Page 38 of Dear Friend

He had a suspicion his cousin would find the entire affair exceedingly entertaining.

That prospect ought to have discouraged him.

It did not.

Darcy set down his untouched port, drew a fresh sheet of paper towards him, and reached for his pen.

Chapter Thirteen

2nd September 1811

Willowbrook Somerset

Darcy

Richard’s response to Darcy’s letter came later than Darcy had expected, and it was only upon finally holding it that Darcy realised how little satisfaction its arrival afforded him. He had told himself, while breaking the seal, that he was pleased to have word from his cousin at last. Yet almost in the same instant, he was obliged to acknowledge that, when the servant announced the post, some part of him had expected to see Elizabeth Bennet’s hand upon the direction rather than Richard’s.

It had been a week since her last letter arrived. Without ever determining that another must come upon a particular day, Darcy had nevertheless begun to expect one. Now that the post had brought him nothing from Hertfordshire, he found himself wondering why she had not written.

With some impatience at the direction of his own thoughts, he unfolded his cousin’s letter instead.

Darcy,

Your letter reached me this morning, and I confess it occupied me for the better part of an hour, chiefly because I could not determine whether you had gone entirely mad or had merely discovered something in Somerset more diverting than timber accounts and a cottage. You told me you meant to give Georgiana some space and yourself a little peace, yet the first account I receive from you concerns eighteen letters belonging to a stranger.

Let me understand you correctly. You opened one from necessity, or what you were pleased to call necessity, discovered the writer’s direction, composed a perfectly proper letter informing her of the Hardings’ removal, and then, instead of sending it, proceeded to read the other sixteen. Then the latest came and you read it too?

My dear Darcy, I cannot help you defend this.

There was, however, something else in your letter which gave me pause. You say that you feel you know this Miss Bennet better, in some respects, than women with whom you have danced a dozen times in London. I do not quite know what to make of such an acquaintance, though I understand what you mean. She has written without knowing you would ever see a word of it. There can have been very little inducement to disguise herself.

I had intended not to tease you upon that point, but I have reconsidered.

You have spent half your life complaining that a gentleman of your fortune cannot easily know whether a woman esteems himself or his consequence, and Providence has at last supplied you with a young lady who has no notion of either. Better still, according to your account, she appears to have dismissed a gentleman of considerable fortune from her consideration because she disliked his conversation. I cannot decide whether this is justice or extraordinarily bad luck on your part.

Do not look so severe. I know perfectly well that you are not in love with a woman you have never met. I merely observe that you have devoted an astonishing quantity of paper to assuring me how interesting she is.

Georgiana continues tolerably well. Mrs. Annesley has settled into the household with considerably less disturbance than I expected. Your sister remains much within herself, but she spoke with me when I last called and appears comfortable enough with her new companion, though there is more politeness than affection between them at present. That may improve with time. She asked after you, which I mention in case Somerset has caused you to forget that younger sisters occasionally expect letters.

London offers nothing worth carrying into Somerset. My mother continues to enquire whether I have found a lady I would consider taking for wife, and I begin to resent the comparison you have unwittingly provided me. Here am I in London, going to dinners, assemblies, and every other place at which an unmarried gentleman might reasonably be expected to encounter an eligible woman, and I have found no one. You, meanwhile, retire to the wilds of Somerset expressly to avoid company and contrive to discover a lady upon eighteen missives. I beg you never to tell my mother of it. She would consider it proof that I have not been trying hard enough.

Write again when you have news, whether it concerns Harding, Somerset, or Miss Bennet, who appears to have intruded rather considerably upon the peace you went there to find.

Yours, etc.,

R. Fitzwilliam

Darcy set the letter down. There was nothing wanting in it. Richard had answered precisely as Richard always did, with ridicule enough to be provoking and affection enough to make offence impossible. More importantly, the account of Georgiana brought genuine relief. She was still withdrawn, but she was settling with Mrs. Annesley and had asked after him. He ought to write to her, Darcy thought, and resolved to do so before the day was out.

His attention returned nevertheless to the rest of Richard’s letter.

I know perfectly well that you are not in love with a woman you have never met.

Darcy almost laughed.

Of course he was not in love with Elizabeth Bennet. The notion was absurd. He admired her, certainly, and curiosity had carried him much further into her acquaintance than propriety could defend, but admiration was not love.

Yet Richard had been right about one thing. Darcy did know her. Not her face, not her voice, nor the particular manner in which she moved through a room, but he knew something of the turn of her mind. He knew what amused her, what provoked her, whom she loved, what she valued, what she could forgive and what she could not. He had met women in London whose names he could scarcely summon a week later. He doubted he would soon forget anything Elizabeth Bennet had written.