I do not. I never did.
No farewell. No signature. Just the familiar ink-blot at the end, as if even the pen could not bear to continue.
Elizabeth stared at the paper until the words bled into themselves. Mary had never had her ear, not really. And yet somehow, it cut deeper than she could have imagined.
The words blurred. Not from tears—she had not earned those—but from shame that ran too deep to cry out.
Her father’s was worse. Four lines, and his sarcasm bit.
So it seems your wit has finally found its audience. I had not expected the Bennet name to become a literary device, but there it is.
The neighbors are thoroughly entertained. Your mother has locked herself in her room and refuses even broth. Your aunt Phillips has reportedly swooned at every gathering since Tuesday.
Shall we expect you home for Twelfth Night—or simply await the printed sequel?
She read it again. And again. And still, it managed to sting worse with each pass.
Because beneath the glibness, beneath the barbed tone—
He was disappointed in her.
The fourth envelope sat unopened.
She had known Charlotte’s handwriting longer than any of the others. Recognized it by the slight rightward slant, the careful spacing, the ink that always seemed to fade at the ends of her loops.
Elizabeth’s hand hovered. She could bear her father’s sarcasm. Mary’s coldness. But not Charlotte’s crushed heart. Not that.
She broke the seal.
I recognized it immediately, of course. That first line could only have come from you. You always did see me more clearly than anyone else did. Or so I believed.
The second line—well. I am not clever enough to guess where it ends and you begin.
I told you once, Elizabeth, that you would not be able to protect the people you love from the sharpness of your wit if you kept sharpening it in private. I never thought I would be one of them.
It is difficult to be a joke. More difficult when the joke is well-made. And hardest of all when it comes from a friend.
Her fingers tightened until the letter crumpled. The words blurred. But not because of ink.
Shehadwritten that first line. She remembered it perfectly—had jotted it with affection one quiet afternoon, thinking how remarkable Charlotte was in her quiet way. But the second line...Shehad written something kind. Something about how no man deserved such a friend. It had not ended likethis. Not withthatcrueltwist.
Someone had changed it. Spoiled it. Published it with flair and intention.
And now—
She bent forward, arms braced against her knees, the letter clutched in her fist. A sob tore through her throat—loud, graceless. No elegance, no poise. Just the raw sound of something breaking open.
It was not enough that she had broken her family’s hearts. Humiliated Jane—oh, indeed, Jane would have to be blind to fail to recognize her in the last pamphlets. Jane was mortified, Aunt Gardiner was disappointed, and her uncle strongly considering declining all their remaining invitations.
But more than all this, she had wounded Charlotte. Of all people!
There would be no explaining. No version of the truth that did not reek of excuses. She had let her pride dance too close to the edge, and now her friends—her family—were falling in.
And she could not even warn the next one.
Oh, how she wished she had burned that journal before ever penning a single line! But no, she had laughed over every word, gleefully turning her phrases to perfected turns of wit. Perhaps she had not handed them over like party favors—not put them forward intentionally, and certainly never wished to hurt anyone.
But she had not locked them away, either. She had written them, laughed over them, left them where eyes might wander. And now—this.
