Page 33 of Dear Friend

Yours, with much love,

Elizabeth

Darcy made to set the letter aside when he had finished, but his hand paused before it reached the table. His eyes returned instead to several passages he had already read, as though a second reading might tell him something about its writer that the first had not.

He had not known precisely what he expected to find, though certainly nothing so deeply felt. Some explanation of Julia Harding, perhaps, or something which might account for the extraordinary persistence of seventeen letters sent without reply. Instead, he had found a young woman frightened for someone she could do nothing to help, offering what comfort she could across the distance between them.

Though perhaps I ought to call you sister.

His eyes returned to the words.

Julia Harding was not her sister. So far as Darcy could determine, there was no relation between them at all. Yet Elizabeth had written with an anxiety he understood rather better than he wished to. He knew what it was to watch someone dear to him suffer and discover that affection, however great, could do very little to mend what had happened.

His thoughts went briefly to Georgiana.

Darcy loved his sister deeply, and he was painfully conscious of how few people Georgiana possessed who loved her for herself. There was Richard, certainly, and other close family members, but he had often wished she might have a friend near her own age to whom she could attach herself with confidence, someone whose concern for her did not arise from duty or family obligation.

Elizabeth's letter brought the old wish unexpectedly to mind. She had four sisters of her own, if he understood her references correctly, yet she had made room in her affections for a woman who had no claim of blood upon her and, in Julia's absence, had discovered that sister was the word which best described what she had become.

That counted for something.

It also sharpened Darcy's curiosity about the writer. Who was she?

From the two letters he had read, he knew only the beginning and the end of those five months. Fifteen letters lay between them, and somewhere within those pages was a great deal more of the woman who had written them.

Darcy looked towards his reply to Elizabeth, which remained upon the desk awaiting sand and seal. He ought to finish it now and have it ready for the morning post. That was unquestionably the proper course.

Instead, after a moment's hesitation, Darcy shook his head.

Against his better judgement, he drew the next letter from the pile.

Chapter Eleven

23rd August 1811

Longbourn

Elizabeth

Although Julia Harding had, in the short time she spent in Hertfordshire, become one of Elizabeth's dearest friends, she was not Elizabeth's only intimate. Charlotte Lucas, the eldest daughter of their neighbour Sir William Lucas, had been her friend for many years. Though Charlotte was several years older, the difference had never diminished their affection or the ease of their understanding.

Charlotte had come to Longbourn that afternoon ostensibly to return a book Mary had lent her some weeks before, though Elizabeth suspected the book had very little to do with the visit. There had been a tea party at the Longs' the previous evening, and it was Charlotte's habit, after any gathering of consequence, to call at Longbourn so that she and Elizabeth might compare what they had observed. With Mary, Kitty, and Lydia gone to visit their aunt Phillips, they might even have enjoyed the discussion uninterrupted.

They had scarcely settled themselves with their tea, however, when Mrs. Bennet entered the room with an eagerness which immediately warned Elizabeth that the conversation was not to remain their own.

"Lizzy, you will never guess who asked after you at the Longs' last evening." Mrs. Bennet did not wait for a guess before supplying the answer herself. "Mr. Sotherton! The young gentleman who is staying with his uncle at Claverton Park. Charlotte, was he not exceedingly particular in his enquiries?"

Elizabeth lowered her cup. Her mother had already introduced some portion of this intelligence upon returning home the previous night, and Elizabeth, who knew Mrs. Bennet's enthusiasm upon any subject remotely connected with the marriage of one of her daughters, had hoped sleep might have moderated it.

Charlotte appeared to have hoped to remain outside the discussion altogether. Finding herself directly appealed to, however, she could hardly refuse an answer. "He did ask after Elizabeth, yes. Twice, I believe, though I confess I did not think it so very remarkable at the time."

"Not remarkable!" Mrs. Bennet stared at her. "My dear Charlotte, he asked whether Lizzy meant to attend the next assembly and whether she was fond of dancing. What can be plainer? And this after having met her only twice! Depend upon it, he has been thinking of her."

“Mama.” Elizabeth shook her head, little pleased with the turn the conversation had taken. “If Mr. Sotherton were so anxious to know whether I am fond of dancing, he might simply have asked me. He had two opportunities to do so and chose instead to enquire of you at somebody else's table. It seems a remarkably circuitous method of discovering my opinion.”

Mrs. Bennet waved this objection away. "You will make a jest of everything, Lizzy."

“Not everything. Only what deserves to be laughed at.” Elizabeth took another sip of tea. "In any case, I cannot return Mr. Sotherton's supposed interest. I found him rather dry on both occasions we spoke. He has a way of delivering an opinion as though the matter must naturally be settled by his having expressed it, and very little curiosity about whether anyone else might disagree."