Page 35 of Lizzie’s Spirit

From: Sydney, New South Wales

Dearest Mama—

You’ll not know whether to laugh or to cry when you discover what I’ve done.

I’m discombobulated myself. That having fled so repulsive a marriage in England, I’m to marry in New South Wales!

If you can guess with whom, I shall think you psychical.

But do not fear, I’ve not been compromised and am most willing.

Papa’s consent is not required, though I do believe he would approve of my choice.

Apart from Papa, there’s only one man I respect and admire, though at first I thought him very proud and he disliked me.

Yes, you may have guessed it! I’m to wed Mr. Darcy!

He does not yet know I will marry him as we’ve agreed but a courtship—he is to woo me first. But such wooing!

We walk out together, attend dinners and soirees, and even some balls aboard the vessels anchored in the cove.

He’s all gentlemanly, so proper, so reserved.

But he’s so light on his feet when dancing, and, being so handsome, all of the ladies wish to be his partner. Am I not fortunate!

The truth of it is Mr. Darcy is required to marry.

Mr. Ellis Bent, under whose protection I journeyed to Sydney, is poorly and is to resign his position as judge-advocate.

He and his wife, Eliza, will return in May, accompanying Commodore Bligh on the Hindostan .

As deputy, Mr. Darcy must step up, but both he and Governor Macquarie agree he should marry: a single gentleman could be compromised by a woman of loose morals should she appear in his court.

I do not love him, though I’ve a certain affection for him; he makes me feel safe.

Perchance I’m too young to marry; that I do so only to escape compromise by men who I cannot respect, who have the intellect of a potoroo (a small, endearing kangaroo).

But ‘tis done—though nervous of my future, nervous of my ability to be a good wife such as you are to dear Papa—I am committed. I’ve taken a new motto: Audaces fortuna juvat— fortune favours the bold .

Dear Mama, he’s the nephew of an earl—who’d have thought that I, lowly Lizzie Bennet of Meryton, could reach so high!

But, maybe, as Lizzie Darcy of Sydney, I shall rise in consequence.

We’ve agreed, when we marry, that I shall continue my work with the orphanage, the school, and even as midwife.

With respect to the last, we almost had an argument, but in the end he could see the sense of it: that not one of my mothers has succumbed to puerperal fever, whereas many have under the care of Mrs. Sims. I do wish she would wash her hands.

She moves from caring for patients in the hospital—for she’s also employed as a nurse—to examining per vaginam the women.

I believe she communicates poison to them.

Do I argue with Mr. Darcy? Yes, but he’s such a sweet man; we do not so much argue as debate.

When our disagreement is resolved, all is forgiven; and, once we’re married, we’ll kiss to make good, as I’ve seen how you and Papa clandestinely resolve your differences.

You’ve not told me where Papa made his addresses to you—perchance on Oakham Mount, watching the sunrise; such would be so romantic.

There’s a great beach near Sydney called Boondi, where mighty waves from the Pacific Ocean roll onto the sandy seaboard night and day.

The vista is breathtaking; it’s my most favourite place in the world.

What are rocks and mountains to a raging surf, a primeval torrent of waters, foam and froth, spilling ashore!

‘Twas there, I confess, that Mr. Darcy made his address: that I was the handsomest woman of his acquaintance; that he wished for my happiness; that I should do him the honour of being his wife.

Me! freckle-faced Lizzie (as the boys of Meryton called me), too tall, too many asymmetries of figure and form; but, I suppose, he must see me as womanly enough.

I do believe, if he continues to flatter me so, I might begin to love him.

We will marry once Commodore Bligh and his daughter, Mrs. Putland, leave the colony for England.

She’s a spiteful creature and has taken a great dislike of me, though I’ve done her no ill.

She is conceited and affected to a greater degree than any woman I have ever seen before.

Even the governor and his wife, Mrs. Elizabeth Macquarie, will be glad to see them go.

You may wonder why we delay our wedding—for myself, I would wed tomorrow!

But she’s all pride, and I fear were she to go lower to me with my being married to Mr. Darcy, she would make such scenes and disputations as to make our life miserable.

Thus I delay my happiness to gratify her ego.

I regret, dearest Mama, you will be unable to plan the wedding breakfast, to lay out our best plates and dishes, laden with mince pies, plum pudding, fresh-baked bread rolls, coddled eggs, potted eel, roasted turnips, raspberry tarts…

Can you tell I miss all these? Almost as much as I miss my dear family.

The girls of the orphanage are planning a great feast—they do not wish me to know it, so I pretend ignorance.

I’ve made a budget and shall make the day official by inviting the Patroness, Mrs. Macquarie, and the other trustees to inspect the girls’ needlework, spinning, weaving, and the like, and to join us in the wedding celebration.

What a merry time we’ll have. They are also sewing a gown, but they will not let me see it.

I do hope the colour suits; they must let Mr. Darcy know so his waistcoat is of the same colour or at least does not clash with it.

See, even I’m frivolous when thinking of wedding clothes.

There is another matter I wish to relate, but you may not wish Mary to read the following.

Before a wedding, ‘tis generally understood the mother of a young bride will instruct her as to her duty to her husband.

Do not be shocked by my indelicacy. When ministering to enceinte women, be they soldier wives, settlers, servants, emancipists, convicts, or prostitutes (yes, prostitutes—are they not women who, by force of circumstances, sell their virtue to men.

Is this different from a woman who is sold to her husband because of her fortune or dowry?

Or casually disposed of by a court settlement imposed by men?), such women confide in me.

Many are full shy and cannot talk about the act itself.

Most times the man satisfies his urges with no care for his wife.

She learns to loathe the act, to resent it, and to manufacture all manner of excuses as to why her body is not open to him.

More than likely, he then visits a doxy, catches the venereal, and subsequently infects her.

Some others, perhaps the bawdy, but also many respectable women (who—I will not say), will relate how they pleasure their man and how they take pleasure themselves.

Theirs is an honesty that, as midwife, I’ve learned to respect.

Then I may talk freely to them about having sexual congress while pregnant, whether the act can cause a miscarriage, and whether there are sexual positions that are dangerous for the child.

Such I’ve learned over the nine months of my counselling them.

Dear Mama, my discourse is designed not to upset you but to comfort you that I’m no longer the innocent child you rescued from the odious Mr. C.

I’ve become too serious, dear Mama, when all I wished to impart was news of my marriage to Mr. Darcy.

We shall be happy together. He has great affection for me.

When he began to have such feelings, I know not.

I’m no beauty, so he would have withstood that.

I’m impertinent, of misplaced wit, of strong, sometimes unseemly, emotion—how does one understand the mind of such a man?

I shall not attempt it. He speaks Latin, French, and Italian, and also Greek, of which I know little—perhaps I can instruct him in Spanish and Dutch in exchange for his reading Homer to me in the original.

Can you imagine us, sitting before a warm fire of an evening, discussing Greek philosophy—reading Plato, Aristotle, and Diogenes—and then, singing duets from Italian opera—Zerlina and Don Giovanni, Rosina and Figaro?

You may laugh, Mama, but when we return, I think you shall like my husband very well indeed. And see how content I am.

Sgt. Monogan tells me the merchant ship Cato is to leave on the morning tide. I shall seal this letter and then write to Jane and Mary, and also Aunt Gardiner to tell them of my news.

Your loving daughter—Elizabeth.

** *

Elizabeth discovered she possessed a sort of vanity, a need to appear to Mr. Darcy as an elegant woman of fashion; perhaps she did indeed envy Mrs. Putland her transparent gowns.

She gratified this desire by purchasing some white jaconet muslin; then, setting the task for those girls who had skill as seamstresses, she had them make up a morning dress in the style of a riding habit she copied from La Belle Assemblée , trimmed around the bottom with lace.

The dress was complemented by a small round straw hat, tied under the chin by a soft white ribbon, and ornamented in front by a bunch of cornflowers.

She felt so pretty, so alive to the compliment of Mr. Darcy—Doctor of Laws, nephew of an earl—walking out with her.

While strolling past the Battery at Dawes Point, Elizabeth and Darcy were approached by a convict sitting with an easel, pencils, and colours. “Excuse my forwardness, sir, but could you stand with your wife so I may include your figures in my drawing?”

Darcy looked to Elizabeth, who nodded, and they turned to gaze upon the town whilst the artist drew their image upon his page. Once he finished his sketches, they viewed the rough drawings.