Page 36 of Dear Friend

Charlotte and I spoke afterwards of marriage, and you will not be surprised to learn that we remain as little agreed upon the subject as ever. She thinks security and a respectable establishment ought to weigh very heavily with a woman who considers marrying. I cannot say she is wrong. Indeed, it would be exceedingly foolish in my circumstances to pretend fortune of no consequence merely because Mama values it too much. Five daughters and an entailed estate are very effective enemies of romantic nonsense.

But surely there must be some distance between believing fortune of consequence and believing it sufficient.

I should not like to marry a man I could not respect. Nor can I imagine passing the greater part of my life with someone to whom I could not speak freely, or with whom every difference of opinion must become either submission or quarrel. I should like to laugh with my husband, Julia, and occasionally at him, provided he possesses sufficient good humour to return the favour.

There. I have become serious, which is entirely Mr. Sotherton's fault and another offence to be laid against him.

You know I have never required a great romance of the sort Lydia imagines whenever she sees a handsome officer. But I should like affection. I should like esteem. And I should very much like to enjoy a man's company before agreeing to spend the remainder of my life in it.

Charlotte thinks I ask a great deal.

Perhaps I do.

I cannot blame her for thinking differently. She has reasons of her own, and the world is considerably less patient with an unmarried woman approaching thirty than it is with one of twenty. I only wish the choice allowed to women were not so often described as prudence when what is really meant is fear of having no other choice at all.

I do not know why I have written so much upon the subject. You and I have discussed it often enough, and I know perfectly well what you would say to half of this. Perhaps that is precisely why I have written it.

Longbourn and Meryton otherwise continue much as they always have, which is to say that nothing happens and everybody discusses it.

I have determined to direct a separate letter to your aunt when next I write. Perhaps if Mrs. Tunley sees her own name upon the outside, she may be persuaded to answer me, if only to silence me. I have begun to suspect that persistence is the only talent I possess in any abundance.

And Mrs. Tunley, should you happen to be reading this aloud to Julia, forgive my impatience. I know how faithfully you attended her during her illness and do not mean to repay your kindness by becoming troublesome. I only wish to know how she fares.

If some other person has been entrusted with this letter, I beg only that Mrs. Tunley be told that I continue to write and would be grateful for the smallest account of Julia's health.

I shall stop now before I prove Mama correct in another respect and talk beyond all endurance.

Dearest Julia, wherever you are, I hope someone still tells you foolish things, and that you are well enough to laugh at them.

Yours always,

Elizabeth Bennet

Darcy reached the end with a smile he had not intended.

He returned almost immediately to the account of Mr. Sotherton. There was something particularly diverting in Elizabeth's indignation at being complimented upon an ignorance she did not possess, and still more in the ease with which she had discovered the vanity beneath the compliment. Mr. Sotherton had apparently meant to please her and had succeeded only in furnishing her with material for a letter.

Yet one sentence arrested Darcy's amusement.

He has the unfortunate habit of offering an opinion as though nothing remains to be said once he has bestowed it upon the company.

His smile faded.

Darcy knew the fault. Indeed, he knew it sufficiently well that he could not be certain Elizabeth would have found him entirely innocent of it.

The reflection was not agreeable.

He read on again, this time returning to her conversation with Charlotte. Elizabeth's opinions upon marriage interested him more than he would readily have admitted. She did not affect to despise fortune. She understood too well the circumstances of her own family to indulge in such nonsense. Yet neither security nor consequence was enough for her.

Respect. Affection. Conversation. The pleasure of another person's company.

Darcy's eyes remained upon the page.

He had said something very like it to Richard.

Not in the same words, certainly. Elizabeth appeared incapable of expressing a serious opinion without eventually finding something in it to laugh at, while Darcy had probably made the whole matter sound like the terms of a treaty. The difference amused him.

The substance did not.