Page 42 of Lizzie’s Spirit

Darcy entered the parlour and smiled. “At the post office today, the clerk complained he had a direction but couldn’t ascertain where to send the letter.

Seeing the address, I knew at once to whom it should go—that I would deliver it myself.

With my being judge-advocate, he could only concur, although doing so was quite irregular.

” That Darcy was seldom so teasing made Elizabeth immediately attentive.

“Are you not eager to see to whom it’s addressed? Do we know a Miss Elizabeth Bennet ? I have heard the name but fear she no longer resides in the colony.”

“You fiend!” Springing up and taking the letter from his hand, Elizabeth at once sat and, checking the date written on the outside, broke the seal of the letter from her mother.

From: Longbourn, Hertfordshire

My darling Lizzie—

My relief was overwhelming when I received your letter marked Rio de Janeiro!

It’s a full six months since I last saw you, my dearest child.

You’re so far from home, and we all miss you so much.

That you are safe is our joy and comfort.

Madeira appears such a beautiful place. Your Uncle Gardiner has visited several times and speaks most favourably of the Phelps estate, though he did say the town itself was rather mean and dirty.

Oh! I’ve not spoken of the most important news—Mr. C has indeed married Charlotte Lucas.

’Twas only some two weeks after he came to Meryton that the announcement was made, and the banns called over the next three weeks.

Mr. C returned to his parish at Hunsford, in Kent somewhere, to call the banns there.

They were married here in the church at Meryton; Rector Wilkinson wed them.

I cannot imagine what the poor man thought, having been presented with a licence for Mr. C to wed you, and then he marries Charlotte!

Lady Lucas seems insensible to the fact that Mr. C is an impossibly stupid man, and Charlotte may not be happy with him.

Lady L calls often at the dower house to triumph on having a daughter married—though whether ‘well’, time will explain.

Oh, Lizzie, you are now safe to return. To come back to the bosom of your family.

But I suppose you’ll not hear this news until you’ve arrived in New Holland.

Perhaps, on receipt of this letter, you can at once return to us!

Elizabeth could not be disappointed in Charlotte, for it appeared to be a good match.

Though now that she herself was married, that Charlotte married on so little acquaintance was hard to countenance.

Nevertheless, Charlotte was some six years her senior, and, there being so few eligible men in the neighbourhood and her being without a dowry meant her chances of never marrying were very high.

Mr. C was respectable, and Charlotte had a prudent, steady character.

Over time, she may begin to feel something like regard and esteem for him.

That Mr. C is a conceited, pompous, narrow-minded, silly man, Elizabeth knew well.

She feared Mr. C’s avarice and appetites posed a danger for Charlotte, who had traded security for future felicity in her marriage.

We’ve misunderstood Mr. C’s wealth, for he has already purchased a fine carriage with two of the loveliest horses to pull it.

My brother, Mr. Phillips, is careful with Longbourn’s rents, and in the last quarter ensured our monies were safe.

He fears Mr. C’s expenditures may exceed his income, which would put the estate in a perilous position.

Enough of Mr. C. We see little of him. Even though married, he still retains some resentment that he could not claim you as his bride.

‘Tis because Charlotte is plain and you are not. I saw his eyes raking your figure in the courtroom and straightaway determined he’d never have you as wife.

But at what cost, that you’ve had to flee England!

Initially, I was most concerned when you talked of your being a midwife.

It certainly is not genteel. But you were always so curious, my Lizzie.

I remember your pulling lambs, and even after I forbade it, you would sneak back to the birthing meadow and help those ewes in difficulty.

Mrs. Hill and I agreed that when your dresses came back soiled, we would pretend such was only normal for a child playing outside in the fields.

I rationalised that there being no son, then I could spare a daughter.

You didn’t know—Mrs. Browning came to visit me after the birth of her Sarah and said what a comfort you were during her travail. Sweet Lizzie. You made me so proud.

I had just received your letter and was thinking of its contents when Mrs. Emma King, Mary King’s aunt, came to visit.

Without thinking, I spoke of your being midwife to the regimental wives on board the ship to Rio de Janeiro.

The words scarcely left my mouth, and I thought to regret them, when Emma burst into tears and, for a few moments, could not speak a word.

She’s a dear friend, so at once I sprang up to sit beside her and provide some measure of comfort.

After sipping some tea, which calmed her, she explained she cannot have children, which was her dearest wish.

She had always looked at me with envy, my having five fine girls.

Of the following, I can talk, for you must have a great understanding of women’s trials.

Early in her marriage, she came with child—both she and Mr. King were overjoyed at their good fortune.

But, as is the way of the world, such was not to be—at four months she miscarried, experiencing much pain and discomfort.

After the loss, she feared not all of the tissue had removed from her womb; there were swellings and aches within her, so she visited the local midwife—I cannot say who, but she was not of our parish.

This woman examined her and said she must manually remove the remains of the cord and afterbirth.

Do I need to relate more? The deed was done but left Mrs. King in a dreadful state.

She came down with an infection; she bled, which—God be praised—ceased of its own accord.

Her womb was perforated, and, to this day, she has much grief whenever her courses begin or even when she passes water.

She prays for the day when her womb shrivels and she no longer needs to fear each month.

I didn’t know of her pains and sore tribulations.

That she could talk to someone, to the mother of a midwife, was of great relief to her.

Thank you, my darling, for sharing with me. For it has been of great benefit!

Your dear Papa continues to improve. You were correct when you said his mind was active and merely trapped within an immobile body.

We now sit him in his chair, and he smiles—yes, smiles!

—when we do so. His left arm is unmoving, but he can lift his right hand—but only an inch or so— and use his fingers to point at objects.

Dear Adam has made him a chair with some small wheels, and now Mr. Bennet can share our meals at the dining table.

Most often, either Mary or Jane feeds him, but to see the joy in his eyes to be with family makes me cry, even now. See! There’s a large blot on the page.

As you may have guessed, Jane has come back from Bakewell.

She reports Mrs. Simpson and her babe are healthy and doing ever so well.

What a fortunate coincidence Jane was away when Mr. C came.

Otherwise, I’m sure she would have sacrificed her future happiness by marrying him to save us.

But the truth be told, we’re doing exceptionally well in the dower house.

There’ s more than enough income, and without the entertainments I thought we were obliged to provide to the neighbours but now restrict only to the closest of families, we’re even saving a little to put towards your dowries.

When you marry—and let it not be too soon, for you are still full young—there will be a nice little bit added to your dowry from my settlement.

Though I daresay, my lovely child, it would be a fool who did not marry you for your wit, your character, and your kind heart.

As you are aware, I’m not one for long writings.

Your loving Mama

Elizabeth burst into tears, rushing to Darcy, seeking calm within his embrace.

“Dear God, what has happened?”

“Foolish me. My family is well—and dear Mr. Bennet has recovered some movement. It’s all too much good news!”

“I, too, have a letter from home. ‘Tis from Frederick—there is both good and sad news. The good is that, under our instruction, he has employed a schoolmaster, Mr. Robert Wrensford, and his wife, Mrs. Kirsten Wrensford, as mistress. He’s Presbyterian from Scotland; his wife is Danish. They fled Denmark at the time of the British bombardment of Copenhagen in ‘07. Frederick speaks well of them, and they are keen to start anew, as they feel estranged from England and Scotland and cannot return to Denmark. We should expect them to arrive on board the Canada , which is due to arrive before year’s end.”

“Oh, William, the timing is excellent. Our new villa will be complete, and the Wrensfords can occupy this house as soon as they disembark.” Elizabeth paused. “But there’s sad news?”

“My father continues to decline, though fortunately not as fast as was feared. He’s still active and would have it that it’s just some mild ague, which he developed when in the West Indies as a young man.

He has had recurring bouts of such illness for many years and has always recovered, though more slowly as he ages. ”

Darcy grimaced. “There is more disconcerting news about my aunt, Lady Catherine. Her behaviour is increasingly erratic, though mostly the same strident demands that Frederick or I should marry Cousin Anne. She has become quite insistent on it, and she clearly does not know, or refuses to acknowledge, that I am already married. He says there is nothing that we can do, that it is for her brother, Lord Matlock, to intervene. He believes the madness is due to her being secluded at Rosings and not participating in any society, but there may be a deeper cause, an illness of the mind of which we are unaware.”

“How strange,” said Elizabeth, “but ’tis rather sad. You said that Anne is intelligent but weak of heart and lung. Are such ailments common in the de Bourgh line?”

“Sir Lewis de Bourgh was a strong character, larger than life, as they say. But he died some twelve years ago. At the time, I was at school and didn’t know him well.

Oh, do not fear, Lizzie; the Darcys are a robust lot.

Both Frederick and Georgiana enjoy the best of health—it is I who am the weakling of the family. ”

“Oh dear, are you so very infirm? I must put you to bed and minister immediate, tender loving care to overcome your frailty.”

“Minx.”