Page 111 of Dear Friend

Elizabeth lowered her eyes to their joined hands. Three weeks had passed without a word from Darcy, yet while she had been wondering whether the search for Julia continued, he had not only continued it but found her.

Yes, he had restored her dearest friend to her, and gratitude for that threatened to overwhelm every other feeling. But could even so great a happiness undo the hurt he had caused her?

Before she could decide what to say, Mr. Harding approached them. “Miss Bennet, might I have a word with you?”

Elizabeth looked up. There were two folded papers in his hand, and the sight of her own name upon one of them caused something inside her to tighten.

“Of course, Mr. Harding.”

“There is something Mr. Darcy entrusted to me before we left London.” Mr. Harding glanced at the letters before holding them towards her. “Or rather, two things. He asked that your father read them first and, with his approval, that I place them in your hands.”

Elizabeth coughed softly, suddenly uncomfortable with how thoroughly Mr. Darcy had become the subject of the afternoon. Her eyes went at once to her father, who met her gaze and gave a slight nod before returning his attention to Mr. Bingley. That Papa had already read whatever Darcy had written made her curiosity considerably more uneasy, and she looked again at the papers in Mr. Harding’s hand. “Mr. Darcy gave you letters for me?”

“Two. This first was written some months ago, at Willowbrook, though he tells me it was never sent.” Mr. Harding held it out to her. “He believed you ought to have received it then.”

Elizabeth accepted the letter. The parchment had yellowed slightly with age, its edges worn from the months it had spent folded away. She unfolded it carefully, and the date alone was enough to unsettle her, for it preceded their meeting in Meryton by several months. As she began to read, the voices around her seemed gradually to recede.

Madam,

You do not know me, nor, until very recently, did I know anything of you beyond your name and direction. I hope you will forgive the liberty of my addressing you. I would not have presumed upon an acquaintance which does not exist had circumstances afforded me any other reasonable means of informing you of what has occurred.

Her eyes moved over the explanation which followed, much of it now painfully familiar. Darcy wrote of Willowbrook, the Hardings’ departure and the letters which had continued to arrive after the house was left vacant. He explained how they had accumulated in the care of the man watching the property before at last arriving at the admission Elizabeth had not expected to find.

I must also acknowledge an impropriety of my own. In attempting to discover the identity and direction of the person who continued to write to Miss Harding, I opened your most recent letter. I will not attempt to excuse an intrusion which I know I had no right to make.

Elizabeth stopped there, her fingers tightening upon the page. He had written it before Meryton, before the assembly and before he had ever stood before her as Fitzwilliam Darcy. She had spent three weeks believing that he had never intended to confess what he had done, yet the proof that he had once meant to do precisely that was trembling slightly between her fingers.

Thinking of it now, Elizabeth remembered that Darcy had mentioned this letter during their confrontation at Netherfield. She had been far too angry then to believe him, or indeed to give much credit to anything he said in his defence. Yet here it was, written months before they had ever met.

Elizabeth forced herself to finish. He had promised to make enquiries concerning the Hardings and to send her whatever information he discovered, ending with an apology that she had been permitted to continue writing for so long without knowing that Julia was no longer there. Elizabeth lowered the page slowly when she reached his name and looked at Mr. Harding. “He should have sent this.”

“He said the same.” Mr. Harding offered her the second letter.

Elizabeth looked down at her own name upon the outside. She recognised Darcy’s hand now, and for several seconds she merely held the letter while the hurt she had carried for three weeks struggled against the evidence of the first one still open in her other hand.

“Mr. Darcy asked that I give this to your father first,” Mr. Harding explained. “I did so, but Mr. Bennet declined to open it.”

Elizabeth’s eyes went immediately to her father.

“I trust my daughter’s judgement well enough to decide whether she wishes to read a letter from Mr. Darcy,” Mr. Bennet said from across the room. “And I trust the gentleman sufficiently to believe he has written nothing she ought not to see. Whatever he has to say is for Elizabeth’s eyes, not mine.” His mouth curved slightly. “Besides, I should hardly improve upon Mr. Darcy’s mistake by opening correspondence which was not addressed to me.”

Despite everything, a chuckle escaped Elizabeth. “A very admirable restraint, Papa.”

“I thought so.”

Her smile lingered for only a moment before she looked again at Darcy’s name upon the letter. Whatever amusement her father had afforded her could not quiet the sudden beating of her heart, and after one last hesitation, Elizabeth broke the seal.

My dear Miss Bennet,

I have struggled to determine whether writing to you violates the request you made of me at Netherfield. If it does, I ask your forgiveness for this final intrusion. I shall not repeat it.

Elizabeth swallowed and continued.

There is little I can say in my defence which I did not attempt to say that evening, and with the benefit of reflection I find that I have less desire to defend myself than I had then. You were right in the most important particular. I ought to have told you.

The first letter enclosed with this one was written at Willowbrook after I opened the earliest of your letters which came into my possession. I intended to send it. I did not. What began as cowardice in withholding it was soon joined by a selfish desire to know more of you, the unknown author whose words had already engaged my interest.

Not long afterwards, Bingley invited me to Hertfordshire, and I allowed myself to imagine that Providence had contrived to bring me there so that I might meet you. Perhaps I was not entirely mistaken, for it permitted me not only to know you, but eventually to find Miss Harding. Yet by the time we met in Hertfordshire, I had read too much, knew too much and had allowed myself to become interested in a woman who had never consented to be known by me at all.