Chapter Thirty-Five

Elizabeth

E lizabeth sat at the small writing desk in her chamber, her quill poised above the crisp, cream-coloured paper as she prepared to compose a letter to Jane. She took a deep breath, steadying herself, and began.

My Dearest Jane ,

I have news to share, though I ask that you hold it close, for this story is not for the wider world. I trust you will understand why.

Our little Maggie, whom Mr Darcy and I have cared for here at Pemberley, is no ordinary girl, as you have perhaps suspected.

We have learned that she is of noble lineage, though the tragic loss of her parents has left her quite alone in the world. For I must tell you, she was indeed the victim of an attempted highway robbery. Her parents were killed in the process and she made an orphan.

She has family still, albeit distant—her grandmother on the continent and an aunt in Scotland—whom we hope will soon be able to come for her. But this must remain our family’s secret, and I trust you to explain this to Mama with the utmost delicacy. Knowing she is nobility will no doubt please her, though the discretion it requires may be a greater challenge .

Elizabeth paused, tapping the quill pen thoughtfully. Her mother’s thrill at learning Maggie’s heritage was a certainty, but Elizabeth felt a new confidence in Mrs Bennet’s ability to keep it to herself. In their brief letters, Elizabeth had sensed something softened, even noble, in her mother’s tone, a strength Elizabeth hadn’t always acknowledged. Smiling to herself, she added to her letter:

Mama has surprised me in many ways, dear Jane. I see now the courage and resilience she has carried through our family’s troubles. It is as though, amid all the fretting, there lies a fierceness, a devotion that I did not always appreciate. You were always kinder in your assessment of her, and I confess I see more clearly now the care that lies beneath .

It was strange how recent events had cast a fresh light on her mother’s character. The journey of caring for Maggie, of seeing Mr Darcy’s own depth and loyalty, had, in some mysterious way, made Elizabeth softer in her judgement. She had grown to understand that there was more to her mother than mere nerves and ambition, and the thought brought a warmth to her heart. But the tender reflections turned quickly, and her hand stilled, her mind drifting to Mr Darcy.

As for Mr Darcy she continued, her hand hesitant, I know you have forgiven him, as you so quickly forgive everyone. For me, it took time. At first, my forgiveness was stubborn, born more from resignation than from genuine pardon. I felt I owed it to you, dearest Jane, to hold him accountable for the harm he had done you, but I see now that it was not merely loyalty that hardened me. I have come to understand that my own pride, my own quickness to judge, blinded me. I see in him, now, a man of integrity, of warmth even, hidden though it may be beneath that formal exterior. He has changed, and I know that he is the better for it. But it is I who must change too, for I judged him most unjustly .

She closed her eyes for a moment, the memory of their recent conversations and quiet companionship lingering in her mind. Her hand trembled slightly as she continued, admitting what she could barely admit to herself.

Indeed, I admire him. It seems ridiculous to admit it to myself, much less in a letter. And yet, as I write, I must confess that there is more to it than mere admiration. He has come to occupy my thoughts in ways that unsettle me, and dare I say it, it is almost as if I am moon-eyed over him, as the novels would say . She chuckled ruefully at the honesty of her confession, though she knew Jane would understand. But you must not think it all decided. There are many difficulties still to be surmounted, and if I am honest, dear Jane, I scarcely know what to do.

She looked up, blinking away a bit of mist in her eyes. Outside, the late afternoon sun cast golden hues across the hills and shimmering ponds that dotted the land around Pemberley. She knew that she would have to leave soon, that her place was at Longbourn, and that the world of Pemberley would recede, becoming again only a memory. She looked back down at her letter.

And then, there is Maggie. Poor Maggie , she wrote, her heart tightening as she thought of the sad-eyed girl. I cannot help but worry about her. She clings to me now, and it pains me to think that we will soon part. She is such a dear child, so brave, even in her sorrow, and the thought of her without us…” Elizabeth trailed off, struggling to put her feelings into words . “She has grown dear to me, and, I think, to Mr Darcy as well. I know that parting with her will be almost as hard for me as leaving Pemberley itself. Though Mr Darcy has implied he might wish to continue our connection, however, there is so much yet that is uncertain .

The last sentence felt like a painful truth, and she sat back, placing her quill down, her heart a mix of emotions. She knew that there was little more she could say, so after blotting the ink, she folded the letter with careful hands and sealed it with a wafer.