Longbourn,
September 18, 1812
My dear Lizzy,
I trust this letter finds you still possessed of some of your usual good sense, though given the state of affairs at Longbourn, I would not fault you if you had considered abandoning reason entirely. I expect you are still preparing for your much-anticipated northern tour, and I confess I look forward to your eventual reports. I shall expect thorough descriptions of wild moors and at least one poetic lament on the subject of a ruined abbey.
However, I must write with less pleasant news. Your sister Kitty has taken to her bed with a fever, and now Jane has begun coughing. Lydia, of course, declares herself invincible, but she has been looking rather pale, and Isuspect she is only moments away from fainting for dramatic effect. Your mother is similarly indisposed—though I must note that she shows no symptoms apart from a renewed enthusiasm for smelling salts and an increased volume of lamentation.
Mrs. Hill assures me that all will be well in due time, but it seems prudent to exercise caution. Therefore, I must insist that you do not return to Longbourn next week as planned, as I should hate for you or your aunt and uncle to take ill. It is quite bad enough to have one daughter on my hands suffering from restlessness—I shudder to imagine what two or even five might do to the peace of this household.
Enjoy your extended stay in London, and do attempt to avoid losing yourself in the bookshop. Your mother would never recover.
Yours, as ever,
Your affectionate (and presently beleaguered) father
Elizabeth lowered the letter slowly, her chest tight with a mixture of concern and reluctant amusement at her father’s tone.
“Well,” she said finally, folding the letter again with steady fingers. “That is that.”
Mrs. Gardiner reached out, taking the letter from her niece and scanning it quickly. “Oh, poor Jane. And Kitty! A fever can be worrisome.”
“And Papa does not want me returning home,” Elizabeth murmured. She ought to have expected it, after how the rest of her stay had gone. They were originally meant to go to the Lakes in August, but too many unforeseen "emergencies" and delays with her uncle's business had put that off. So, they had changed plans so Elizabeth could havea month in London, being spoiled by her favorite aunt… and Elizabeth had gone and made a hash of that at the earl's party.
“I am sorry, my dear,” her aunt said gently. “No, your uncle and I absolutely must remain in London.”
Elizabeth exhaled slowly, pressing her fingers to her forehead. First, the Lakes were taken from her. Then her dignity. Now, even Longbourn was barred.
“Well,” she said, “it seems I shall be remaining in London as well.”
Her uncle gave a single nod, though his expression was still grave. “Then we must make the best of it.”
Darcy tossed aside oneletter and reached for the next, his fingers pressing briefly to his temple as he tried to ease the throbbing ache there. Sir Frederick’s familiar hand greeted him as he unfolded the paper.
Mr. Darcy,
I regret to inform you that the matter of Miles Stanton’s enclosures is proving more complex than anticipated. While legally defensible, the transactions surrounding the grazing lands are, at best, questionable. There are reports that key documents were misfiled or signed under duress, but no tenant has yet been willing to come forward with an official statement. You and I both know that fear of retribution keeps many of these men silent.
Furthermore, reports of poaching disputes are increasing, and tensions between local landowners and smaller farmers grow worseby the week. Stanton’s influence is emboldening those who would take justice into their own hands, and I fear it is only a matter of time before one of these disputes turns violent. If you have any influence to bring to bear on your tenants, I would suggest exerting it now—before grievances turn into something far more difficult to control.
Yours, etc.
Sir Frederick Montague
Magistrate
Darcy exhaled sharply, folding the letter and setting it aside. The magistrate was right. The poaching disputes were no longer just a matter of law—they were a symptom of something deeper, something that Stanton was fueling with every unchecked abuse of power. If tensions boiled over into violence, it would be men like Sir Frederick left to pick up the pieces, but the damage would be done. And Stanton—calculating, untouchable Stanton—would find a way to turn that chaos to his advantage.
Next, he reached for a letter from his steward at Pemberley, the familiar scrawl making his stomach tighten before he even opened it. The estate matters had been running smoothly when he left, but with everything else hanging over his head, Darcy half-expected some fresh disaster.
Sir,
The northern tenants have raised concerns again regarding the water rights at Sowden Brook. There has been a dispute with the miller at Lambert’s End—he claims exclusive access, while the farmers insist the stream has always served their irrigation needs as well. They have requested intervention, as tempers are beginning to run high.
Additionally, the barley crops in the eastern fields are showing signs of blight. Mr. Warren believes it may be a mild strain, but if left unchecked, we may be facing a greater loss than anticipated. I have sent for an inspection from the apothecary in Matlock and will await his recommendations.
Lastly, the matter of the farrier’s lease has yet to be resolved. He has requested to purchase the smithy outright, but I await your final decision.
