"You spend too much of your time writing letters, Lizzy. It is unnatural," said Mrs. Bennet, scowling at the note in Elizabeth's hand. "Who has written to you now?"
Elizabeth exchanged a look with her father across the breakfast table as he subtly raised a brow at his second daughter.
"It is from Charlotte Lucas, Mama," lied Elizabeth easily. It was tacitly agreed upon by herself and her father that the knowledge of her correspondence should be kept discreet – Mrs. Bennet could do only harm with such information.
"You saw her only yesterday," said Mrs. Bennet with no small measure of maternal petulance. "What is the point of writing to someone that you see nearly every day?"
Elizabeth made no reply as her mother continued her irritable disdain, "I suppose she asks for details about the estate now that she will become its mistress? She has used us very ill, and I should turn her away if she comes in any case. I will not sit by while she takes an inventory of the silver over dinner! I would never have suspected such an ordinary woman capable of such avarice. It is quite vexing!"
"Every woman needs a distinction of some sort, my dear," said Mr. Bennet over his paper. "If it is as you say that she is so plain, then she must be petty and cruel – though I must confess that I like her quite as well as ever I did."
"You may make light of this, Mr. Bennet, but I must have concern for our girls."
"I cannot argue with your emotions, but you must take some solace in mine, for I am quite sanguine. I intend to live long enough to burden my children with an infirm body and the senility of my mind. If none of them has managed a good match by then, I am sure Charlotte could be cajoled to hire them in the kitchens or be governess to her children. In either case, they shall not live bereft of comfort, for Longbourn could yet be their home."
Mrs. Bennet let out a cry of outrage, glaring indignantly at her husband, whose eyes had drifted back to his paper. Turning her shoulders from him with a huff and defiant lift of her chin, she began stirring her tea with scornful vigor.
The Gardiners, whose holiday visit was coming to a close, bore this scene with equanimity, continuing to make pleasant conversation with Mary and Kitty, who sat nearest them as if such scenes were commonplace – which, of course, they were at Longbourn.
Sensing an opportunity to escape with no further inquiry, Elizabeth set her napkin aside and rose, flashing Jane and her Aunt Gardiner a fleeting smile as she quietly excused herself from the table, carefully covering the direction on her letter with her hand. Mrs. Bennet paid no heed to her daughter's flight while she continued to make her silent statement of displeasure.
As Elizabeth made her way into the small sitting room at the back of the house, she felt her tension recede by degrees the further she was from her family. Her mother, though still upset at her for 'squandering certain happiness and prosperity', had lost some of her coldness of late – though talk of Charlotte was certain to reawaken her outrage.
This room was the smaller and less fashionable of the sitting rooms at Longbourn, and for this reason, it was a favorite of Elizabeth's. The window overlooked a sloping hill that was met at the bottom by a little wilderness with a wild tangle of brambles at its edge. Her mother thought it an ill prospect because its undisturbed growth appeared tasteless and unkempt to her eye. But Elizabeth preferred the virgin, undisturbed nature to the clean, ordered lawn that was overlooked by the other sitting room.
With no small amount of anticipation, Elizabeth settled herself, with her slippers resting on the rather threadbare sofa, reclining into the corner to enjoy the promisingly thick letter. Though the sky was gloomy and the sun hidden behind a textureless gray cast, the light filtering through the window was bright enough to make reading easy. Adjusting her shawl, she turned the paper over to break the now familiar Darcy seal.
As she unfolded the note, a smaller piece of paper fell into her lap. She picked it up to examine it curiously. The outer inscription, 'Miss Bennet', was written in a sure and attractive hand that she vaguely recognized. Elizabeth scanned this second missive, and she inhaled sharply as her eye was caught by the signature of the sender. Mr. Darcy.
She was suddenly alert as, with a hasty glance at the door, she began to read.
'I am sorry if the impropriety of this note offends you.'
Elizabeth, though perplexed, did not feel offended – or rather, she was not yet offended. Mr. Darcy had a talent for slighting others, a skill made all the more impressive by his apparent lack of concern about it.
'I can go no longer without thanking you for your kindness to my sister.'
Elizabeth raised her eyebrows in surprise even as she curled her body around the message in her hands. Her curiosity was now utterly consuming.
'Though she is not yet fully recovered, I believe your friendship has been the means to turn the tide of her sorrow, and for that, I will ever be in your debt.'
She let her eyes linger on this particular passage, reading it three times over while tracing her lower lip in distraction.
'I have not asked my sister's permission to include this missive, but I will not conceal its existence if you would rather she know. You have my assurance that I will speak nothing of it so you may decide a course that suits you best.'
Since writing to his sister, Elizabeth had found much of her animosity towards him fading to annoyance. Indeed, she could no longer say she truly disliked him – her overriding sentiment was that of unsatiated curiosity. Her interest was made all the more intense by his sudden removal from her sphere. Had he been at Netherfield still, she did not suppose she would think of him half so much. She thought of him often, and if she were honest, she probably thought of him more often than she ought.
'I believe I have only witnessed one other person wield such a clever and well-aimed remark – and I am grateful this time that I am not the target.'
She could not exactly say why, but this portion made her truly feel the intimacy of the message. It was a shared recollection, pieces of the past reanimated by emotions old and new. The corner of her lip twitched up in amusement at her own discomfort. Perhaps it was the heat in her cheeks that made the words feel improper, for the lines were nothing in themselves.
Her eyes settled on his adieu,
'I understand the breach of propriety I am committing but found my desire to express my gratitude to you has overwhelmed any scruples I might have about decorum.
Your humble servant,
F. Darcy'
She let her fingers glide over his signature, allowing the curious mix of emotions to compete for precedence. Elizabeth found an earnestness in his words, though still laced with the now familiar arrogance. She was annoyed at the officiousness of his writing without Georgiana's knowledge even while she recognized the feelings of gratitude and fulfillment from his praise.
Contemplation of Georgiana's brother was like a rut that, if she were careless, would drag her in and captivate her thoughts to the exclusion of all others. Perhaps this habitual consideration she afforded him was the reason why time and distance had not dimmed her she did not miss him, she missed the interest he had added to her life, even as a figure of antagonism. Months later, his face and address were as vivid in her mind's eye as if it were still the morning after the Netherfield ball.
Despite her closeness to Georgiana, she thought of Mr. Darcy at least as often as she thought of his sister, and yet, maddeningly, she could make neither heads nor tails of him. There was a current of something underlying the connection that she could sense, like a cool draft that snuck through a window, and however hard she might search, she came no closer to identifying its source.
Elizabeth had come to understand through her connection with Georgiana that the Darcys were a family whose character was defined as much by their elevated station as their apparent taciturnity. Even Georgiana, by all accounts – including her own – was reserved by nature. But Elizabeth was learning that this trait did not equate to having nothing to say. In fact, it was more likely to mean the opposite. It seemed to Elizabeth that this reserve was more a matter of having no one with whom it was comfortable to speak than an actual absence of words.
Though she admittedly did not understand him as well as she had once supposed, she was certain Mr. Darcy was not prone to effusions. The depth of feeling required to inspire him to send such a wholly improper and altogether imprudent communication must have been great indeed. She would have thought gratitude against his nature, yet in her hands lay the tangible proof of her misjudgment. An indebtedness so strongly felt it had 'overwhelmed any scruples I might have about decorum.'
Propriety dictated that he should send his regard through Georgiana, yet for some reason, the thought of that made her uncomfortable. Though Elizabeth suspected there was nothing in this letter that would wound Georgiana, there now seemed to exist a tenuous alliance between herself and Mr. Darcy, bound by their mutual regard for Georgiana. They had had little occasion to agree on anything before now, but this private accord was in itself an agreement between them, unspoken though it may be.
"Elizabeth?" Aunt Gardiner's voice in the hall made Elizabeth sit upright with a start, quickly tucking Mr. Darcy's message back inside Georgiana's.
"Ah, Lizzy," said her Aunt with relief. "Your Uncle has now decided that we will be late to depart if we do not make haste. Would you be a dear and help Jane finish her packing? I am afraid we were all laboring under the impression that we were not to leave for several more hours." Mrs. Gardiner raised her eyes heavenward, "It is one way in which your mother and her brother are alike. Anticipation of an activity is intolerable; it is better in their minds to be doing."
Elizabeth rolled her eyes and gave a knowing smile, "I will go to Jane."
"You are a good girl," said Mrs. Gardiner. "I shall go help the children and encourage your uncle to greater fortitude."
When Elizabeth entered their room, she found Jane holding a pair of bonnets, examining them with a pinched expression. When the door closed behind Elizabeth, Jane's eyes snapped up, and she turned, dropping her hands in a flutter of ribbons.
"Did our Aunt send you?" asked Jane.
"I should have come in any event," said Elizabeth. "You are to leave me soon, and I must take advantage of all the time left."
With a sigh, Jane tossed the bonnets onto the bed, "Lizzy, I begin to regret leaving."
"Well, you can hardly change your mind now," she said, gesturing to the open trunk. "What has happened?"
"I have just been considering – I know our Mother expects me to resume my friendship with the Bingleys, but I am so very apprehensive about seeing them again." Jane's face folded into a miserable grimace, adding, "What if Mr. Bingley left because he does not want to be in my company? Oh what presumption my calling would be if that were the case?"
"Oh hush!" Elizabeth exclaimed as she came close to rest a hand on Jane's cheek. "You must have courage, sister. If any of the Bingleys have come to disregard you in the short time we have been apart, it marks a failing in their characters rather than some inadequacy in yours."
Jane said nothing, brow furrowed in concern.
"If they are cruel to you, write to me at once, and I shall fly to London in an instant."
"I do not see how your coming to London would help if such is the case. What would you intend to do?"
"Oh, nothing too wicked," said Elizabeth with a sly grin. "I am sure I will think of something. Perhaps I could steal into their house at night and exchange all the sugar for salt? If Mr. Or Miss Bingley makes you feel like an imposition, I shall ruin every cake and cup of tea for the next fortnight."
Jane let out an involuntary laugh, "How cruel!"
"I should love to see Miss Bingley's face when she realizes she has been serving briny tea to her guests," Elizabeth chuckled. "Poor Mr. Darcy. I do not know which would be worse, a tongue burning with salt, or Miss Bingley's beseeching apology."
"You are incorrigible, Lizzy!"
"For every rose, there must be a thorn, sister. I am the barb to your bloom – no, no, do not argue. You well know how exasperating I can be."
"I would never agree to such a falsehood!" Jane said, shaking her head. Then, with a sharp exhale her face crumpled once more. "How shall I manage without you? It is hard enough when I am in good spirits, but now? Who in London can tease me out of my sadness?"
Abruptly, Jane threw her arms around her sister, hugging her tightly.
"Oh, I expect I shall write to you often enough," Elizabeth said into her sister's hair. "You need have no fear that I shall be inconstant or that I should only now endeavor to be serious. It is not so easy to throw off a habit as long established as mine."
Elizabeth leaned back to look at her sister, flashing her a bright smile. "Let us not waste our concern on the future. It has the disobliging habit of doing just as it wants anyway."
"Now," Elizabeth said, turning crisply on her heel to throw open her own wardrobe. She began rummaging inside in a flurry of lace, muslin, and ribbons, "you must take my blue bonnet — and before you refuse me, know that I am not too vain to admit you look far better in it. I daresay you will have more need of it in London than I will in Hertfordshire."
They spent a happy half hour talking and laughing as they finished what Jane had not already completed. Once the lid was secured, Jane pulled the bell for her trunk to be taken down and then allowed Elizabeth to help her dress in her warmest spencer and cloak.
"Now Jane," said Elizabeth sternly, brushing imaginary dust from her shoulders with loving brusqueness, "you must choose to enjoy yourself in London. I cannot abide thinking of you pining at the window of our uncle's house. If you cannot at least exert yourself to see a play or shop with our Aunt, I am sure you could purchase a commission in the little wooden militia commanded by our nephew."
Jane gave her a tearful smile, "I fear I am not meant for soldiering."
"Then you had best enjoy being a gentlewoman in London, or soldiering may yet be your fate."
With no further discussion of the Bingleys, Elizabeth and Jane made their way downstairs to join the clamor in the front hall as the noise and chatter of well wishes served to make sweet the sorrow of parting.
Mrs. Gardiner caught Elizabeth's hand, squeezing it lightly. "It is always such a joy to see you, my dear, and I regret every one of our partings. Will you come to us in the summer?" she asked with another squeeze of the hand. "You must convince your father to lend you to us for some weeks. I have told your uncle that I should like to take a tour while I am, for once, not with child! It would please me greatly if you were to accompany us."
"I am at your disposal, Aunt," Elizabeth said with real enthusiasm.
"Good," She said, smiling warmly as she moved away to usher her children towards the door and the carriage waiting beyond.
Elizabeth adjusted her shawl to better cover the bare skin at the back of her neck as she stood watching the Gardiners' carriage disappear behind the turning of the lane. Her desire to see the Gardiners off had persisted through the damp cold that had sent the rest of her family back to Longbourn's sheltering warmth. With a small, dejected sigh, Elizabeth turned to face a house far less welcoming than it had been only an hour before.
As she approached the drawing room, she overheard Kitty's fractious giggling as Lydia exclaimed,
"I wonder if Mr. Bingley will invite any of his friends to the wedding breakfast? I am determined to marry an officer, but one of Bingley's friends would do quite well for Lizzy or Mary."
"What of me, sister?" cried Kitty, her laughter dying indignantly.
"Well, you shall marry an officer if I do, for you must come with me!'
"I daresay it is far too soon to speak of Jane's wedding," said Mrs. Bennet with the appearance of good sense that was discredited in the next breath, "but you should not pledge your heart to an officer and miss the opportunity to marry one of Mr. Bingley's rich friends."
Lydia gave an unladylike shout of laughter, "So long as it is not that horrible Mr. Darcy! He is quite the most dreadful man I have ever met. If I had half so much money as he, I would never be disagreeable. I should take all of my family to the seaside every summer and buy new gowns for all of my sisters."
"Oh you dear girl!" crooned Mrs. Bennet. "You have such a generous heart!"
"If I were wealthy, I should bring my sisters to London to host them for the season!" said Kitty, whose comment was lost to her listeners.
"It is so unfortunate that a bad-tempered man like Mr. Darcy should be so rich while poor Mr. Wickham is to live on such meager means that he cannot even marry where he would like," said Lydia.
"Let Mr. Darcy be an example for you girls," said her Mother sagely. "There are things more important than money. Although I daresay, you must have some."
Elizabeth bit her lip to hold back her groan. Her mother was an endless source of vexation to her. She dared not enter the drawing room to take part in a conversation where her opinion would only cause discord. It was in these moments that she felt Jane's absence. She remembered the letters she had received only this morning and decided that she might escape Longbourn and her absent sister for a time. Elizabeth returned to the small sitting room. Settling herself once more on the shabby sofa, intent on hearing what Georgiana Darcy had to say.
Monday, 5th January
Dearest Elizabeth,
Though your high opinion of me is gratifying, I am sure you needed only a reason to forgive your dear Charlotte. You may use my words as an excuse if you like, but I think you must have desired to make amends. It is not so easy to give up someone you love if you truly love them. It is not in the nature of love.
I hope the season found you well this year. I am sorry for the delay in writing as I was quite occupied with our own festivities. We spent some days with our Fitzwilliam relations at Matlock house and did not return home until Saturday. I am very glad to be home again, though I would still prefer to be at Pemberley. As much as I enjoy family, being with them for so many days is tiresome. My Uncle, my Aunt, and my cousins are very dear to me, but I must admit that my Aunt Matlock is rather too forthright for my liking.
She has no daughters of her own, and so she spends much of our time together earnestly evaluating my person, dress, manners, and education. She means well by it, though I cannot enjoy such singular attention. I suspect she believes my father did me a great disservice by not entrusting me with my Uncle after his death. I am convinced that she would have liked to raise me herself. It is salt in her wound that her son, and the second son at that, was chosen as co-guardian before her. Though she loves my brother, she believes I would have turned out far better had she had more of a hand in my rearing and education. She may be right about this. Though, I do not think my childhood would have been so happy and loving under her strict guidance.
You will understand when I tell you she does not believe that ladies should be out of doors at all except perhaps to gather bouquets for table. Her concern is for the complexion, you see. I am sure your love of walking would offend her, for she does not think well-bred women should walk or ride for pleasure. If you expressed any enthusiasm for those activities, I am sure it would incite a critical examination of the freckles on your nose. She would very likely catalog them and keep record of their shape and their number so as to demonstrate how quickly they accumulate on someone who insists on spending so much time out of doors. Had she any daughters, I am sure she would have had bonnets whose brims were so long as to make them appear as though they had grown beaks!
Lady Matlock is an undeniably good woman despite this – but I am grateful that my brother would not be persuaded on this matter, young as he was at the time of my father's death.
Lord Matlock, though quiet, is a very witty man and always gives the impression that whatever is said to him, no matter how trivial, is of the utmost importance. I like him very much. I have few memories of my mother, but there is something in him that I believe is very like her. My brother says that his resemblance to our mother is not in his appearance but in his nature. Fitzwilliam has told me he can see much of me in our uncle. I am pleased by this. Richard is like his father, only more outspoken, whereas Edward is more like his mother but with more reserve.
You mentioned a visit to Kent, and oh, Elizabeth – you are quite correct to suppose that there is much to say about my other Aunt, Lady Catherine De Bourgh. If Aunt Matlock is stern, Aunt De Bourgh is domineering and unpleasant. She dislikes harmony as it implies some equality, if only in sentiment. Unlike you, who may be willing to disagree to add interest or liveliness to discourse, she would prefer to disagree for the sole purpose of ensuring her own voice is the loudest and most definitive in any conversation. Any game in which she is not the decisive victor must be reworked so that it may be so. In her mind, any other outcome would be improper.
For this reason, she prefers to surround herself with her social inferiors. I wonder who she might have become had she not the prefix of 'Lady' to give her the gravitas to be willful and obstinate. She rarely travels out of Kent. Her excuse is that my cousin Anne is of an unfortunate and sickly constitution and cannot travel much. Despite this, she might do so more often if she could be assured that she would not accidentally find herself in the presence of her social betters. She has not the aptitude or inclination for humility and so avoids it.
Fitzwilliam tolerates her far better than I, though he has long been given the duty of aiding her with the matters of estate not to be entrusted to her steward. Though such a responsibility might normally fall to her brother, the Earl says he has not the patience for his sister and must, therefore, delegate such tasks to his favorite nephew. Fitzwilliam says Uncle Matlock only calls him favorite so long as he continues to spare him from dealings with Lady Catherine.
I am now quite desperate to meet you in person and your going to Kent – so near my aunt – seems like the perfect opportunity for such a meeting. And oh, how you must now despise my cowardice! I cannot go to Kent. It is not that I am unwelcome. Indeed, my Aunt requests my presence in nearly every letter. Even were I to go, Lady Catherine would doubtless discourage me from socializing with you as she would, of course, expect that she have sole command of my attention at every hour of the day. My aunt is already inclined to think of me as a woman of many deficiencies, which, naturally, she alone has the ability to correct. Were I to come into Kent and then show a preference for your society, you would certainly become an object of dislike to her. If I were braver, I might be able to weather the storm as Fitzwilliam does, but alas, I have no such courage. I shall of course, write to you – for I am curious to hear what you shall make of her.
Be assured that your friend Charlotte will find favor with my Aunt without much trouble. A respectable woman married to her protégé is already of such a station that she must naturally approve. Still, we must be dutiful in our prayers for your Charlotte's endurance.
I shall say no more of Lady Catherine just now. It is a topic that could fill this entire letter with ease if I do not take the trouble to check myself.
My brother has been quite out of sorts lately, and I cannot account for it. Admittedly, he carries much responsibility, but I have rarely seen him so often shut away in his study. I suspect that his withdrawal is the result of his listlessness and perhaps a desire for solitude rather than any obligation to his duties.
As my spirits have risen, his have sunk.
I suspect Fitzwilliam grows lonely. Perhaps he will soon realize this and begin searching in earnest for a wife. Is it very awful for me to say that I dread the idea of him marrying? I am ashamed of my selfishness.
My only defense of such a sentiment is that I am not so naive as to believe it would not greatly alter my own situation. I would not regret giving way to another woman. Indeed, I care nothing for station in my household. I am certain his choice would be made primarily to further Pemberley's future prosperity. His thoughts are ever fixed on the legacy he might leave. In marriage he would hope to further safeguard the livelihoods of the tenants against poor yields and fickle markets and protect Pemberley against the decay that is the fate of so many great houses. Of himself, I believe he thinks not at all.
As we have so recently discussed, any marriage formed with less regard for person and more for situation comes with risks of a more domestic sort. What if his wife disliked me? What if she insisted I marry? Leave my home? I should not be so selfish as to wish loneliness on my brother for my own sake, but it is an event that will greatly alter my life.
I am grateful that Fitzwilliam has not chosen to court Caroline Bingley, for I believe her dowry is impressive and the match would be quite practical. I fear that although she has always openly expressed her high opinion of me, were she to become my sister, she would delight in attending to my improvement – in spite of her current insistence that I am the model of feminine accomplishment.
As you can see, there are many women eager to improve me. I fear you are the only woman who likes me just as I am.
I return to writing this letter after having just received a call from the Bingleys this morning. They have not called in several weeks, which is unusual as at other times when we have all been in London they have called nearly every day. This time, Mr. and Mrs. Hurst did not join Mr. and Miss Bingley. I was shocked when I saw Mr. Bingley. He looks ill indeed. Miss Bingley insists that he is well, but Mr. Bingley, who is rarely shy of a conversation, spoke hardly at all, and if he did smile, it had nothing of its usual openness. I could not account for this sudden change in him until I returned here to finish this letter.
I remembered what you said of your sister Jane and must now venture to ask you a question that will seem quite forward, especially if I have drawn the wrong conclusions. If that be the case, I beg your forgiveness for what is certainly a highly improper question.
Was Mr. Bingley the gentleman to whom your sister had grown so attached?
If it is so, I must tell you that it is clear that he also suffers without her. If Jane feels the loss so acutely, I must assume it is as you supposed, and there was (and perhaps still is) a mutual attachment between them. You must write at once to confirm my suspicions or correct my misapprehensions, whichever is the case.
As I now consider the circumstances, I recall overhearing Fitzwilliam speaking with my cousin Richard a few weeks ago about Bingley. He said he had encouraged him to distance himself from a lady who was unsuitable. At the time I did not think anything extraordinary about this. I have heard Fitzwilliam lament often about Mr. Bingley's tendency towards infatuation. Yet, I know not why my brother would think your sister unsuitable for his friend. I am sure there is a reasonable explanation for it. Or perhaps a misunderstanding.
Of course, I know none of the particulars, but after seeing Mr. Bingley's deplorable state today – and hearing that from you that Jane suffers similarly – I must conclude that the separation distresses them both. Whatever my brother's reasons might be for offering such advice to Mr. Bingley, I am certain that his sister openly opposes the match. I do not think Miss Bingley has ever considered what her brother might wish without considering with more weight what she might want instead.
I believe that she wishes her brother to court me. She has regularly made comments to this effect, though neither Mr. Bingley or myself has felt ought but embarrassment at her suggestions. The relationship between Mr. Bingley and myself tends more towards a familial bond than anything else. I cannot think of him in that way, and I am certain he feels the same.
Truly, I do not mean to pry in your sister's affairs, but I could not stay silent when speaking of this might relieve some of the pain that I saw here today.
I had intended to write far more than this, but if I continue, I will miss today's post.
I am awaiting your direction–-
Georgiana Darcy
Elizabeth tossed the letter aside in outrage. It was exactly as she had supposed. Caroline Bingley had of course, done everything in her power to remove her brother from Jane and Hertfordshire, but Mr. Darcy had supported it. Doubtless, her attempt would have been less effective without his assistance.
The presumptuousness arrogance of that gentleman was astonishing. It was one thing to dictate the affairs of a younger sister, but to do so for another gentleman was an untenable transgression. Mr. Bingley's own diffidence was concerning, but more concerning was his friend's willingness to take advantage of it. As much as she had now come to distrust Mr. Wickham's tale of woe, Mr. Darcy had again proved himself capable of ungentlemanly behavior towards others. She did not believe Mr. Wickham a blameless victim anymore, but she was also certain Mr. Darcy was not wholly innocent.
Georgiana, who loved her brother for his goodness to her, was blind to his faults towards another. She could not imagine a world where her good and loving brother would harm his friend. Though Georgiana believed it a mistake or a misunderstanding, even she could not deny the pain his interference had wrought, else she would not have mentioned it at all.
Just as had always happened where Mr. Darcy was concerned, the moment she felt on the precipice of understanding his character, a new perspective would reveal itself and consequently shatter her tenuous understanding. He vexed her, flattered her, insulted her, pleased her, and then vexed her all over again. She could make no sense of him, and she wished fervently that her heart did not feel the need to. She had never met a person who had so defied her perception at every turn.
Elizabeth was grateful for Georgiana. She had come to value and appreciate her kind heart and quiet convictions. She was wise and understanding and, unlike Elizabeth, did not leap readily to conclusions about others. When she had first begun writing to Georgiana, a small part of her had felt that subtle satisfaction that comes from helping someone in need. She no longer felt any superiority for her own good deed. She had assumed at the beginning that she would help Georgiana – the improvement in her own person and behavior was humbling and also gratifying.
She must write, and as soon as possible. Though Elizabeth thought some fresh air might calm her enough to prevent her from including a letter of response to her brother with such wrath as only a protective sister is capable of.
309, 12,503, 574, 139, 179