Matlock
December 1900
“Elizabeth?”GeorgianaDarcystoppedhesitantly at the door of the library at Matlock, where Elizabeth had been trying to mind her book. Poetry had lost all its lustre these days, and tragic novels rang somewhat too close to reality for comfort.
She smiled for Georgiana, whose arrival two days prior had been a greater pleasure than she could have expected. “Yes?”
The young lady entered the room, and almost bashfully held out a letter. “It is from my brother. He said some mail came for you recently. It had been accidentally delivered to your first rooming house in London, and it took all that while to be delivered properly. Can you imagine?”
Elizabeth narrowed her eyes as she hesitantly accepted the envelope. Something was odd in Georgiana Darcy’s tone—a touch of irony rather poorly concealed, but any such letter would be a much-coveted gift, no matter the story. “Thank you.”
Georgiana left her, and Elizabeth considered waiting for Jane or Billy to open it. The first letter, however, was from William to her, and she could hardly readthatin their presence.
Dear Elizabeth,
I hope this letter finds you in better spirits than my last surely did. I wish I could have delivered it personally, but I hope that my sister’s company has been some consolation during this time. Another moment, and I would have been on the train myself, despite your entreaties for calm rationality. I expect Georgiana informed you that an unfortunate matter arose directly on the heels of receiving news from you, but I still consider it a paltry excuse for not being there to comfort my friend in her time of trial and grief. Perhaps this letter will make up for some of my failings on that part.
In one respect, I must beg your forgiveness. The letter had been opened before it came to me, and its original envelope remains unaccounted for. Knowing, as I did, the sensitivity of certain matters, I took it upon myself to read the letter as well, to ensure that nothing of harm could have been perceived within its pages by a stranger. Fortunately, I do believe you will find its contents rather a comfort than a thing to be feared.
I would write more just now, but there is nothing I can possibly write that you will treasure more than the letter I send. I will only add my sincerest hopes for peace in your spirits.
William
Elizabeth sniffed and blinked the mist from her eyes as she carefully folded William’s letter. This, she tucked into the neckline of her gown, close to her heart, and it would later find its way into the treasure box of letters she kept in her room. She was impatient now to read what William had commended to her, so without lingering or seeking out anyone else, she unfolded the creased and wrinkled pages of the original letter. Tears choked her when she recognised her father’s handwriting.
My dearest Lizzy,
Perhaps by now you have moved on from your first lodgings and have already sent a change of address, but I trust you will have left forwarding information at your rooming house. A wiser person would have patiently waited for better information, but I have never been wise or patient.
My child, I hardly know what to write to you. I fear you should not expect many letters from me, for I do not doubt the trouble of putting these few words down on paper will be all the exertion my mind will permit for at least a month or more. You know, I hope, that it is not for any lack of affection for you that I will prove a miserable correspondent. The opposite is the case, for once I permit my thoughts to stray, I fear I am useless for anything but the ruminations of an old man. Jane, I know, will someday come back to me. I fear Billy will as well, but you, my dearest girl, are lost to me. Would that I could push back the sunrise, turn back the seasons and make the world right again.
Much as I grieve the loss of you, I am assured now that I have done the right thing in sending you away. Silas Bryson still has Jamison’s ear, and I fear you would not be safe until the father lies cold beside the son. Though it be a mortal sin to confess it, I should say such a loss would be my gain. I thank heaven that Colonel Fitzwilliam is a more honourable man than his rival, and I pray daily that you will be secure and happy the rest of your days with him.
Lizzy, if the events of the last months have taught me anything, it is that tomorrow is never promised. I thought I had all the time in the world to tell you that you have been my joy since the first time your baby fist squeezed my finger. I thought the day would never come when I would not see your flying petticoats coming to cheer me over a dusty horizon, or I would not have a bit of idle time to look forward to, reading a line or two of poetry over your shoulder. And I thought I would dandle my grandchildren on my knee—hearty, bright-eyed troublemakers who were forever toddling in my footsteps rather than minding their mother.
How my mind’s eye cherishes that image! I suppose now that you are a married woman, little Fitzwilliams may soon be in the offing. Do see about sending your father a photograph if the joyous event should become a reality. I probably ought to secret such a keepsake if it should ever come my way, but I am just obtuse enough to flaunt before Bryson that you are alive and out of his reach.
My dearest child, I do not know how much more I have in me. I was a fractured, bitter man before you were taken from me, but it was you who lifted my head and poured sweet encouragement into my soul. Do not grieve, my daughter. I do not say this to give you sorrow, but to thank you for the treasure you have been to your father. Other men hope for sons—many and strong, to ease their burden and to carry on their name into immortality. Few are they who think to wish for a daughter of fire and iron—one who charges into life with all the bluster and brilliance of an unbroken steed. No, not many men can boast of such a girl. You are my pride, my spirit, and all that I shall ever hope to leave behind me in this world.
I shall try to write more when I can think of you without my old head pounding and my old heart splitting. Mary will keep you updated about the others, I am sure. She is a good girl, Mary. Practical and steady, not like that harum-scarum I raised. Is it not just the irony of life? I love all my girls, but I believe it is the harum-scarum who stole her father’s fondest affections.
I hope you are safely in the arms of the colonel’s family and secure in the love of a good man. God bless you, my child.
Your own
Papa
She could not say how long she sat there afterwards, gazing at the winter’s frail light through the library window. Her father’s words were an unexpected benediction over her, and just as William had said, they brought more peace than sorrow. She started and drew a breath when a light knock sounded behind her.
“Are you well, Elizabeth?” Georgiana asked from the doorway.
She nodded. “Yes.”
Georgiana approached on silent feet; her expression cautious but growing bolder when Elizabeth did not object to her presence. “How did you find your letter?”
Elizabeth sniffed once more and managed a truthful smile. “It… it was wonderful.”
“But you are still crying. Are you sure?”
