Friends

Friends

8 August 1812 Lambton, Derbyshire

Dearest Sisters,

I do believe every day in this accursed county is worse than the last, and I am so relieved that tonight’s inn is near its southern border, and tomorrow I shall leave it forever.

We were preparing to board Uncle’s coach this morning, when the very last person I expected approached, Miss Darcy. I confess I did not have the slightest idea what to do with her. She appeared to lack her brother’s knowledge or consent as her only companion was a burly footman.

Uncle looked at the pair of them askance, but I cannot blame the poor girl for her brother and cousin’s actions any more than I could blame you two for Mrs Bennet’s, so I agreed to speak with her.

The young lady was practically in tears and begged me to tell her what happened between her brother and I to sever the connexion. How could I possibly answer a question like that? I have known her mere days, and aside from the impropriety of sharing such private information, I still do not believe I am completely impervious to repercussions from her brother. He is still a man who could make trouble for me, particularly when I leave my uncle’s protection, as I feel I must. I cannot be a burden to them forever, particularly since it will be four much-reduced Bennet sisters without husbands instead of just one .

I really think her brother went too far with his scheme, as the young lady was quite looking forward to having a real friend. In the end, I could probably forgive him nearly any of his many trespasses against myself, or even Jane; but to use his own sister so abominably is beyond the pale.

I began to comprehend that the poor girl probably has an enormous dowry and a very rich and unmarried brother, so she has no doubt had to ward off fortune or husband hunters like Miss Bingley nearly since birth. Perhaps she has never had a real friend. Can you imagine growing up without sisters or friends like Charlotte? And despite recently severing all connexions with my former mother, I cannot imagine growing up with no mother at all. I can remember a time when she was a good mother to us. For the first time in my life, I was happy about our lack of fortune.

I confess I had not the slightest idea what I could tell her. I tried prevaricating until she literally begged me to tell her the truth . I did not have the heart to tell her about her brother or cousin. I was trying to think of anything I could say, when she importuned me to be the only person in the world to not treat her like a baby. That request was too much for me to bear. I still could not tell her about the men in her life, who will still be there tomorrow, and the day after, and the day after; but I had to tell her something that was true .

In the end, the only thing I could think to tell her that was both true, and not in any way blaming her family for the permanently severed connexion was to tell her about our family’s scandal. Since I am certain Mrs Bennet is blathering it all over Meryton even now, I believed there was no lasting harm in telling her, as it would place all the blame on our family, and none on hers . It would be shocking for such a young girl, but likely not the first such scandal she has heard of, and it seemed the perfect solution. I just did not have the heart to crush the poor soul by revealing the true reason I had to abandon our nascent friendship .

So, that is what I did. I told her that she could not keep a connexion to us because my youngest sister had eloped with a known rake and gambler; and chances of a marriage at present seemed remote. It was therefore impossible to maintain any further association, lest the poor sweet girl be tarnished by association.

I judged this would be just shocking enough to the lady to relieve any apprehension that she was at fault and allow her to proceed to find a more appropriate friend, now that she had the idea in her mind. It was a terrible solution, but the only one I could think of that would not jeopardise her relationships with her closest family; something I could not do to such an innocent girl, or really any woman.

I was taken aback when she turned white and asked for the rake’s name, and I am afraid that in yet another spectacular lapse in judgement, I gave it to her. In my distress, I completely forgot that Wickham grew up at Pemberley, and she may know him personally. I regretted it as soon as the name escaped my lips and even more so when she collapsed in my arms in a dead faint.

Aunt Gardiner was there to attend her immediately, and Uncle sent the Darcy coachman to return to Pemberley for his master post-haste. Her footman carried her inside the inn, and application of a cold cloth brought her around nearly immediately, with no lasting harm done.

I apologised profusely over and over while she tried to do the same. We both finally started laughing in a sort of hysteria. When she had settled down, I told her we had sent for her brother, and we would wait for his arrival before departing.

She begged me to talk to her brother again, but I confess I did not have the strength for it, nor did my uncle have the inclination—particularly with Miss Darcy present.

I gave her leave to tell her brother about our scandal, surmising it would be one more thing that would keep the family away from us, and I did not have the heart to ask her to keep a confidence from her guardian.

With our coach loaded and the horses waiting impatiently in the traces, we waited only for Mr Darcy to appear, then with Uncle telling him she had fainted but appeared fine now, we took our leave as politely as we could, given our history, and left her in his care.

I sit here and cry over the exchange. Everything I do regarding that family seems wrong, and even though I had nothing but affection for Miss Darcy and strove at every turn to do right by her; in the end I know I caused her pain, and the poor girl is worse off for having made the acquaintance.

There is nothing I can do about it now, so I will close and try to sleep.

Your bedraggled sister, Lizzy