"I have already made my decision."
"But you have not read what he wrote! How can you judge the situation fairly without knowing the full circumstances? If you read it and still refuse, I shall accept your answer and trouble you no further. But at least grant me that much. Wehave been friends too long for you to dismiss my request without proper consideration.”
Elizabeth hesitated. There was some logic in Cassandra's words, however much she might wish to deny it. And beneath her friend's shallow reasoning about wealth and status, there was also some anxiety she could not quite ignore. Cassandra might be mercenary and foolish, but she was not cruel, and their friendship—however strained it was becoming—deserved at least this small concession.
"Very well," she said slowly. "I will read his letter. But I make no promises beyond that."
Cassandra's face brightened immediately. She hurried to her writing desk and retrieved the pages, pressing them into Elizabeth's hands hastily. "You will see. It is all engineering specifications and tenant concerns—nothing that requires a personal response. If you choose to, you could compose something perfectly adequate in a quarter-hour.”
Elizabeth unfolded the letter, half-expecting to find exactly what Cassandra had described—dry recitation of facts, perhaps some pompous declarations about his own importance. She settled back into her chair, determined to skim quickly and then depart with her refusal intact.
Dear Miss Rochford,
I trust this letter finds you well, though I must beg your forgiveness for both its tardiness and the circumstances that have prevented an earlier correspondence. I departed Hertfordshire with perhaps unseemly haste, driven by news that demanded my immediate return to Pemberley. I fear I left without making a proper farewell to you or to the others I hadthe pleasure of meeting at the Meryton assembly, and for that breach of courtesy I am truly sorry.
The prose was more elegant than she had been led to believe. Elizabeth read on, her eyes moving down the page.
The cause of my swift departure was a collapse in one of the mine shafts on Pemberley land. Recent storms—far more severe than the ones experienced in Hertfordshire—caused significant flooding in the lower passages. The water softened the supporting walls until they could no longer bear the weight above them. The collapse occurred during a shift change, which proved both a blessing and a curse. Most of the men were in the other parts of the mine at the moment of failure, but the few who were at the shaft had no warning and little chance of escape.
Elizabeth's breath caught. This was not the cold recitation of business she had expected. There was weight in these words, a gravity that spoke to unmistakable concern.
Two men were killed outright. Five more sustained injuries of varying severity—broken limbs, crushed ribs, and one poor soul who may never walk without assistance again. I arrived to find some families still gathered outside the mine entrance, some wailing with grief, others silent with a shock that seemed somehow worse than the noise. I have seen men injured in war, Miss Rochford, when I served briefly with the militia, but there is something particularly cruel about a preventable accident that claims lives in the course of honest labour.
Elizabeth forgot entirely that she was meant to be skimming. The letter continued, detailing the immediate relief efforts—funds distributed to the bereaved families, the injuredmen moved to Pemberley itself for treatment, arrangements made for the widows and children left without support. But it was not merely a catalogue of actions taken. There was feeling beneath the facts, a thread of something almost like anguish.
My steward assures me that the mine was properly maintained, that no negligence occurred. Perhaps that is true. Perhaps this was simply misfortune, the sort of tragedy that befalls even the best-managed estates. But I cannot escape the thought that these men worked on my land, extracted wealth from my property, and died in the service of my prosperity. That knowledge sits heavy upon me, Miss Rochford. I do not write this to seek sympathy—I am well aware that my discomfort is nothing compared to the suffering of those directly affected. But I felt compelled to share the truth of my situation with you, perhaps because our acquaintance is too new for me to have learned the proper masks one wears in correspondence.
Elizabeth's fingers tightened on the paper. This was not the Mr Darcy she had met at the assembly—or rather, it was him, but with layers revealed that she had not imagined existed. There was intelligence here, yes, but also a capacity for reflection and even self-doubt that seemed entirely at odds with the proud, disagreeable gentleman who had dismissed her as beneath his notice.
The letter continued with more practical matters—the engineers brought in to assess the damage, the plans for reinforcing the remaining shafts, and the timeline for returning the mine to operation. But even in these details, there was something that engaged her attention. He wrote clearly and well, with none of the pomposity she had expected. When he described the engineering challenges, he did so with trueinterest rather than the tedious self-importance Cassandra had complained of.
The conclusion was brief but struck a note that made her pause:
I find myself hoping this letter has not entirely exhausted your patience. I am conscious that mine disasters and tenant concerns make for poor topics in correspondence with a lady, but I confess I have little practice at the sort of pleasant trivialities that typically fill such pages. If you would be willing to write back—and I hope very much that you would—I should be grateful to hear of Hertfordshire news and how you are occupying yourself in what I trust are far more agreeable circumstances than my own.
Your servant,
Fitzwilliam Darcy
Elizabeth lowered the pages slowly, her mind working to reconcile what she had just read with every assumption she had formed about its author. There was thoughtfulness here, even a kind of quiet poetry in his phrasing. The vulnerability he had shown in admitting his lack of skill with pleasant trivialities—that struck her as far more authentic than any practised flattery would have been.
"You see?" Cassandra said, misinterpreting Elizabeth's silence. "Terribly dull, is it not? All that business about water damage and shaft reinforcement. What am I to do with that?"
"You could..." Elizabeth paused, choosing her words carefully. "You could respond with sympathy. Express concern for the families affected. Ask after the recovery of the injured men."
"But I do not know these people! Why should I care about the recovery of miners in Derbyshire? Besides, I should make a dreadful muddle of it. I am not clever with words like you are, Lizzy. Which is precisely why I need your help."
Elizabeth looked at her friend—truly looked at her—and saw someone who would never understand what the letter contained. Cassandra would read only the surface facts and miss entirely the man beneath them. She would respond with empty platitudes or worse, with the sort of calculated charm meant to flatter rather than connect.
And Mr Darcy—proud, disagreeable Mr Darcy, who had insulted Elizabeth within her hearing—deserved better than that. Not because she liked him or had forgiven his rudeness, but because this letter revealed a person grappling with a difficult situation, reaching out with uncommon honesty to someone he hoped might understand.
"Please, Lizzy." Cassandra's voice had grown softer, more urgent. "I know it seems strange, but truly, I need your help. And I swear to you, once we are better acquainted, I shall resume writing myself. Just this once. Or perhaps twice. Only until the correspondence finds its natural course."
Elizabeth's gaze returned to the letter in her lap. She thought of her father, who had once said to her:When a man shows you his wounds, Lizzy, you have two choices: to turn away, or to help bind them. The former is easier, but the latter is what separates us from savages.
She had not understood it fully at the time. Now, she thought, she might be beginning to know. Would it really hurt to write to Mr Darcy, to let him know his intended had received his letter and thought of him? That she shared in his concern?
There were things to consider of course. She would have to copy Cassandra’s writing, because eventually Cassandra would write to him herself. But that was not terribly hard. Or perhaps when the time came for Cassandra to write to him herself, she could say she had dictated her previous letter.
