I believe Mrs. Annesley is not so faint of heart. I wonder if she would notice if I began to stitch all of my kerchiefs and samplers together? What an odd sight they would make strung out on the rigging. I am sure no sea-faring gentleman could make such a finely embroidered sail!
As for drawing, I love to have drawings to help me remember people and places that are dear to me, but the actual effort required to create a passable likeness makes me quite ill-tempered. It is my opinion that the time would be far better spent out exploring the scene one is trying to capture or conversing with the portrait's subject.
Although I do enjoy playing the pianoforte, I do not enjoy performing. Even when I know that others may find great enjoyment in the recital I feel as though I am not made for exhibition. Any feeling I may put into a piece feels as though it is affected purposefully for display. It is for this reason that I try only to play to my closest acquaintance.
Until very recently, I could not exert myself to play anything more lively than a dirge, and so stayed away from the instrument lest I compound my low spirits. In the last several days, however, I have begun to play, and I am reminded anew why it has always brought me such solace.
Now, I should like to speak of your happenings for I can think of nothing more to say on my own behalf.
Oh, poor Charlotte! I know that you have commanded me to always take your side, but I confess I cannot think her so foolish as you do. I do not know what it is to have to make such a decision, but recent events have tempered my judgment of other women. Someday, I may tell you explicitly about my experiences, but for now, I do have not the courage. I will only say that where I may once have thought meanly of others' decisions, I am now humbled to compassion. To marry with only the hope of affection is a risk, to be sure, but to marry when there is not even some amount of mutual respect must speak of desperation indeed.
I hope that against all odds, Mr. Collins turns out to be an amiable partner, or at the very least, he and Charlotte can be prosperous. As your dear friend seems to be a creature of unquestionable respectability, perhaps she can teach your cousin to improve his own temper and understanding. If she fails in this, however, then her own greater understanding can be used to rear children who are an improvement on the father.
Do not think of me as any less your champion because we think differently about this! I remember you once told me that you cannot stand to always be in agreement for the sake of a conversation. Let us pretend this is one of those times.
As for your sister, I am saddened to hear of her disappointment, but I cannot be surprised. Though it has not always been so, recently I have come to think as you do on the predicament of the gently bred female. How is a woman to judge the heart of a man? It is expected that a lady raised to gentility be pure of mind, heart, and body, yet we condemn her when she falls prey to the misleading intentions of men who care nothing for her as a thinking and feeling human being. Why are we surprised when a flower seeded and nurtured in the greenhouse is broken by the wind? What defense could such a lady have when her only knowledge of ill intent is the petty jealousy of friends or the villains found in stories?
Upon reflection, I believe I have put too much of my own disappointment into these opinions, but I fear I cannot think them wholly unjust.
I have come to the conclusion that I shall most likely never marry. Make no mistake – like you, I should like to fall in love – but I do not know how I can trust my life and my future to a person whom I should only know through benign parlor conversation. Though I will always mourn the Mother I have no memory of, the blessing of being raised by a kind and solicitous elder brother is that I have no parent to force me from the nest when I come to the age where I may find a nest of my own. Fitzwilliam cares only that I am happy, and he has said that I need never look further than Pemberley for that. My home will always be my own, should I choose it. Some may say that it speaks poorly of my temperament that I would take advantage of his goodness in such a way, but when I see how easily a woman who just barely opens her wings to fly can be dashed upon the rocks, I cannot regret this resolution. Despite what I thought as a girl, I cannot imagine a marriage and home of my own as an improvement to the life I already have.
I must beg your forgiveness for speaking so insensitively on this topic. It is unthinking of me to respond to your worries about having no control over your destiny by telling you how I do control mine. Perhaps you will not think me so proud should I tell you that I do not feel that I deserve my good fortune. Indeed, I should repent for how I felt when reading that you have no protector. It filled me with gratitude for mine.
I am ashamed of this.
I have now dwelt long on your situation and I wish it was within my power to bestow some of my good fortune on you – I am sure you would have always understood and had gratitude for your blessings.
Oh, my dear Elizabeth, would that I could do something for your current distress! I am afraid I do not know how to console another woman, as I have no mother and no sisters from which to learn. I do not feel at ease with my aunts and so I must only suppose how it is to be done. In a letter, I cannot offer you a squeezed hand or a warm embrace, but perhaps I can offer you something else. When I am troubled, my brother comes and sits with me. I know it does not sound soothing, but to me, there is more comfort in his presence than in a thousand warm embraces. He asks nothing of me but to accept his unspoken support. If I wish to speak, he will listen, but when there are things to be felt that are deeper than words, it is a relief to be with someone to feel them without the encumbrance of words. Please consider the time between reading this letter and receiving my next as my own silent solidarity. Though I am not with you in person, my thoughts are with you even as you read this.
I would like to express my deepest gratitude for your letters, Elizabeth. This correspondence has given me a window outside of my own bleak thoughts, and for that I am ever grateful. I have found something that I have needed in these pages – and it feels much like hope.
Until the next, think of me, thinking of you.
Georgiana Darcy.
Elizabeth smiled as she folded the letter and tucked it safely in the small wooden box she kept under her bed. There was something undeniably likable about Georgiana Darcy. She was more serious than her own sisters, but she was unfailingly kind, though she may not realize it. With a reread of Georgiana's words, her certainty grew that George Wickham had not been truthful about the girl, and she was equally certain that he was aware of this fact. Despite this, she did not know if his opinions had been resentment from ill-usage or an attempt to intentionally malign her character for reasons unknown.
Yet, what objection could a grown man have against a girl of thirteen? If there was a reason for his intentional misrepresentation, she was inclined to believe it was more the result of a festering animosity with her brother. Even if this were so, she could not help but think it a petty revenge. She could not like anyone who disparaged an innocent party in order to gain such a small point.
Georgiana had written again and again of the goodness and kindness of Mr. Darcy, and Elizabeth was coming to the conclusion that however poorly he had acquitted himself in Hertfordshire, he was at least capable of being generous and considerate. She had once envisioned Georgiana as a damsel locked in an elegant prison, guarded fastidiously by her elder brother. But to her own surprise, she was coming to see that the prison was one of circumstance, reserve, and self-doubt. Her brother was not her jailor, but her guardian.
There could be no denying now that Mr. Darcy was not wholly bad – however much she had been insulted and offended by him in the past. His ever-present care and concern for his sister was far beyond what the duty of his situation required. Indeed, such affection spoke of a relationship that was much like that of herself and Jane.
She wondered if this was how she had managed to earn that gentleman's good opinion? had he observed Elizabeth tending to Jane and drawn parallels between the relationship he had with his own sister? When considered from this perspective, Elizabeth began to notice unusual similarities between the pairs. Just as she was always the protector of Jane's gentle heart, so it seemed that Darcy was for his own sister. As Jane was for her, it seemed that Georgiana was Darcy's unfailing supporter, the exaggerator of all merits, and the tempering kindness to sharp opinions.
As Elizabeth's mind wandered into the mire of her thoughts, the memory of Mr. Darcy's breath warming the skin of her bare knuckles rose unbidden to her mind. Four beats of her heart came in rapid succession followed by a dropping sensation behind her navel. A prickling warmth began to spread through her body and she shivered slightly, rubbing the rising gooseflesh on her arms. She forced her thoughts instead to another part of the letter.
Although Georgiana was seemingly in agreement that Charlotte's choice was less than ideal, she would not condemn her for it. Elizabeth felt slightly humbled by Georgiana's reaction when she compared it to her own. She had written, much as Elizabeth herself had, about the impossible situation of genteel womanhood. Charlotte had sense, and she knew the risks of such an alliance. How was Elizabeth to know if her friend would be happier being ashamed of spinsterhood or in her own establishment and ashamed of her partner? Elizabeth was resolved to make no further outward judgments on the match.
The very next day after breakfast, Elizabeth was to be found again bundled in her warmest pelisse and gloves, toes crunching lightly as she walked carefully across the frost-encased puddles on the track that led to Charlotte's home. As she rounded the corner coming to the low hedge that bordered the dignified facade of Lucas Lodge, she felt a billowing sense of apprehension. For most of her life, the sight of Charlotte's home had brought her a small bubble of joy, and yet today, she could not even be sure that Charlotte would see her.
A moment later, she climbed the steps, and before she could even reach for the brass loop of the knocker, the door swung wide and she was bowed inside by one of the Lucases' smiling servants. As she waited in the hall, Elizabeth tugged at the fingers of her gloves to remove them, unsure if she would be shown in or given a polite excuse. The sound of slippered footsteps caught her attention, and Elizabeth looked up to see Charlotte entering the hall. Her face was unreadable but undeniably pale.
"I think I would prefer a walk this morning, Elizabeth," said Charlotte, avoiding her eyes.
Elizabeth could not like the reversion to her full Christian name instead of 'Lizzy', but wordlessly nodded her agreement and slowly put her gloves back on as she waited for Charlotte to don her own warm attire.
They silently began walking the lane from which Elizabeth had just come, both patently aware that if their meeting ended poorly, it would be far easier to turn and depart back to their separate homes from this route. After several tense minutes, it was Elizabeth who spoke. "Charlotte, I am ashamed of myself," she said in a rush of emotion. "Who am I to judge what your happiness should look like? It was selfish and unfeeling of me to speak to you as I did the other day." Elizabeth shook her head in dismay. "I supposed – on no greater proof than what I believed would make you happy – that your choice was in error without even considering what it is that you might want."
Charlotte remained silent, eyes downcast.
"I may have been wrong in my assumptions, but you must know that it was only the deepest love for you that caused me to speak so." Elizabeth studied her friend, before adding, "I wonder now if I have ever even asked your opinion on such things or merely spoken loudly of my own feelings and believed your silence to be your agreement."
After these words, Elizabeth bowed her head in contrition, only the sound of their footfalls breaking the tense quiet between them.
"Thank you, Lizzy," Charlotte said at long last.
"If it is not too late," Elizabeth said tentatively, "would you not tell me what it is that you hope for? Tell me what I should have already known."
Charlotte raised her eyes, a small grateful smile on her face as she clumsily wiped tears from her eyes. "I have wanted more than anything, to be a mother. . . and I thought that I would never. . . that I would not. . ." Her voice trailed off as Elizabeth's hand darted quickly across space between them to take Charlotte's own and squeeze it tightly. Charlotte took a steadying breath before finishing, "It is all I want."
Elizabeth's own eyes filled with tears and she threw her arms around her oldest and dearest friend, holding her tightly as all her disapprobation vanished in an instant.
As the long moments ticked by, each woman full of the gratitude and relief that comes from the healing of a breach, it was Charlotte who broke the silence. "I know what my betrothed is, Lizzy. Yet still, I have hope. My dreams have never been for a grand romance, but for a house of my own filled with the laughter of children. Mr. Collins is a man with a good situation whom, I believe, has no capacity for cruelty. He is not a scoundrel or a man who will gamble away his living. I have every reason to believe that he will be a loving father, and that is what is important to me. I hope I will be a good wife to him."
"He could search the world over and find none better," Elizabeth cried, squeezing her friend's shoulders affectionately.
"I do not regret my decision," Charlotte said, searching Elizabeth's face with an earnest expression. "My only regret was that I might lose you because of it."
"That will never happen," Elizabeth laughed. "Your Mr. Collins must accustom himself to how obscenely I shall spoil your children. Indeed, I shall make such a fuss as to make him quite uncomfortable."
Charlotte beamed as she turned back to the track. "There is one favor I would ask of you, if you are willing."
"Anything," said Elizabeth.
"Will you come visit me in Kent?" she asked, tentatively, "I know being in Mr. Collins' company may be awkward, but I must admit that I am now a little frightened of leaving my home."
"I will come as soon as you are ready for me. I have heard much of your betrothed's patroness, and I believe I should like to see for myself if she is the grand paragon of wisdom and elegance she is purported to be," Elizabeth said with an impish smile, bumping her shoulder lightly into Charlotte's.
"I should like to know that for myself," said Charlotte, with a half smile. "I hope that I will be up to her Ladyship's elevated expectations."
"If you are not, then I should be obliged to write to Mr. Darcy directly to tell him that his aunt is touched in the head."
Charlotte smiled, then frowned, stopping and turning to Elizabeth, "How is Mrs. Bennet faring? Is she very disappointed?"
Elizabeth threw back her head, a peal of laughter escaping her, "Oh Charlotte, I think you had better not call at Longbourn for a while. I cannot say if it is you or I that my mother is more upset with at present. If only I could make my way to Kent disguised as one of your coachmen, I very likely would."
"I wonder that she is not upset with Mr. Collins?" said Charlotte with a smile.
"If my mother is correct, men have little to do with making matches. In her opinion, they are like beasts awaiting a skilled huntress – If a man is not got, it is the fault of a woman who lacks the skill to make the capture, and not because he is not inclined to the union."
Charlotte tittered at Elizabeth's assessment, and the ease of familiarity and good humor made the rest of the journey pass quickly and all too soon they reached the turning of the road that marked the halfway point between Lucas Lodge and Longbourn. Charlotte gave Elizabeth a final, affectionate embrace before making a parting request, "I believe my father and sister will come to me at Easter. I hope you will join them? Indeed you would be as welcome to me as either of them."
"You may depend upon it, my friend," Elizabeth assured her with a smile.
Then, she turned her steps towards home, heart lighter than it had been in weeks.
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