Flawed logic,she thought.And worse—selective.
Elizabeth took up her pen once more, resolved that if Jane’s happiness depended upon patience, honesty, and quiet strength, then she would defend those virtues against any doctrine that sought to diminish them.
Elizabeth sat for some time after, the letter before her forgotten, her thoughts circling back to the quiet strength Jane possessed so effortlessly. There was courage, she reflected, in refusing to play a role merely because others expected it. Jane’s restraint was not weakness; it was integrity. How strange that society so often mistook one for the other.
She rose and crossed to the window, looking out over the familiar sweep of Longbourn’s lawn. The world here moved at a gentler pace than London, yet the same judgments followed women everywhere—spoken softly in drawing rooms or loudly in ballrooms. A lady must be pleasing but not eager, engaging but not encouraging, sincere but never demanding. It was an exhausting balance, and Elizabeth felt a surge of protectiveness toward her cousin for navigating it with such grace. And thoughshe had little experience with moving about the first circles of theton,she had participated in London society at her aunt’s side. Those she met through her aunt Caroline had been her proving ground. Limited though it might be, she had a vast deal more experience than Jane.
If Mr. Bingley is worthy of her,she thought,he will learn to read what is not loudly proclaimed.Affection, after all, did not always announce itself with grand gestures or practiced smiles. Sometimes it revealed itself in constancy, in attention freely given, in the quiet choice to return again and again.
Elizabeth turned back to her desk with renewed resolve. Whatever came of Jane’s attachment, she would not allow her cousin to doubt herself because of another’s uncertainty. The fault, should there be one, would never lie in Jane’s gentle honesty. And if the world insisted otherwise—well, Elizabeth had never been inclined to accept the world’s judgment without challenge.
Chapter Seventeen
My dear Lottie,
Your letter was a joy to me, and I smiled the whole while reading it, particularly at your account of confounding your tutors with questions they had not anticipated. Do not be persuaded to abandon that habit. It is far better to think too much than too little, and far wiser to ask why than to accept because it has always been so. You will meet many people who prefer obedience to understanding. You need not be one of them.
Life in Hertfordshire is, at present, unusually animated. A new gentleman has taken Netherfield Park, and with him has come a small constellation of relations and friends who have quite stirred the neighborhood. Mr. Bingley himself is open-hearted and sincere, and he has paid my dear Janea degree of attention that is both flattering and promising. She meets it with her usual kindness and reserve, which I admire greatly. Affection, when genuine, does not require display.
His friend, Mr. Darcy, is possessed of intelligence and consequence but also of opinions so firmly held that one suspects they have never been tested. He has already managed to give offense where none was intended, and yet I cannot quite dismiss him as foolish. I am learning that clever people are not always correct, and that confidence is not the same as wisdom. You will encounter this distinction often, and I hope you will always trust your own judgment before another’s certainty.
We were lately at a gathering where officers of the militia were present, and I observed—purely as a student of human nature—how readily people conform to expectations when they believe themselves watched. It is a useful lesson, and one worth remembering. You need not always behave as others expect in order to behave well.
I wonder often what you are reading now. Do you still prefer history, or have you turned again to philosophy? I hope you continue to read widely and think independently, even when it is inconvenient. The world will offer you many opinions already formed and insist they are your own. You must decide which are worth keeping.
I am charged to send you affection and reassurance from a place and a person who remain steadfast in their concern for you. Kindness continues its quiet work there, undeterred by noise or opposition, and you areremembered with pride and hope.
Never forget, my dear sister, that your mind is your own. Ask questions. Form conclusions. Change them if you must. Above all, do not permit anyone to tell you that your thoughts matter less because of who you are or the place you occupy.
Write to me soon and tell me everything—what you are learning, what you doubt, and what you hope. I value your thoughts more than you know.
Yours, with all affection and confidence in you,
Elizabeth
A letter had arrived from Princess Charlotte two days prior, and Elizabeth only now had a few spare moments to compose a reply. Her dear friend’s missive had contained a litany of complaints about her life, including the smothering attention and lack of privacy. Elizabeth sympathized; she had been granted relative freedom in comparison. Still, she sought to encourage her young friend towards knowing her own mind and enduring that which currently seemed untenable.
She prepared the missive to be sent. It always felt strange when adding the direction. Though Elizabeth had been raised amongst royalty, she did not feel worthy at times to address the little princess. Charlotte was almost five years her junior, but they were as close as two people could be without blood ties.
Next, she penned a letter to Princess Caroline, intent on finally asking her aunt about the Darcys of Pemberley.
My dearest Aunt Caroline,
I hope this letter finds you in tolerable spirits and better health than when last we spoke. Hertfordshire is pleasant enough, but it lacks the particular warmth of your company, and I feel the absence of our long walks and quiet conversations more keenly than I expected. I miss you greatly, and I hope you will forgive the length of this letter, for I find I have much to say.
We have lately been much in company with our new neighbors at Netherfield Park. Mr. Bingley is all that is amiable and well disposed, and his attentions to my cousin Jane are marked and sincere. She bears them with her usual gentleness and propriety, though I think she is more affected than she allows herself to appear. I watch her with interest—and some concern—but on the whole, I am hopeful.
His friend, however, is of a very different stamp. Mr. Darcy of Pemberley has joined the party, and I find myself both amused and provoked by him in equal measure. He possesses sense and education, I will grant him that, but he thinks exceedingly well of his own understanding and still better of his position in the world. His manner is reserved to the point of incivility, and though he would doubtless insist upon his propriety, there is something in his air that suggests he believes himself born to instruct rather than to listen.
I encountered him some days past while riding, quite by accident, and we fell into conversation. It was civil enough on the surface, yet beneath it ran a current of assumption that set my teeth on edge. He spoke at length on class, consequence, and thenatural order of society, with the serene confidence of a man who has never had cause to question the advantages bestowed upon him. I could not help but challenge him—gently, I hope—though I suspect he believes my opinions the product of ignorance rather than experience. He does not know my circumstances, nor could he be expected to, yet his conviction that he understands the world more completely than those who have lived very different lives struck me as particularly galling.
I do not think him unkind, Aunt, only untested. Still, I confess his certainty rankles, for it is founded not upon knowledge of me, but upon an idea of who I must be. I wonder—do you know the Darcys of Pemberley at all? If you have heard anything of the family, or of Mr. Darcy himself, I should be curious to know whether his reputation matches my first impressions, or whether I have encountered him at an uncharitable moment.
As for the Bennets, they are well and lively as ever. My uncle remains his witty, observant self, my aunt manages her household with vigor, and the girls are much engaged with the small excitements of neighborhood society. I am fond of them all, and yet I find myself thinking how differently I observe these scenes when I imagine recounting them to you.
Tell me, dear Aunt, how do you occupy your days now? Do you still find comfort in your charitable endeavors, and in the society of those who choose you for yourself rather than your position? I hope you are not too much alone. If I could contrive it, Iwould gladly sit beside you this very evening and hear your thoughts on all that I have written—and much that I have not.
Until then, know that you are ever in my heart, and that I remain, as always,
