Introducing Mrs. Collins
Dear Charlotte,
I write to you from Longbourn, for I am brought home from the Peaks earlier than anticipated due to some very bad news, which I will tell you of now.
You will remember Mr Wickham from his time in Hertfordshire with the militia. You did not care for him, I think. I, who fell for his tales so easily, should have listened to you.
He is a liar, Charlotte, and a villain. I knew some of this even when I was with you in Kent – I wish I had confided in you, but so much was happening during that time.
I am writing this all in a muddle – forgive me; there is much to relate.
I must tell you first, before the pressing news, that when I was staying with you in the spring, Mr Darcy asked me to marry him. I turned him down.
You will wonder why I did not tell you at the time, and the answer is here: the morning after his proposal, he handed me a letter that contained such revelations that I was in a stupor of a kind, wrestling with the mistakes I had made – including, perhaps, my refusal of him.
It was shortly before I was due to leave, and I was quite ill with it, Charlotte, as you will recall.
I could not add to that the task of sharing it – I have told no one but Jane, and even she had to wait a few days.
In short, the letter marked Wickham as a cad – I cannot go into the particulars, but it confirmed he has seduced young women, racked up large debts, is a drinker, a gambler and lied with such ease about his relations with Darcy that I know not how he maintained his composure.
The Wickham I knew was a fantasy, a concoction, but recent events must confirm that he is not imaginary but all too real: a living, breathing monster.
My opinion of Mr Darcy changed upon reading his history. I have had cause to spend more time with him in Derbyshire, and either he has altered or I have understood him better. Perhaps a little of both.
Anyway, that is all for nought now, because he will never ask me again once I tell you what has come to pass.
The militia were posted to Brighton. Lydia was allowed to go with them, as the special companion to Colonel Forster’s wife, which I counselled my father against. But even I could not have predicted what has since come to pass.
We have lately learned that Lydia and Wickham have eloped. They have not even gone to Gretna Green as everyone supposed but are residing in London. You can imagine the rest. They have been there a fortnight and, as far as we know, remain unmarried.
She is lost, Charlotte, and I know not how we can forgive her.
I cannot say this to Jane; she is all sympathy and ‘Poor Lydia’, but I hope I can say to you that I am so angry with her, I feel like my skin must be hot to the touch.
You know her – silly, foolish, thoughtless Lydia!
– all her instincts were always to do something daring and outlandish that would amaze us all, and now she has.
She will have no thought of what it will cost us, what it already has.
Not just reputationally but in body, in spirit.
My mother has taken to her bed – that will not surprise you, but Jane tells me that my father visibly shrank upon hearing the news. She says that, before he left for London (he is there now), his skin turned grey. He was weakened, could hardly walk. I fear what will greet us upon his return.
Oh Lydia! I should pity her, but I cannot help but rail against her stupidity, her selfishness. And when we meet her – God knows when that may be – she will laugh about it. I know her too well to doubt otherwise.
Of course, of course, I am angrier at Wickham – he will have seduced her using all the charms at his disposal, of which I have been party to and fallen for, and which you, so wisely, never did.
It need not be said that I will now despise him always.
But I also cannot imagine finding love for Lydia.
I can say these dreadful things to you only – they are unchristian and unsisterly and probably unfair.
But I can say them to you, my dear friend, for I know you will not judge me.
I am sorry for not writing to you before catastrophe has befallen us. I should have. I will write again soon, when we have more news.
Your affectionate friend,
Eliza