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I do regret our current separation. If you would talk to me, you would find me ever willing to overcome our differences and reach a mutual understanding and sympathy. I wish you would come home.

Yours&c.

I knew not where to send it, or even if I should. But in this instance, it seemed unwise to withhold my strongest feelings as was my habit. I sealed it, deciding I would give it to Mr Williams to post. With some bitterness, I expected he would know how to reach him.

Lambton was not so very far from Pemberley. It would not be strange if my aunt did, indeed, know more of the situation than I. Neither by word nor deed had she implied anything towards Mr Darcy except a deep respect, even happiness in my situation. There was, however, that moment at our leave-taking, when she had counselled patience, and I had thought there was more she might have said.

I took a long time deciding what to say in my letter to her.

My Dearest Aunt,

I know I have written this before, but let me tell you, again and again, how good it was to see you and know you are thriving. I do not mistake your courage in moving forward for an absence of longing for the past. I honour you for your efforts, and they serve as an example to me. I need your strength now! When the Good Book counsels that the ‘two must become one’ it does not acknowledge, perhaps, that men can be so difficult to understand. Mr Darcy, plainly, does not think as I do. I do not, plainly, think as he does. Added to these mutual misperceptions are certain vicious rumours prevalent amongst the countryside. It all makes for a perplexity of mind and heart—what is real, and what is not?

To be certain, my husband is a good man, and if you have heard otherwise, believe nothing of it. He is also a confusing one, who shares little of his inner self. Although, come to think of it, I am not sure I have shared much of mine. I am so used to keeping my thoughts safely sheltered within my own head, and it is a difficult habit to break. As I write this, I imagine you nodding sagely. Yes, I suppose Mr Darcy and I have more in common than one might think; you have always teased me for my independence of spirit.

Auntie, he is a man accustomed to great solitude. I have only realised it as I pen this to you, for of course he was married for many years, has a large extended family and a goodly number of servants. I have made assumptions because of those things that may not have been correct. What do we really know of other persons? What struggles, all unseen, hide behind polite smiles? And now I have descended into philosophy, so I will cease my ramblings.

I will beg advice upon one subject. As I believe I mentioned during our visit, Anne Darcy’s mother still makes her home with us. It pains me to admit it, but Mrs de Bourgh despises me with all the vigour of her soul, and I am at my wit’s end. I try to be understanding; she is grieving. It is natural that she should fail to appreciate, even resent, any sign that Mr Darcy’s affections lie elsewhere, although his care for me has naught to do with her daughter. I am anxious for a happy home, but I fear she can never be happy if I am. I simply do not understand how to help her, for she lives in a constant state of misery, and eagerly seeks out company to join her in it.

I will stop complaining now, and, as Jane would no doubt advise, instead count my blessings—of which you are one of the dearest. Send me all your news, and please remind Ellen that she owes me a sketch.

Love&c.

Your Favourite Niece

After I finished her letter, I knew I ought to write to Jane. My sister was too perceptive to be put off by commonplaces, but I did not particularly relish explaining any of the difficulties of my marriage. How could she understand? She and Mr Tilney were so devoted to each other and…I do not like to complain, because it makes me sound worldly, but Jane prefers proverbs when administering advice. If I had a guinea for every occasion she has comforted me with ‘To every thing there is a season…’—well, I was not in the mood to hear it. So, I sent her the commonplaces after all, and tried to embellish them with lavish descriptions of Pemberley and its surrounds. In so doing, I comforted myself. Pemberley earned every bit of its extravagant praise. Presiding as its mistress surpassed my wildest dreams. I would heed my aunt’s advice, and learn to practise patience.


Tags: Julie Cooper Historical