I cannot know how to write this to you. The very worst has happened, and I can scarce put pen to paper. The countess kindly offered to send a telegram on my behalf, but I asked her to defer—I believe you will understand why when I have said all.
We finally had a letter from home today. It is over two months old, having been routed incorrectly twice before eventually coming to London, Pemberley, and then here. My uncle writes—oh, that I should have to put this down in black and white! He writes that my father has been killed. A fire, he says, and they are blaming his forge, but that explanation makes no sense to me.
Oh, my friend, I am entirely lost! My dear papa—you cannot know how much of my soul has died today! But yes, I believe you do understand, because I have heard you speak of your own father. How I wish I could talk to you, and to hear words of comfort from one who knows something of such pain!
My poor Jane has been weeping in her bed nearly all day. Billy has tried to console each of us, but I am afraid his sermonising is the last thing I can bear just now, though I know he means well. What I long for most, I cannot have—someone who will simply allow me to grieve in their presence, without expecting me to recover my senses when they have tired of my tears.
Lady Matlock is everything generous, and even the dowager countess has expressed her kind condolences and desire to be of some material good at such a time. Still, I am afraid nothing can bring relief. It is a darkness we have but to endure until the shroud of sorrow wears thin enough for little pinholes of light to filter through.
My faithful friend, you have been a comfort to me through so many trials already, and I could only think of writing to you when I ached to speak to someone. I feared sending you a telegram, however, because I do not wish for you to break off your plans in London merely to come back and wipe my tears. In fact, I must beg you not to come, though I know such an impulse will feel most natural to you. Please, grant me this request, and remain in London, but if I may be so bold, I would covet a letter in reply. A bit of well-worn wisdom, from one who has experienced the same loss, would not go amiss just now.
I can write no more. Just now, the sorrow is too great, and I only wish to return to my bed and do as Jane has done—to shut out the world and hold my pain close to my heart until it at lasts accepts the terrible truth.
I hope this letter finds you in good health and spirits, and I beg your pardon for unburdening my own cares by laying a part of this weight on you. My best wishes to you and to Miss Darcy,
Elizabeth
Darcy lowered the brief letter and put a hand to his mouth, discovering that his eyes were flooded and his body quaking in sympathetic agony. He knew well how much she adored her father. Richard’s first letter to him had been ample indication that she, among all the daughters of Thomas Bennet, had shared her father’s soul.
He read the letter again, the tears still standing in his eyes and even a sob or two threatening to stop his breathing. Poor Elizabeth! Yes, she had known the truth—she could never go back and see her father again, but Darcy suspected she had long cherished the hope of some other sort of reunion. A secretive visit in New York, perhaps, or even something so extravagant as bringing all her family to England. Now, to have even that hope dashed and to know her father was utterly lost to her—all with no chance of ever saying goodbye—it must have broken her utterly.
It never occurred to him to question why she had been desperate for word from himself. The only real question was why she was so insistent that he should not come to her at such a time, and to that, he suspected he knew the answer.
She was afraid.
Afraid of him, afraid of herself, and afraid of what would come the moment he held her, and she wept on his shoulder. And she would be right—he would cradle her, sweep her long curls off her neck and whisper words of more than comfort in her ear. He would kiss her forehead, press her tear-streaked cheek to his lips… and that would be the end of his self-respect.
His hand strayed to his desk drawer, to the portrait frame he kept secreted there. He drew it out, and his fingers traced the edges of her cheeks, the pointed dip of her chin, the vivid smile and spark in her eye that no painter could have captured. His soul groaned in his breast. How he would cherish the ability to restore that smile! For one moment, to be the one to wipe the tears from those brilliant eyes and see her courage rise once more!
All he could do was precisely as she had begged, and so he heaved a weary sigh, then drew up a fresh sheet of paper to begin.
Dear Elizabeth,
I wish I knew the words to give you, but words are insufficient. And, as you have probably found by now, tears are insufficient. Grief is a beast that overwhelms even the stoutest heart… for a time.
I will not attempt to moralise or give you empty promises that someday you will forget this pain. We both know better than that, do we not? The thought of Heaven must be some comfort, but it is not a prospect you are likely to cling to while your grief is still so raw. You are simply emptied.
Elizabeth, I have seen you force yourself to smile when you would rather weep. I have heard you laugh when you longed instead to cry out. Enough. Enough! You are always the strong one of your little family, the one who lifts the others by the sheer force of your will. Yet it is you who have endured the worst, lost the most, and you cannot give what you have exhausted.
I know enough of you to say this. Before you opened this letter, you were chastising yourself for mourning. You felt guilt, even thought of punishing yourself for being unable to command your feelings and make them do as you wished. You have called me friend, and I shall do the same and ask this of you. Do not be so harsh on my friend. Allow her the time she needs but has never had. Allow her a place to mourn, permission to be a grieving daughter for so long as she must.
What you have lost cannot be accounted in the number of platitudes spoken or months that have passed. There is no quantity when all is sufficient. When my father died, I cannot tell you how difficult a thing it was for me to understand this. I permitted myself three months, then expected my mind to come to order.
Elizabeth, I failed.
The more I tried to insist on healing, the more it eluded me. I had matters to mend, a sister to raise, business to undertake. I had no time for grief, but it would not release me until it ran its course. And so, that is all I can give you. Permission. You must now give it to yourself.
I hope you will continue to write to me as you need. Do not think of yourself as a burden, I pray! In fact, I will make a threat of it. If you do not write to me regularly over the next weeks, I will arrive at Matlock without ceremony and possibly in the middle of the night. Or I will make demands of Lady Matlock until she heckles you into submission. Do not try to bear all this yourself. I am glad you feel you can write to me, for if the loss were mine, I would turn to you, my friend.
I am sure Georgiana would join me in wishing for your health and happiness. To this, I will add,
God bless you,
William
Chapter 33
Wyoming
