Page 115 of Dear Friend

She has told me much of what occurred in London, and Mr. Harding has supplied what she could not. I know now what you and Colonel Fitzwilliam did for them, and that it was my letters, which you read without my permission, sir, but eventually returned to Julia, that helped her begin to recover her memory. There is something so strange in that circumstance that I scarcely know whether to laugh or cry when I consider it.

The letters which caused so much unhappiness between us have given me back my dearest friend. I do not know how to thank you for that.

Mr. Harding also gave me the letter you wrote at Willowbrook and the one you entrusted to him before his departure from London. I have read them both more than once.

You told me of the first letter at Netherfield. I remember that now. I was too angry to believe you then, and still angrier to allow you to explain yourself. To hold that letter now, written months before we met, has forced me to acknowledge something I have been reluctant to admit these three weeks. I did not know everything that evening, though I was very certain that I did.

Do not mistake me, Mr. Darcy. You ought to have told me. Upon that point I remain as obstinate as ever, and I suspect you would be disappointed in me if three weeks were sufficient to persuade me otherwise.

But I ought to have listened.

You attempted to tell me that evening that Julia had been found, and I would not permit you to finish. I have thought of that several times since seeing her. I was hurt and angry, but neither gave me the right to refuse you every opportunity of speaking and afterwards condemn you for what remained unsaid.

Your second letter answered much of what I would not hear that evening. I cannot pretend that reading it has made everything which passed between us insignificant. It has not. There are hurts which cannot be dismissed merely because one understands how they were caused.

But understanding has altered them.

I find my anger considerably less dependable than it was three weeks ago. Whenever I attempt to recover a little of it, Julia remembers something else, or I remember that you might have accompanied her to Longbourn and chose instead to honour the request I made of you.

It is exceedingly difficult to remain properly offended with a gentleman who persists in behaving well from a distance.

You wrote that you would respect my wish that you should not come to Longbourn again. Fairness therefore requires me to tell you that my wishes are no longer precisely what they were.

I do not know what remains to be said between us, Mr. Darcy, or where such a conversation might lead us. I know only that there are things I would now rather say to you than commit to paper. Should you return to Hertfordshire, therefore, you need no longer fear that the sight of you would be unwelcome.

Indeed, I think I should be very glad to see you.

Thank you for bringing my dearest friend back to me, and for every kindness you have shown her and her family. Pray give my regards to Miss Darcy, whom I hope is very well.

Yours, etc.,

Elizabeth Bennet

Darcy reached the end with his fingers tightened upon the paper. Georgiana remained across the room, her embroidery lowered now.

Darcy read the letter again, more slowly this time, and when he reached the end, he allowed himself to believe what had seemed impossible only moments before. Elizabeth had not written that she forgave him, but he knew her well enough to recognise how near she had come to it. There was humour in her reproach now rather than bitterness, gratitude where there had been hurt, and an admission that there were things she wished to say to him in person. One month ago she had asked him never to approach her again. Now she had told him she would be glad to see him.

A laugh escaped him, and Georgiana lowered the embroidery she had scarcely touched since he broke the seal. “I take it the letter contained good news?”

“Very good news.” Darcy folded the letter carefully along its creases, but the smile which had begun during the second reading refused to leave him. “I can see Miss Bennet again.”

“I did not know you had been forbidden from seeing her.” Georgiana made a teasing face, but quickly subdued it when Darcy fixed her with a look. “Then everything is well between you?”

“Not entirely.” Darcy rose and crossed towards the fireplace, slipping Elizabeth’s letter inside his coat. “There are still things which must be said between us, but I believe she has almost forgiven me.”

Georgiana smiled, and Darcy found himself looking towards the clock. It was absurd. He could not leave that instant, however much every part of him wished to do precisely that. There were arrangements to be made, Bingley ought to be informed of their arrival, and travelling in December required rather more preparation than simply ordering his carriage brought round.

“Will you go?” Georgiana asked.

Darcy looked at her. “Did you imagine I might not?”

“No.” Her smile widened. “I wondered how quickly.”

“Tomorrow morning.”

“I thought so.”

Darcy reached for the bell, then paused as Elizabeth’s final words returned to him. She had sent her regards to Georgiana, whom she had never met but about whom Darcy had spoken often enough. Georgiana, for her part, had spent one month asking about Elizabeth whenever she could persuade him to answer.