Chapter Two
Dear Miss Tilney,
Forgive the impudence of my writing to you in this manner—though, given such impudence as you have already endured from me, a mere note must not seem so great a sin.
Still, men and women do not correspond unless they are engaged to be married.
There exists however one exception to this rule, of which I now avail myself: A man may propose marriage through a letter, and so I do.
Through your famed investigations, you have proved yourself a clever creature, Miss Tilney.
Therefore I will not insult your intelligence by pretending that I am overcome with love for you, or that you are likely to feel such sentiments toward me.
The fact is that, through my bad manners and ill-considered humor, I have wrecked both our reputations in a manner that only marriage is likely to cure.
Were we to wed, it would be presumed that any liberties taken during the painting of the portrait were those readily excused between two affianced persons.
This would restore your honor, and though the public might consider us intemperate, even shocking, they would no longer punish us for such a minor impropriety as that.
My own situation is not what a bride would most desire, yet I am not so reduced as to be ineligible.
I am not to inherit any grand estate, but my fortune should be sufficient to take a very respectable house, perhaps even to purchase one.
You would not be among the first figures of fashion, but nor would you be shabbily or inelegantly supported.
It is possible, indeed, that my situation would be much improved by our marriage.
My wretched “joke” at your expense has harmed my situation at least as much as it has yours, for I had only just begun to establish myself as a portraitist. To have abused your trust—to have portrayed you in a scandalous manner, entirely contrary to your actual pose—has ruined any confidence future clients might have had in my discretion.
I have had no commissions since that unfortunate incident in London, and though I have managed to sell a few allegorical works, my portrait-painting days are at an end—at least, for now.
Were you to marry me, however, it would cast my behavior in an entirely different light.
All would understand that a painter takes liberties with his own wife that he would never presume with any other.
In time, I could resume my career and paint many persons in fine society, and in so doing, I should be able to add to our income and comfort.
As for fondness, we should have to trust that marriage would in time make us companions of the heart.
Many generations have wed so, and many have been made happy.
We have each, I think, known other feelings—deeper sentiments toward persons now lost to our hopes.
Yet should this not awaken a certain sympathy between us?
If we did not enter marriage joyfully, we could do so honestly, and that alone is more than many accomplish.
Let me also apologize to you personally, as I ought to have done before (and did attempt in London, only to find that you had already quitted the city).
Although it is no excuse, I had not the slightest thought of causing such harm.
With no suspicion that either you or Mr. Darcy should be in London for the season, I imagined your face would go entirely unrecognized.
I thought it a private joke—a rude one to be sure, but one that assuaged my pitiful sense of humiliation after Mr. Darcy, the old schoolfellow I had once teased for his foolishness, solved the murder of the woman I had once loved.
That he should avenge her, while I had been blind!
—though for the sake of her memory, I ought to have been grateful for this rather than resentful.
Regardless of your reply to my letter, know that I deeply regret my actions in this matter and always shall.
I am well aware of the damage I have done to your reputation, Miss Tilney, and I am ashamed of it. Let it not also be said that I have robbed you of your chance to marry. Let us make an alliance that can heal many wounds and offer us every chance of prosperity.
You will of course wish to speak of the matter with your good parents.
Please let them know that I have written to your father for permission; my letter to him should arrive within a day or two of your own.
I felt it most proper to speak first to you, as it is your answer I am more uncertain of receiving.
Take whatever time you require to decide whether my suit shall find favor.
Yours in sincerity—
Laurence Follett
From this missive, Juliet could not swiftly recover. To think that Laurence Follett, the man who had destroyed all her hopes, should compound his impudence by wishing to make her his wife!—no, no, it was not to be borne.
Yet the worst of the letter was that the arguments Mr. Follett made were not unreasonable. He had offered the one cure for her situation, the only path back into society and respectability.
Surely Papa and Mama would not expect me to wed against my inclinations, she thought. They would not wish me to become the bride of such a man.
But they would wish her to become a bride, and it was entirely possible that Mr. Follett’s offer constituted Juliet’s last and only chance to do so.
As the Darcy carriage turned at last upon the drive of Netherfield Park, Jonathan looked out the open window to take in the scene.
His usual trepidation regarding new places did not apply here, for he knew this corner of Hertfordshire nearly as well as he did his home in Derbyshire; and Netherfield had housed him on more than one occasion.
Of all people outside his immediate family, almost no one was so gentle and welcoming as his aunt Jane.
“You are come to us at last,” she said, hurrying out past the butler; Aunt Jane did not stand upon ceremony when it came to greeting those she most loved.
“Though we were afraid you might not be well enough to travel—but then, we knew that if you needed nursing and your dear mama was away, that of course you should be with us.”
Jonathan submitted to her embrace; even from Aunt Jane, he sometimes found such touches unwelcome, but he could prepare for them, and from experience knew she would not linger unduly.
“I do not need any more nursing, as you shall soon see for yourself. Mother refuses to believe that I am returned to health, but you may be able to convince her better than I can—even better than the evidence of her own eyes.”
Aunt Jane replied, “You will remain at Netherfield until such time as all of us are assured of your complete recovery.”
That might mean weeks, even months. Much could happen in a few months’ time. Jonathan had been sure to bring his writing box, and this very night, he could begin work on the most important letter he was ever to write.
His pleasant mood was, however, swiftly tempered upon his entering the Netherfield drawing room and encountering so many persons there.
“Jonathan! Good lad!” His uncle Mr. Bingley rose to his feet and shook Jonathan’s hand with both warmth and brevity. “How happy I am to see you, and in excellent health, it seems! Come, come, you remember my sister and her husband, the Hursts?”
Mr. Hurst slumped on a nearby chaise, well into his cups despite the midafternoon hour.
This was, indeed, exactly how Jonathan always remembered him.
Mrs. Hurst sat alone at the card table, playing a round of patience.
Though Mr. Hurst did no more than lift his half-empty glass of port as a sort of salute, Mrs. Hurst did look up long enough to smile.
“Well, Mr. Darcy, you have come. Perhaps at last we can gather a table for whist.”
“Good L—d, woman,” groaned Mr. Hurst as he motioned to a servant to pour him more port. “How much more money can you lose before dinnertime?”
“It is early in the day for cards, is it not?” Jonathan said. He was wary of playing cards, mostly because he was very good at it. In his experience, people never liked him any better after they owed him money.
“I do not see why we may not play whatever games we wish at home!” Mrs. Hurst cried. “Why, we are all family here, are we not? Except, of course, Mr. Lucas. I suppose the Brookses must be said to count.”
Mrs. Brooks—Jonathan’s aunt Kitty—did not take well to this. “If you are family by being sister to one of the Bingleys, then surely I am family by being sister to the other.” Only then did she add, “It is good to see you, Jonathan. You have long been absent from Hertfordshire.”
“Indeed,” said her husband, Mr. Brooks, the local curate. His smile was slight, but not insincere. “How glad we are that you have returned.”
In his considerations of the Netherfield visit, Jonathan had not thought much about the presence of the Brookses.
His aunt Kitty had always been pleasant enough to him, he supposed—neither teasing him in the manner of his grandparents nor achieving the warmth and welcome of Aunt Jane.
The Brookses had visited Pemberley on a handful of occasions in his childhood, but not since.
To his embarrassment, he hardly recognized his aunt Kitty; his memory had not done justice to her bright eyes and open manner.
His uncle Mr. Brooks, however, proved difficult to recall even when standing directly in Jonathan’s sight.
He had been handsome in his youth but now appeared entirely ordinary, neither tall nor short, thin nor fat.
His attire was that befitting a country parson, modest and plain.
Jonathan remembered only one companionable incident between himself and Mr. Brooks from childhood, when Mr. Brooks had showed him some interesting mathematical puzzles.
(Interesting to him, at least: Matthew and James had immediately effected an escape to play in the Pemberley attics instead.)