Page 108 of Dear Friend

“Those were written to me?”

“Yes.”

“By whom?”

“A very close friend of yours.”

Julia looked at him in confusion. “Someone I have forgotten?”

“I believe so.”

Her expression fell, and Darcy immediately wished he had found some gentler way of answering. Yet there was no gentler truth to offer her. The woman sitting before him did not remember Elizabeth, while Elizabeth had spent month after month writing faithfully to her, never quite surrendering the hope that one day Julia would answer.

Darcy placed the bundle upon the table beside her. “I would rather you read them before I tell you anything more. They were written for you, and I think it best that you discover what they contain from the person who wrote them.”

Julia looked down at the letters. “They are all opened. Has someone already read them?”

Darcy swallowed. “Yes. I read them, and through them I came to know something of this remarkable friend of yours who never ceased writing to you.” His fingers tightened upon the edge of the case. “She has been greatly concerned for you, and it was because of her that I asked my cousin to help me locate you.”

Her eyes returned to his face, and he could see the question forming there, but she did not ask it. Instead, she touched the uppermost envelope and ran one finger lightly over the direction.

“What is the name of this friend?”

“Elizabeth Bennet.”

The name produced no visible recognition. Julia merely looked at the writing again, and Darcy felt something tighten painfully within him.

“We must have been very close for her to have written so much.”

“Very much so.” Darcy hesitated before adding, “You were more than merely close. From everything I have learnt, you were almost reflections of one another. Indeed, sitting before you now, I might almost have believed I was looking at a younger version of her.”

Julia turned towards her father, her face brightening. Mr. Harding’s expression had altered at Elizabeth’s name, and he nodded before she could ask. “You spoke of her several times in your sleep during your illness, Julia. Your aunt told me that Miss Bennet was very dear to you.”

“Then why has she not come to see me?”

“She does not know where you are,” Darcy said.

Julia looked at him sharply.

Darcy had no intention of explaining that part now. There would be time enough after she had read the letters for him to confess precisely how they had come into his possession and why Elizabeth remained ignorant of her whereabouts. “That is also something I must explain, but I think you should read these first.”

Julia appeared curious, but mercifully did not pursue it. She untied the ribbon around the bundle and carefully separated the letters, looking over the dates before selecting the earliest.

“You need not read them while we are here,” Darcy said. “Colonel Fitzwilliam and I can return tomorrow, or whenever you wish. There is no reason to hurry.”

“I think I should like to begin.” Julia turned the envelope over in her hands. “If she continued writing when I never answered her, I think I ought at least to discover what she had so much faith I would eventually read.”

Darcy could find no answer to that.

Julia broke the seal and unfolded the first letter, smoothing the pages carefully across her lap before beginning to read. Darcy watched her eyes move over the first few lines, and almost against his will, his thoughts returned to Hertfordshire.

Elizabeth had written those words without any expectation that he would ever see them. She had trusted the distance between herself and Julia, the seal upon the page and the simple honour of any stranger into whose hands the letter might accidentally fall. He had violated all three, and although the letters had finally reached the woman for whom they were intended, returning them could not undo the months during which he had kept their existence from Elizabeth.

He wondered what she was doing at that moment. Whether she remained as angry as she had been at Netherfield, or whether the passing days had softened anything beyond the first shock. He wondered whether she thought of him at all, and immediately disliked himself for hoping that she did.

Darcy looked again at Julia, now absorbed in the first page. He had done what he could here. The letters were where they belonged, Mr. Harding had accepted his assistance, and when Julia had finished reading, he would answer whatever questions she chose to put to him. None of it, however, could answer the question which had followed him from Netherfield to the lonely inn and from there to London.

Whether he could ever mend what he had broken with Elizabeth, Darcy simply did not know.