Longbourn, July 1812
My Dearest Lizzy,
How I miss you! Whenever you are from home, ‘pleasure bent’ as Papa likes to say, Longbourn is never the same; nor do I feel the same without you by my side.
Fortunately, my young cousins are ripe with good humour and keep me laughing despite your absence.
They are, all four of them, such a joy and provide a wonderful distraction from the succession of busy nothings that have dictated our days here since your departure.
While each moment spent with them brings me sincere pleasure and a sense of fulfilment, no one’s society, my dear sister, compares to your own.
I hope with all my heart you are enjoying this time with my aunt and uncle touring Derbyshire and visiting with such friends as my aunt Gardiner has known since girlhood.
I can well imagine you seeing all the local sights, contentedly walking through miles of woodland, and scaling large, imposing boulders while my poor aunt and uncle call to you, reminding you to take care.
Yes, I can see it all very clearly indeed—the expressions of wonder and delight on your countenance as the wind twists your skirts about your ankles and whips your curls into a frenzy while you stand at the edge of the world admiring the untamed beauty of the peaks!
As you can imagine, Papa feels your absence acutely.
Daily, he laments the fact there have been few words of sense and no peace at Longbourn since you left us.
Poor Lydia, having been denied permission to go to Brighton for the summer with Colonel and Mrs Forster, continues to sulk and complain of the injustice of remaining at home.
I am afraid she tries my father’s patience exceedingly, as does my mother by adding her voice to Lydia’s.
Even now, as rumours of Mr Wickham’s unpaid debts circulate through Meryton, Mama refuses to believe such a handsome, gentlemanlike man is truly so unscrupulous and wicked as the shopkeepers in Meryton claim.
Even my aunt Philips cannot make her see reason, and so she persists in her endeavour to persuade my father to send Lydia to her friends in Sussex.
Papa, of course, will not have it and has declared no daughter of his shall ever be known as the most determined flirt who made herself and her family ridiculous.
Mama, of course, is indignant on Lydia’s behalf.
She sees only Lydia’s popularity with the officers and the amusement being denied her so long as she remains at home.
Needless to say, my father is more determined than ever to keep our sister out of the reach of Colonel Forster’s officers, and Mr Wickham particularly.
Oh! What do we not owe to Mr Darcy for enlightening us as to Mr Wickham’s reprehensible character, and for writing to our father of his own painful dealings with him? I suspect that his kindness has already spared us all substantial mortification, and our dear father much regret!
Since writing the above, dearest Lizzy, something unexpected has occurred; but be not alarmed.
We are all well.
What I have to relate pertains to my father and this business with Lydia.
Oh, Lizzy, he has had a change of heart, or, more likely, I believe his patience has been tried to such an extent by my mother and Lydia that he has relented and declared that we are all to travel to the seaside and remain there for nearly a month! We are to leave by the end of the week!
My young cousins are delighted, of course, as are my sisters and my mother, but none more so than Lydia, who is under the impression we are to go to Brighton! Papa, however, has confided he has no intention of going into Sussex; he has secured a house for us in Kent instead.
In Kent, he believes Kitty and Lydia will be in far less danger of causing mischief, as they will have no friends there to encourage their improper behaviour or tempt them into much worse.
Mama is beside herself with anticipation, although whether her present gaiety shall persist once we arrive at the rugged cliffs of Kent instead of the excess and pomp of Brighton I cannot say.
Kitty and Lydia are preparing for our journey with much high spiritedness; but poor Mary has lost much of her initial exuberance, as Mama has told her, in no uncertain terms, that she is permitted to bring only one book.
With ten of us, I cannot imagine Papa will sanction undertaking such a long journey in a single carriage.
Surely, he will hire a second conveyance to accommodate us all more comfortably, otherwise I fear the children shall have no choice but to perch upon our laps and we will be very snug indeed!
My only regret, my dearest sister, is that you are already from home and therefore unable to join us on our seaside adventure.
If you were by my side, my happiness would be complete.
I must say adieu for now, as my cousins have been wanting me this half an hour, but I promise to write again once we are all settled in Kent.
Until then, I remain your affectionate sister,
Jane
“ Oh, Jane,”
Elizabeth murmured, staring at her letter with a feeling of dismay in her breast.
It was not Jane’s sincerity she doubted, but the soundness of the scheme itself.
Her dear father hated travelling anywhere beyond Hertfordshire; Elizabeth could not imagine him setting out on a hundred-mile journey with her mother, sisters, and young cousins of his own volition, regardless of whether there was one carriage or two.
It seemed far more likely Mr Bennet would see to the arrangements for the trip, then simply send his family off on their own, thus sparing himself the inconvenience of spending two days in a confined space on a hot, dusty road with five enthusiastic ladies, four energetic children, and the constant hum of conversation.
Mr Bennet valued peace and quiet above all things; without his family underfoot, he would enjoy several weeks’ worth of it in the comfort of his own home.
When faced with such an appealing prospect, Elizabeth doubted he would leave his book-room except to sleep! The only interruption to his reading would be the ringing of the dinner bell.
Uttering a sigh of frustration, she wondered what had possessed her father to form such a resolution.
Although sending her mother and sisters on a seaside holiday would undoubtedly make them happy, it would defeat the purpose of denying Lydia permission to accompany her friends to Brighton in the first place.
Britain was at war with the French; it was as likely there were large encampments of soldiers erected along the coast of Kent as there were along the coast of Sussex.
Should Mr Bennet remain at home in Hertfordshire, he would have no power to rein in his wife’s zealous matchmaking nor Lydia’s and Kitty’s enthusiasm for handsome young men in red coats.
Jane and Mary would be the only voices of reason and economy, and they would likely go unheard.
Elizabeth shuddered to think of the outcome of such single-minded neglect.
In no mood to read her letter a second time, she set it aside and reminded herself that nothing was certain of yet.
Her father would either accompany his family on their excursion to the seaside or he would not.
There was nothing Elizabeth could do about it from Derbyshire except hope that all would turn out well as she awaited further news in another letter from Jane.
Tugging her shawl more closely about her shoulders, she abandoned her comfortable chair at the table and crossed the parlour to peer out of the window.
Long fingers of sunlight greeted her, warming her through the glass.
The day promised to be a fine one, with a deep blue sky overhead and barely a cloud in sight.
Although the hour was early, it was not so early that Lambton was empty or still.
Beyond the thick, whitewashed walls of the Red Lion, the village was alive with activity.
Shopkeepers and solicitors and servants bustled along the high street, having already begun their day.
She watched the goings-on below for some time before spying her aunt and uncle Gardiner walking arm in arm at the top of the street, slowly making their way towards the inn.
An hour earlier they had set out alone to visit the church while Elizabeth read her letter; now, they were accompanied by a gentleman whose figure Elizabeth knew well: Mr Darcy.
Elizabeth caught her bottom lip between her teeth as she watched him—his tall frame; his confident, unhurried gait; his regal bearing.
He was presently speaking to her aunt.
Nearly a full minute passed before he finished saying his piece, at which time a brilliant smile appeared on Mrs Gardiner’s countenance as her lips formed words Elizabeth wished she could hear.
With an inclination of his head, Mr Darcy returned her aunt’s smile before he turned his attention to her uncle, who looked as well pleased as his wife.
In that moment, Elizabeth’s own countenance flushed with unexpected warmth.
For so long she had thought of him as the most arrogant, insufferable man of her acquaintance; more recently, she had begun to see him in a very different light.
After meeting him unexpectedly as she toured his beautiful park with her relations, she was forced to admit the Mr Darcy she had known in Hertfordshire—so haughty and disagreeable and proud—had undergone a material change.
In Derbyshire, he was no longer arrogant but exacting.
He was no longer recalcitrant but reserved.
He was no longer exceedingly proud or unpleasant or severe, but perfectly amiable in every respect.
He was handsome as well.
Elizabeth had forgotten precisely how handsome and felt a sense of disquiet descend upon her, for Mr Darcy was even handsomer when he smiled.
He had rarely smiled while they were in company together in Hertfordshire, and never in the presence of her family.
Although he was slightly more animated in Kent among his own relations, Mr Darcy’s aloofness had been as firmly fixed at Rosings Park as it was elsewhere.
Also firmly fixed were the long, penetrating looks that served to confound her and discompose her and annoy her no matter where she was or what she happened to be doing.
Elizabeth had felt Mr Darcy’s eyes upon her constantly.
But for what purpose? Her beauty he had earlier withstood; surely, a man such as he, who appeared to consider himself above his company wherever he went, must only ever look at her to find fault.
How wrong she had been!
Although Mr Darcy had found much to criticise where her family was concerned, it did not follow that his censure of them extended to her, as was evident when he called upon her late one afternoon in Kent while her friends were dining at Rosings and Elizabeth was alone, nursing a headache.
He enquired after her health, paced the length of the room, and then shocked her by announcing with more emotion than she had ever believed him capable that he ardently admired and loved her.
Instead of a litany of heartfelt sentiments that would have served him well as a professed lover, what followed was a recitation of every conceivable reason why Mr Darcy should, in actuality, feel nothing for Elizabeth at all—certainly nothing that would inspire a man of his position and notoriety to ignore the expectations and wishes of his family and friends.
And then, after begging her to relieve his suffering, he proposed.
Only after many months’ reflection did Elizabeth conclude that Mr Darcy, who had long professed disguise of every sort to be his abhorrence, had likely viewed such a blunt, uncensored declaration as a perverse nod to her intelligence and discernment rather than as the insult it was in truth.
In the end, however, it mattered not.
The moment he had mentioned the inferiority of her connexions and her family’s impropriety, Elizabeth had heard nothing, and therefore discerned nothing beyond the offensiveness of his words and his total disregard for her feelings by having uttered them.
Her refusal, and the language with which she had abused him the moment he had done, she would much rather forget—especially the part that pertained to the debauched Mr Wickham and the living he claimed Mr Darcy had denied him.
Mortified and furious, Mr Darcy quit the house.
Elizabeth, unable to support herself, sank onto a chair and wept.
Other than one brief moment the next morning, when he handed her a letter—one she had read often—their paths had not crossed again until three days prior at Pemberley.
Elizabeth shook her head.
The civility Mr Darcy had shown her as they had made their way along the picturesque, wooded paths of his ancestral home was as generous as it was surprising.
Instead of treating her with contempt after the unjust accusations she had levelled at him in April, Mr Darcy had shown her nothing but kindness and respect, even going so far as to request her permission to introduce his sister to her during her stay in Lambton.
As though he feared Elizabeth would change her mind or suddenly leave Derbyshire without a proper farewell, he had brought Miss Darcy to wait on her the very next morning.
The following day, Elizabeth and Mrs Gardiner returned the visit by calling upon Miss Darcy at Pemberley, where they talked of their recent travels, shared thoughts on music, and ate nectarines and peaches in a beautifully appointed parlour with a view of the lake.