Chapter Eighteen
My dear Elizabeth,
Words cannot express how pleased I was to receive your letter, nor how welcome its arrival proved to be.
Hertfordshire may be quieter than Town, but your account of its society and intrigues has provided me with far more amusement than many a grand entertainment.
I read your descriptions slowly, savoring them, and could almost imagine myself seated beside you, listening as you recounted each particular with that wit and discernment I know so well.
If nothing else, it comforts me to know that you are observant, engaged, and very much yourself.
It is curious—almost diverting—that you should mention the Darcys, for their name has reached my ears of late through an acquaintance who moves with greater ease in those circles than I am presently inclined to do.
Lady Catherine de Bourgh, your aunt by marriage, is said to be quite certain that her nephew is destined to marry her daughter.
Miss Anne de Bourgh, if my memory serves, is two or perhaps three years your senior, delicate in health, and entirely shaped by her mother’s will.
According to my informant, the match is already settled in Lady Catherine’s mind, and she speaks of it not as a hope but as an inevitability.
Mr. Darcy, you see, is her nephew through the maternal line, Lady Anne Darcy having been a Fitzwilliam by birth.
Is it not remarkable how small the world becomes, once one peers beneath its surface?
I cannot help but think that Mr. Darcy’s manners might have been considerably softened had he known of your connection to his formidable aunt.
Then again, perhaps it is just as well that he did not.
There is a certain clarity gained when one is judged without advantage, and now you may assess his character without disguise or courtesy purchased by circumstance.
As for what I know of the Darcys themselves: Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy is the only son of Mr. George Darcy and Lady Anne Darcy, née Fitzwilliam, both of whom are deceased.
His uncle, the Earl of Matlock, is Lady Anne’s and Lady Catherine’s brother, and a man of considerable influence, though he prefers to exert it quietly.
Mr. Darcy has been master of his estates these last five years, having assumed the responsibilities of his position at a young age.
He has a younger sister, Georgiana, who maintains her own establishment in London under the care of a companion who is well-regarded and said to be both sensible and discreet.
Pemberley, his principal estate, is described to me as vast and handsome, with many hundreds of acres under cultivation.
The Darcy fortune derives not only from tenant farming, but from several other ventures—mining interests, timber holdings, and investments managed with no small degree of acumen.
It is commonly stated that his income is ten thousand pounds per annum, though those who know more suspect that figure to be a conservative one.
In short, he possesses every material reason to be confident, even proud.
And yet, my dear Elizabeth, wealth and lineage do not excuse arrogance, nor do they justify a lack of consideration for others.
A gentleman is not defined by the size of his estate, but by the steadiness of his character.
From your account—and from what little I have observed indirectly—Mr. Darcy wears his consequence like a royal mantle, forgetting that true authority requires humility.
One may uphold a family legacy without trampling upon the feelings and dignity of those deemed beneath it.
You have, therefore, my full permission to despise him thoroughly, should you wish it—though I trust you will do so with your customary wit rather than any outward display.
Be unfailingly polite, my dear, not for his sake, but for your own.
You are a reflection of your upbringing, and I flatter myself that you were given the better example.
As for myself, my days pass quietly, though not without purpose.
I continue my charitable endeavors with renewed vigor, particularly those concerned with the welfare and education of children left without proper guardianship.
It is work that gives me a sense of usefulness, even when society prefers my absence.
I receive a small circle of friends who value conversation over spectacle, and I read a great deal—more history than fashion, I confess, though I do not entirely neglect the latter.
Regarding the matter you hinted at—your presentation—I regret to say there has been no progress.
Silence, in this case, speaks more loudly than refusal.
I persist where I can, but the resistance remains firm, and I am forced, for the moment, to wait.
It is not a situation I relish, nor one I consider just, but I will not abandon the effort.
You are nearing your majority, and time itself may yet prove our ally.
Until then, take comfort where you may, enjoy the affection of your cousins, and continue to observe the world with that clear-eyed intelligence which has always been your greatest strength. Write to me often, my dear heart. Your letters are among my greatest pleasures.
Yours, in the deepest affection, Aunt Caroline
Elizabeth folded the letter, a small smile on her face. Oh, how she missed her dear aunt! She always did when she came to Hertfordshire, but it felt somehow more poignant this time. Perhaps it was due to Mr. Darcy’s disdain—his complete misunderstanding of her situation.
That is hardly his fault. We have worked diligently to protect my identity so I might not be used against Princess Caroline.
She resolved to do as her aunt bid and behave, despite how Mr. Darcy’s manner annoyed her.
No one liked him much. Indeed, whenever the Netherfield party was in attendance, most stayed out of his path.
He did not speak to the other gentlemen—other than Mr. Bingley and Mr. Hurst. The general belief was that Mr. Darcy thought himself above his company.
It did not reflect well on Mr. Bingley, though he was more easily forgiven.
Had he not been granting Jane so much attention, the citizens of Meryton and the surrounds might not be so accommodating.
She opened the next letter in her stack. It was from Princess Charlotte, and she tore the seal eagerly.
My dearest Elizabeth,
I have been counting the days since I last wrote to you, and though I know that is a foolish habit, I cannot help it.
Time passes so slowly here that one must mark it somehow, and letters to you are the only events that feel truly my own.
I read yours twice—once properly, and once again in bed, when I ought to have been asleep and the governess would have scolded me soundly had she known.
It made me laugh, and then it made me sigh, and then it made me wish very much that you were here.
My days are all alike, and yet I am told I am fortunate beyond measure.
I rise early, whether I wish to or not, and begin with lessons before I am fully awake.
There is French every morning, which I like well enough when my tutor does not insist on correcting my accent every third word.
I tell him that I am English and do not wish to sound otherwise, but he says that a princess must be perfect in all things.
After French comes history, which I enjoy more than I am meant to, particularly when it concerns queens who refused to do as they were told.
I do not say this aloud, of course—but I think it very loudly.
Basic arithmetic follows, which I endure rather than enjoy.
My lessons are nothing to boast of—you learned more than I on the subject.
I am competent enough, but I cannot see why anyone should care so deeply about columns of figures when there are books to be read and ideas to be discussed.
Music occupies the late morning. I practice diligently, because I know I must, but you will not be surprised to hear that I prefer to play what I feel rather than what is set before me.
This is not encouraged. Nothing spontaneous ever is.
After luncheon there are walks, always supervised, always measured.
I am told how long I may walk, where I may look, and whom I may greet.
Sometimes I imagine myself striding off across the fields as you do, with no one counting my steps or watching the tilt of my head.
When I confided this once, I was reminded—very solemnly—that I am never alone, even when I wish to be. I did not thank them for that wisdom.
My afternoons are given to drawing, needlework, and what they call “improving conversation.” I ask questions during these discussions, which does not always meet with approval.
One lady told me recently that it is not necessary for me to understand everything placed before me—only to accept it.
I smiled very sweetly and asked her how one could possibly govern wisely without understanding.
She did not answer me, and I consider that a small victory.
I confess, Elizabeth, that I am dreadfully bored.
Not with learning—never with learning—but with being told endlessly what I must become, without being asked who I already am.
Everyone has plans for me. Everyone speaks of my future as though it is a tapestry already woven, and I am merely to step into it at the proper moment.
I wish, just once, to choose the pattern myself.
There are duties as well, of course. I attend when I am summoned, I listen when spoken to, I smile when expected.
I sign my name carefully, practice my curtsy until my knees ache, and write letters of gratitude to people I have never met.
I do these things well. They say I am obedient.
I think that is because they mistake silence for agreement.