Matlock
December 1900
TheletterfromMrDarcy—fromWilliam—had brought more relief than anything else. The countess’s kindness, the dowager’s sympathy, and even the earl’s compassionate gestures were nothing to what he, her friend, had gifted her in that letter.
Understanding.
Of course, others knew what it was to lose a beloved father. The countess even knew what it was to uproot herself from the home and family of her youth, but there was more—so much more—that none of them could possibly comprehend, for she had not told them all.
It was William who had peered into her other sufferings, who had lifted her head and spoken life-giving encouragement when she expected denouncement. It was he who knew that it was not love of a soldier that had drawn her away from her father too soon, but something far more sinister—something that still haunted her in fragile moments, and always would. And it was he who assured her that the past ought to remain there, and that she should not permit it to blacken her present or steal her future.
Jane received a letter from Mr Bingley, which surprised her as much as it comforted her. In this, also, Fitzwilliam Darcy’s hand was evident, for certainly, Jane had not been so bold as to write and beg her beau’s commiseration. Another letter followed the next day, and a third arrived the day after. He was unavoidably detained, but his persistent letters in the following days brought reassurance. Gradually, Jane’s countenance brightened once more, at least while she read Mr Bingley’s letters or wrote her replies.
Elizabeth, too, had commenced a regular correspondence, though she could not permit herself such open cheer or such frequent letters. Every third day, Darcy wrote to ask after her wellbeing and insist upon a satisfactory response. Always, he spoke with the intimacy of the dearest friend and truest confidant. It was so easy to slip into the pages, to imagine that he would only write toonewoman with such feeling and tenderness, and that he merely waited to say more until he could see her in person.
The reality of it greyed when Anne de Bourgh returned from London. The lady’s presence was a continual reminder to Elizabeth that she pined for what belonged to another. She would have avoided the lady in her more morose moments, but for the fact that Miss de Bourgh sought her out. Whether it was politely inquiring more of Elizabeth’s early life or remaining in the same room when Elizabeth was engaged in something else, the stately blonde was more frequently at her side in the afternoons than not. And, though it was not without some pain that she confessed it to herself, Anne de Bourgh was far from uncivil or even unlikable. And so, she resigned herself to the London socialite’s company, and tried to think of her as a friend.
Two days before Christmas, another letter arrived from Wyoming. This one, too, appeared to have been misdirected, but its condition was not nearly so bedraggled as the first. The three refugees adjourned to a private room together and set the letter on a small table, each staring at it with foreboding.
“You read it this time, Jane,” Elizabeth whispered. “I do not have it in me.”
Jane only shook her head, her cheeks bloodless, and her eyes nearly turquoise with unshed tears.
Billy gulped and puffed his chest in a show of bravado. “I’ll read it.”
DearWilliam,
We had another letter from home today. I bore up rather well, only breaking down twice throughout, and I am sure part of that had to do with Jane trying to look braver than I am sure she felt. She never could fool me, and it pains me to see her try.
But enough of that. You will wish to hear the particulars, and I am aching to dissect them with someone, even if only in my thoughts. I am greatly comforted to report that my mother and two younger sisters are well protected. My uncle has tightened his vigilance, and has even hired a trustworthy young man at the store who also helps guard my sisters. My middle sister, Mary, had informed me of her betrothal just before the shock of my father’s death. In this most recent letter, my uncle tells me that Mary and John Lucas held their ceremony early, within just a few days of my father’s funeral. I am consoled in knowing that my most sensible sister will be well off and safe.
You may ask why I speak of such concerns as safety, as if there were some threat against my loved ones apart from penury. In fact, I believe there may be. My uncle wrote in his first letter that my father’s forge had been blamed for starting the fire that claimed his life. I found that strange, because I have watched my father for many years, and no man could be more cautious. However, it was what my uncle wrote in his next letter that gave me the most alarm.
You may recall the photographs kindly commissioned by Lady Matlock. We sent both of them with our letters last autumn. I imagined my mother and sisters would retain one, and the other would be kept by my father. He came to town but rarely, you see, and most of his possessions remained with him at the smithy by the horse corrals.
At my uncle’s urging, the town sheriff ensured that a proper inspection took place after the fire. Oddly, the building had burned hottest near my father’s writing desk, not the forge. In fact, there was no metal found in the forge, which makes me doubt that it was even lit. Other things were strange—they said the posture of my father’s body did not look as if he were sleeping, nor that he tried to flee, but rather that he might have been unconscious on the floor, facing not the door but a wall. However, it was two days after the initial reports that they found it. The photograph, I mean. It was discovered under an overturned kettle, almost as if someone wished to protect it from the blaze. My face had been crossed out.
My uncle perceived this as a retaliation of sorts, and I fear he was right to do so. I have told you certain things… I am certain you must know the suspicions now haunting me. If it was indeed the person I believe behind the assault on my father, then I am responsible for his death. I do not say guilty—I am not so delusional that I would accept the blame, but the responsibility is mine, as surely as if I had stood by and watched without putting a stop to it.
I do not know how I shall sleep tonight, or any night for the rest of my life. I have run out of tears. Oh, I weep, but it is not the pathetic crooning of a broken heart. It is fearful—I terrify even myself in my rage. I need new words, for ‘regret’ is something that must belong to a child. ‘Sorrow’—I am so far beyond that word that I could not define it if I had to. I want to break something, to scream and howl. I would rend my garments and pour ash on my head like the mourners of old, but always is that fear of being proclaimed mad.
Mad… yes, I am! Does a sane person tremble in their bed, with the sheets clutched between their teeth to keep from crying out in a wrathful frenzy? Does a person of reason pace the floors until they are worn, muttering half the night of how they might have carried on their affairs differently? Oh, how I wish I had never gone out that night! Instead of blood on my hands, I would have… indeed, it would still be on my hands, but it would be my sister’s life ruined instead of my own. But perhaps it might not have ended so. Would it have been a simple dalliance, a few kisses and nothing more? You see what a wretch I am become, a creature thriving on doubt and anger.
There. Now you know the full measure of my depravity. I can only pray that one day, my blood will not be so hot nor my stomach so nauseated. I am too terrified to sleep, lest the nightmares take me again, and so I have once more begun to sneak into the billiards room by night until my eyes grow numb and my limbs heavy. In such a state, I can do no harm, not even to myself.
There need be no cause for you to write a reply. There is nothing anyone can do, but I had to say something before my heart exploded. You have seen all my ugliness now, all my horrific urges and contemptible thoughts. I would not blame you for cautiously withdrawing, but I think I know you better than that. I fear you will do something worse—that you will try to soothe me in person. I can only implore you, with everything left in me that is decent and good, stay where you are. I am already quieter than when I began, for the exhaustion of all my fury to your sympathetic ear has uncorked some of the outrage tormenting me. You have already given comfort before you even read this.
I would laugh if I had it in me, for I was thinking of a way to close this letter just now, and the only thing to come to mind was to wish you and Miss Darcy a Merry Christmas. Am I not a hypocrite? But I do wish that for you—that you and your sister may find peace and joy in each other’s company, and that every glad thing may come your way during the festive season.
I fear I am a disappointment to Lady Matlock, who was very much looking forward to introducing us to all the old traditions we have never known. I hope I can be a respectable guest during these next days—that I can smile and indulge the children’s fond little whims and that I will not do so with black circles under my eyes or my jaw clenched in unspent passion.
As always, I hope this letter finds you in good health.
With all the cheer I possess,
Elizabeth
Darcywaspacingandseething by the time he finished Elizabeth’s latest letter. All his considerable restraint was insufficient to prevent him from smashing a fist into the nearest object—a wooden globe—and then swearing in both pain and fury.
