“I… I don’t… It is not…” I began, but there was no way to take back words already spoken, and trying to correct myself with more rambling would only make things look worse. At least Charlotte didn’t look scandalised. Then she started to talk.
“I married out of necessity. I was risking spinsterhood and could not put the burden on my family to continue supporting me for the rest of my life. There was no fortune set aside for me,” she said, with a very direct look. “All women have to make a choice. I made mine and now I live with it. It is perhaps better than any realistic alternative, but I will not pretend it to be the life of my dreams.”
She shifted to get comfortable again, but I sensed she wasn’t finished with her advice. Desperate for guiding wisdom, I didn’t say a word.
“You are more lucky than you realise. Your choices are more free than I could ever imagine. Choose wisely. If you have someone you hold dear, don’t let go of her. You are not the first young woman to be swayed by curls, flushed cheeks, and delicate features,” she said, leaving me little room to misinterpret.
What she was proposing still seemed so impossible. The notion that Kitty was a choice I could make outside the safety of a daydream was overwhelming.
“I… I’m not sure I know how,” I whispered.
Charlotte squeezed my hand tightly.
“Have you ever heard of Lady Eleanor Butler and Miss Sarah Ponsonby?” she asked. “Or perhaps you may know them as the Ladies of Llangollen?”
I sifted through all the information I could recall ever reading, searching for a memory of the names but coming up short. When I shook my head, Charlotte offered me a soft smile.
“Lady Butler and Miss Ponsonby are two women who have made a home together in a cottage outside Llangollen. I am not saying it is common or that it is easy, but itispossible. They live in peace and attract interest from writers, and from the queen herself, but that interest is rarely negative—merely curious. I doubt they can be the only pair who manages to live quite happily that way. All others presumably enjoy more anonymity. Perhaps that kind of life could be something to pursue.”
What Charlotte was describing sounded perfect. Just Kitty and me undisturbed in a cottage. A few more tears tracked down my cheeks, and Charlotte pulled out a neatly folded handkerchief to pat them dry.
“Think very hard about the life you are willing to live, Miss Darcy,” she said. “If you truly could be happy with things the way your aunt would have them, then by all means, take the trodden path. But if not, please remember you do deserve to be happy. And you might be one of the few people in a position to get what you deserve.”
The words stayed with me for the rest of the visit and the entire walk back to Rosings. Emma’s tentative enquiries into my changed demeanour went unanswered as I turned the very idea of Charlotte’s suggestion over in my hands like a tangible object. The more I considered it, the more I couldn’timagine my life any other way. If it was conceivable for me to live with Kitty in a cottage, unbothered and unpersecuted, I didn’t want anything else. I had to see her, to find out if she wanted the same thing. I would not wait around for one final week to see if Lord Salter would deign to take me as his bride.
Writing to Kitty was still too dangerous, and it wasn’t a message I trusted on the lips of anyone else who had the means to travel to Longbourn. If I wanted to ask her, I would have to go myself.
Lady Catherine would never allow it, of course, but if I didn’t ask, she had no chance to refuse me. I had pin money. I could catch Royal Mail coaches or hire carriages to get me to Longbourn. From there, Kitty would have a plan. She dreamt so much of travel that I was certain she would know where best for us to escape to. All I had to do was get to her and put the rest of my life in the palms of her hands.
It was a terrifying concept in more ways than one. Even the journey of getting to her was dangerous, but it felt no more perilous than staying at Rosings and facing a life married to Lord Salter, who had looked at me the way Wickham often had. I could not let myself end up his bride, and if I stayed I would have no choice. The decision was already made.
I waited until nightfall, and not a minute longer. As soon as Emma had retired for the night and I knew I would no longer be disturbed, I pushed aside my covers and redressed in the warmest clothes I had with me.
I didn’t have much to pack. If I was to leave alone, as I knew I had to, everything would need to go in my valise.There were to be no chests of gowns or bulky hatboxes. Instead I stuffed in my most practical dresses with no regard for proper packing technique, tucking other essentials into every gap I could find. Shawls, a reticule, and my second-most-reliable pair of boots all found a home. My most reliable pair were tied tightly on my feet.
There was little with me at Rosings that held any sentimental value, but I made sure to collect Kitty’s hair ribbons and wind them back around my wrist. I would not leave them for Lady Catherine to dispose of in a fit of rage when she noted my absence, which seemed a not unlikely series of events.The Disposition of an English Ladyalso found a home in my bag. I whispered an apology to my mother for my actions as I tucked it inside, hoping she would have understood what I needed to do.
With my valise packed so generously it was a trial to pull the buckles tight, I was almost ready to go.
My brother’s coat had been tucked away in a drawer in the hope of my aunt not finding it and disapproving of me having it. I rubbed my thumb over the worn velvet and tarnished buttons before pushing my arms into the sleeves, the silky lining gliding over my arms. It was the first time I would ever wear the coat out of the house, but I found it was easier to hold my shoulders back and keep my chin up with it on. Besides, it was certainly warmer than any of my spencers. There was certainly a chance it would get me some strange looks as I travelled, but I was already going to be a womantravelling alone, so such looks were to be expected. At least this way I could be comfortable while people stared at me.
I left my room with no second glance or goodbye. There were no fond memories there.
I was going to be in need of something to cut through the darkness for a walk as far as the nearest town. Rosings still didn’t feel familiar to me, but I knew the way to the kitchens, where I hoped there would be some spare candles. Creeping through the corridors like a spectre, I eased open the kitchen door and searched through every drawer. Each creak of wood felt like a cannon firing in the silence of the house, but eventually my fingers landed on the cool wax of a supply of taper candles. I took three, keeping one to light before I left the house and stuffing two into my coat pockets.
There was nothing standing in the way of my leaving anymore, and I felt thrillingly lighter as I turned on the ball of my foot. The spin turned into a stumble as I was greeted not with an open door but instead the figure of Anne, holding a candlestick of her own.
“What are you doing?” she asked, tiredness clinging to the end of each word.
“Please, say nothing,” I begged.
Anne took note of my bag, and her eyes widened as she realised I was not simply in search of some late-night sustenance.
“Where are you going? Will you be back?” she asked.
“No,” I admitted. “Please let me go.”
Chewing at her bottom lip, Anne eventually nodded. She stepped aside so there was nothing between me and my way out.
