Jane’s Letter #2
Mary is to be married. I shall pause here and allow you to recover, as I required a full quarter of an hour myself.
You will perhaps remember Mr Thomas Peele, the young clerk Uncle Gardiner once thought might do for her, before your own situation was settled and the question was set aside.
It appears the question was set aside only by the rest of us.
Mary, characteristically, said nothing about it to anyone and simply continued making up her own mind.
Mr Peele is a quiet young man, not handsome, not wealthy, not remarkable in any particular way that I have been able to identify, and I have watched Mary watch him and concluded that she finds all three of these qualities precisely to her liking.
Uncle Gardiner proposes to take him in as a junior partner once the business is on steadier footing, and Mary’s settlement will go towards that in part, which means she will have both a husband and a purpose, which I believe suits her far better than either would alone.
She seems genuinely content, Lizzy. You know how rare a thing that is with Mary.
Kitty, I am sorry to report, is being very tiresome about it.
She says she is not jealous, and I believe she is not, precisely, but she is very much alone now that Lydia is gone, and it seems to her that everyone is gaining a situation but herself (and me, which she overlooks).
I suppose it is not an unreasonable observation, even if it is being expressed with rather more feeling than the occasion strictly warrants.
She has taken up drawing, which gives her some occupation, though she informs me daily that she has no talent for it and that it is entirely unfair that Elizabeth got all the cleverness and she got nothing useful whatsoever.
I have told her that self-pity is not becoming, and she has told me that I am very tiresome when I say true things in that particular way, and we have settled into our usual understanding.
I must tell you about Lydia, because I know you have been anxious.
She is in lodgings in Norwich, decent and respectable, and she is not in want of anything material.
Uncle Gardiner has secured a widow to live with her for now, which, I gather, is an arrangement more suitable than it is agreeable to either of them.
He has suggested that, for now at least, it would be better if Lydia stays where she is, by which he means away from Kitty and away from Mary until after Mary’s wedding, at least. Mama says it is very hard, but the only thing that is hard about it is Mama’s frequent tears.
Uncle says a solicitor there has seen to the rest of the arrangements for Lydia, and I cannot account for the source of the funds except to say that they arrived as so many things have arrived lately, which is to say quietly and from a direction I find it more peaceful not to examine too closely.
Mr Wickham was arrested some weeks ago on charges relating to gaming debts and various unsettled accounts, the particulars of which are not entirely clear to me, and is at present detained.
Lydia writes that she is bearing this with fortitude.
She does not elaborate on what fortitude means in the present circumstances, and I have not asked.
Uncle Gardiner has also had some reason for encouragement.
An investor approached him through an intermediary last month with terms my uncle describes as both generous and very discreetly arranged.
He would not say more than that, but he has seemed, these past weeks, like a man who has had some small portion of the last year returned to him, and I am content with that and ask no questions.
I find I have developed a talent for not asking questions lately. I cannot imagine where I learned it.
We are all of us settled in Pentonville now, in a small house but a respectable one, near enough to the warehouse that Uncle Gardiner does not lose more time than he can spare in the walk.
The rooms grow no larger, however much we might wish them to.
Mama is tolerably well and has taken a great interest in Kitty’s drawing, which is to say she tells Kitty daily that she has no talent for it and suggests she try embroidery instead.
The arrangement suits neither of them and entertains both enormously.
Uncle and Aunt Gardiner are very good to us all.
I must tell you, too, that I saw a notice in the paper last week that Mr Bingley has married.
A Miss Harrington. I examined my feelings on reading it with considerable care, and find I am not much moved, which surprises me less than I thought it would.
There is a rumour through Uncle Gardiner that Mr Bingley’s affairs were also affected by the same difficulties that touched Uncle’s business, not to the same degree but sufficiently that a wife with a very considerable fortune in timber was perhaps not a matter of the heart alone.
I find this intelligence more settling than I expected.
I had told myself a story about it all, and the story, I discover, was not quite right, and having a truer picture is a relief of sorts even when the truer picture is not a flattering one.
I have been entertaining a few callers of my own, but none of particular interest. Aunt says that Mr Pendegraff has a weak chin, and Kitty declares that Mr Ashton slurps his tea, but those complaints do not move me.
It is rather that I find nothing in them worth admiring, and it is particularly liberating when I consider the power I have now of rejection.
Indeed, Lizzy, I am quite content, and I mean to be patient.
A woman in possession of ten thousand pounds need not settle, and so I shall not.
Now, dearest, I must ask you what I have been turning over since your last letter.
You write that you are well and that you are not unhappy and that he is kind, and I read between those lines as I always have read between yours.
I think you are telling me a great deal more than the words themselves say. I am very glad of it.
I confess that I had imagined, from what you wrote in the beginning, that the arrangement was chiefly a matter of bereavement, and that the darkness was the necessity of a man too much disfigured to be seen.
But your letters have changed in character these last months, and I no longer think the explanation so simple.
I will not press you on what the truth is, because I think you will tell me when you are ready and not before.
I only ask whether you think you might ever come south, or whether we might come to you.
I should very much like to meet him someday, Lizzy.
A man who arranges as many kindnesses for his wife as you have told me about has introduced himself to me already, and I find I am very favourably disposed.
Mama is writing her own letter, and I expect it will arrive in the same packet. I have not read it and cannot therefore be held responsible for its contents.
Ever your most affectionate sister,
Jane