Page 28 of The Winter of Our Discontent (Pride and Prejudice Variations #1)
My husband’s departure meant I was somewhat freer to spend my time as I wished, for although he did not dictate my daily routine, I was obligated by his presence to be constantly useful.
The time had come to face what I had not heretofore had the courage to confront.
If I now wept or kept to my room to grieve, I could do so without risking Mr Darcy’s notice of my reddened eyes and tragic looks he would find so offensive.
Though my life had been equally ruined by this ill-fated union, he was not in possession of the facts and considered himself to be the only wounded party.
I had felt a weight in my heart for several months, and one morning when the weather was quite harsh, I sat at my escritoire in the sanctuary of my room.
My intention was simple: to unburden myself, if only a little.
I pulled forward my elegant paper and dipped my pen into the inkwell and began to write, perhaps more honestly than I should have, to my sister Jane .
My dearest sister,
What has befallen us? I have been afraid to write lest you sense what I do not say.
You are afraid to write because you know how I detest sympathy.
We send pages of meaningless words between us, and we write only what we think the other wants to hear, even if it is flatly false.
Let us, my best and truest friend, be honest in our letters so we can again be full in our hearts.
Please, Jane, confide in me. I miss you so.
I have written of the glories of Pemberley.
That much is true. The estate is vast, well cared for, and old enough to have that sense of timelessness in a place.
Winter here, however, is likely to be punishing.
I sense the knife’s edge coming, a cold severe enough to test even our wild creatures to the limit of their will to survive.
We are in a fold of the earth, you see, which causes the frigid air to sink down and surround us from time to time.
As the legend of Vikings goes, heaven comes down upon us, and we are forced to abide with our souls.
Our frailty—our mortality—come to visit us here.
Like the woodland creatures, I have had a testing time of my own.
I have spent this entire autumn learning how to live my life without going mad.
You will be surprised to know that I am now prodigious in the management of a great house.
I am attentive to my work, devoted to the tenants, and I am slowly becoming a horsewoman.
The greatest change of all, however, is that I am holding my tongue.
I am not biting back vitriol, if that was your first thought.
We both know that when I have done so in the past, it all came to naught, for when one least expects or wants it to, vitriol will come out in a great gush.
If anything, I am a thousand times more observant which might account for my new-found reserve.
What I cannot lie to you about is Mr Darcy’s dislike of me.
His resentment, which you saw firsthand at our wedding, has not abated.
Indeed, I must confide it has only grown.
He is not, however, a reprehensible person.
Rather, he is a serious, highly principled man who manages his considerable estate with a kind of ferocity of commitment.
Towards me, he is not yielding, but he is neither cruel nor punishing.
I do not expect he ever will be. But he continues to be cold, resentful, and severe.
I cannot account for my forbearance, but I begin to understand him.
The Elizabeth Bennet of not five months ago would have excoriated such a man with her tongue for his highhanded disdain.
I would have raged and bitten at his pride with my frightful fangs.
But upon seeing him in his place in the world, I see all he has lost in marrying me.
His yielding to the requirements of duty in the matter, which I begged him not to do at the time, has stretched him to the point of breaking.
It is as though he sacrificed everything to satisfy his gentleman’s honour.
Mr Darcy of Pemberley expected better; he wished for better. He wished for a woman of fortune, possessed of impeccable taste, born into the hierarchy of the near nobility, skilled and endowed with what I always sneered at—excellent breeding.
Instead, he has married Lizzy Bennet, a penniless chit who has had to learn everything as if she was born in a cow byre, and who commands little respect except for perhaps a kind of fellow feeling from those condemned to the ranks of ordinary people.
I am an ordinary woman, I have discovered. All my pretensions to wit and vivacity, to pristine ideas, education and golden ideals—in other words, all of the so-called qualities upon which I invested great stores of pride—have been revealed as puffs of self-delusion.
So it happens, Jane, when Mr Darcy looks upon me with distaste, I understand his deep disappointment.
Beyond that, he strikes me as a man who expects at any moment the axe to fall.
I have too much power in this position, and I could go very far to destroying Pemberley with active mischief.
He mistrusts me to the soles of his boots.
He does not yet know I would do nothing to injure him intentionally.
Unwitting ruination, however, of his reputation and long-standing ways of life, are a risk every day that I act out the part of mistress here.
I sympathise with his fears because I share them.
I act a part. I am not born, raised, or turned out into my rightful place.
As to his trust, I do not see how he ever can or will trust me, given what he believes about the events of last October.
In this one matter, I do harbour resentment against him.
He has forbidden any discussion of the ‘travesty of our marriage’, as he now calls it.
At the time of the incident, my pleas to explain—to be heard—fell on deaf ears.
He made his assumptions, and they are in error, but they are fixed and seemingly immovable.
Yet, how can I feel ill-used? In details he is grossly uninformed; I did not orchestrate our disgrace to force his hand. But the root of his entrapment lies in our family, in our upbringing, in the indulgences of our mother, and the indolence of our father.
I have such regrets, Jane, for I could have done something.
I should have done more! I was flippant, irreverent, and too prone to flaunting our lack of propriety as a mark of distinction, for how else would I have been allowed the independence to satisfy my inclinations howsoever I wished?
I benefited from the negligence of my parents, and so I, unconsciously perhaps, did nothing to counteract it when I was old enough to know better.
This is the thought that allows me to bear my husband’s resentment.
I am at fault for how he and I are now tied.
I know this frank description of my marriage will cause you tears, but I beg you to dry them. I do not weep and nor should you. I have grown up, and I have found a few sources for happiness to anchor me here. I still laugh. I am not despairing.
Thankfully, I no longer need to think of the cost of sending pages and pages of my thoughts and feelings to you—a luxury I still do not take for granted.
Yet, I must end this very long letter, my dearest. Work awaits.
But there is so much more I must write to you.
In my next letter, I will confess to you in great detail my many causes for hope.
Now you must sit down and write your feelings to me. I will be strengthened by your support from a distance only when I know what is truly in your heart.
Burn this letter, Jane, and direct all correspondence in future to my maid, Naomi Wilson .
Enclose one or two fashion plates and use my aunt’s maiden name in the return address. Find a way, Jane, to keep my letters private. I would be deeply grieved for our aunt and uncle to read the truth as I have written it. I wonder if my notes can be addressed to your maid or the
children’s nurse? Tell me what is best. A secret correspondence is deplorable, but it constitutes the means by which we can retain our privacy and open our hearts.
Your devoted sister and friend.