Page 25 of Dear Friend

Yet she did not know her father's Christian name. She did not know the name of her stepmother, nor anything at all of Julia's family beyond the plain fact that she had none but the two of them, no siblings, no cousins she had ever mentioned, no old family friend who might now tell Elizabeth whether she lived.

Such knowledge had never seemed necessary while Julia sat beside her. Whenever conversation turned towards family, Julia had possessed a remarkable talent for directing it elsewhere, usually by asking some question about Elizabeth's own sisters or introducing another subject before her reluctance could become conspicuous. Elizabeth had noticed it, certainly, but had understood enough of Julia's reserve never to press where confidence was not freely offered.

She regretted that delicacy now.

"I suppose one never thinks to ask such questions," Jane said, following the direction of her thoughts with uncomfortable accuracy. "Not until one discovers one needs the answers."

"No."

Elizabeth sat again and drew the sealed letter towards her.

"I have tried to remember whether she ever said anything else of Willowbrook. Some neighbouring village, perhaps, or the name of a family nearby. But there is nothing. Only the house, Somerset, and the timber forest."

"And Mrs. Tunley cannot be traced through anyone in Meryton."

"No."

There it was, the entire difficulty reduced to a handful of words. Mrs. Tunley had disappeared almost as completely as Julia.

Elizabeth had been angry with her at first. It had seemed impossible that the woman who had faithfully sent word throughout Julia's illness could leave without a single line and remain silent afterwards. But anger had become difficult to sustain when Elizabeth knew nothing of what had happened after the cottage door closed behind them.

Perhaps Mrs. Tunley had intended to write and been prevented.

Perhaps Julia's condition had worsened upon the journey.

Perhaps they had never reached Willowbrook at all.

There were too many possibilities, and Elizabeth had exhausted herself upon them months ago.

"Have you ever considered not writing?" Jane asked.

Elizabeth looked up.

"Not because I think you ought to stop," Jane added. "I only wondered whether you had."

"Many times."

"And yet you continue."

"Yes."

Elizabeth ran one finger lightly along the edge of the letter.

"At first, I wrote because I half-expected Julia to answer. Afterwards I thought Mrs. Tunley might. Now..." She paused. "Now I write because I do not know what else to do."

Jane said nothing, and Elizabeth was grateful for it.

"If Julia is at Willowbrook and my letters reach her, I should hate to think she might believe herself forgotten merely because she cannot answer. If she is still ill, perhaps someone reads them to her. If she is recovering, perhaps they give her some little amusement. I cannot know."

"And if she is not there?"

Elizabeth's fingers stilled.

"Then I do not know where she is. But I hope that, wherever she may be, she will one day read them all and know that I never forgot her."

Jane's expression softened. It was not the worst possibility, and neither sister needed to give the worst one a name.

For several moments Elizabeth merely looked at Julia's name upon the letter. Five months ago she had imagined her correspondence arriving beside a sickbed, Mrs. Tunley standing beyond the door and reading it aloud while Julia listened from within, the familiar little absurdities of Longbourn and Meryton reaching her despite the distance between them. She no longer permitted herself to picture it so clearly.