Jane
The second letter carried Mary’s careful hand and even greater excitement.
Longbourn, Hertfordshire
10 January 1812
Dearest Elizabeth,
Mr Collins and I are engaged! Pray offer your good wishes, for I am truly happy and my betrothed no less eager than I to begin our life together. Our courtship may seem hasty, yet I have no doubt of my choice. He is a good man—sincere and attentive—and our correspondence has revealed a depth of devotion I had not expected. His character is above reproach; I believe we will be very content.
Our wedding is to precede Jane’s. Mama could not persuade me to wait—I am not so obliging as our eldest sister. We shall marry at the end of February. Say you will attend! I know you left home for a purpose, and I do not fault you, but do promise to share my happy day!
Afterwards, I hope you will visit us in Kent. Mr Collins has already consented and says the parsonage will accommodate you, Elinor, and Miss Lane with ease. You need not bring my niece if it proves inconvenient, but I know how loath you are to be parted from her.
Write to me soon, dear sister, and tell me your thoughts.
With affection,
Mary
Elizabeth smiled as she folded the letter.Kitty will be delighted,she mused. The second-youngest Bennet had waited so patiently for her come out. Lydia, by contrast, would rail at not accompanying her sister, but she was not yet sixteen, their father would insist she wait until her seventeenth year.Kitty would at last have her moment, for she would be the only Bennet sister yet unwed in society.Except for me,Elizabeth thought with a wry twist of feeling. Married and widowed, she doubted many still counted her amongst the eligible.
A notion began to form.If I go to Hunsford in March and remain six weeks, Elinor and I might afterwards journey to Margate.The idea of seeing the sea quickened her spirits. A little holiday by the coast might do them both good. Her daughter would delight in the waves, and the air and solitude might at last bring some measure of peace.
Resolved, Elizabeth penned a letter enquiring after cottages to lease in Margate. She addressed it to Wilkens and sent it express to Hertfordshire. Her faithful man of business would no doubt assist her to find a suitable dwelling.
She spent many hours in the library at Godfrey House, writing in her journal and sifting through the tumult of thoughts that still lingered within. Each passing day brought greater composure; she could at last reflect on the past with less distress. Weeks passed, and when Suzanne and Mr Blythe returned from their wedding trip, she felt almost renewed—lighter, as though a great burden had been lifted.
There was, however, one remaining matter that pressed on her mind, and when Suzanne was at leisure, Elizabeth ventured to confide it.
“How did you forgive your mother for her part in your marriage?”
Suzanne looked contemplative. “I do not think I ever blamed Mama,” she admitted. “We were both—well, I was young, and she was ill. She might have consulted my sister, Lady Matlock, I suppose, yet she would not.”
“Then you never resented her for marrying you to a brute?”
Her friend sighed. “Your father’s misjudgements led you to your fate,” she began. “You were required to suffer for his decisions. He delayed too long in securing his daughters’ futures and, when at last he tried, placed his trust in the wrong man. Yet I do not believe his aim was selfish—he meant to provide for you all. It is sadly common for good intentions to miscarry when guided by inexperience. You were left to bear the cost, and he, though sorrowing, escaped the worst of the consequence. His ventures brought him wealth, while you were bound to the one who sought to destroy him—and you. It is therefore no wonder you should feel some bitterness towards your father.”
“Why then do I feel guilty for the resentment I bear him?” she blurted. “He came as soon as you wrote after Fiennes’s death. He opened his home to me and my unborn child, helped me manage affairs, and has asked nothing in return.”
“Yet you are still angry.” Suzanne rose and crossed to the window, her gaze fixed on the garden beyond. “Anger and resentment are rarely reasonable. Your mind knows you ought to have forgiven him long ago, but your heart is still wounded. Decide what you truly need from him, Elizabeth, and seek it. If it is a spoken apology, he would give it, I am sure. Your father avoids what disquiets him; he has likely kept silent from awkwardness—or from fear of causingyoufurther pain.”
Elizabeth followed her to the window. “I know,” she said at length. “I will speak with him. Something tells me it is the last step I must take before I may truly heal, and be wholly at peace.”
Suzanne turned and took her hands. “You have come so far in these few short months. In a week you return to Longbourn for Mary’s wedding. Will you be ready?”
Elizabeth pressed her friend’s hands. “I shall. And then, perhaps, I might truly begin life anew.” She had notlivedfor years—merely endured. Now she wanted more. She longed to breathe freely and see the world afresh… It was a dream worth pursuing.
Two days before her departure, a note arrived from Wilkens.
Dower House, Netherfield
Hertfordshire
10 February 1812
Mrs Fiennes,
