Your loving niece,

Lizzy


Mr Darcy to Lady Catherine de Bourgh

Netherfield Park, Hertfordshire,

October 10

Lady Catherine, I am sure you will want to wish me happy. I have asked Miss Elizabeth Bennet to marry me, and she has done me the great honour of saying yes.

Your nephew,

Fitzwilliam Darcy


Mr Darcy to Miss Georgiana Darcy

Netherfield Park, Hertfordshire,

October 10

My dear sister,

I know you will be delighted to hear that Elizabeth Bennet and I are to marry. I will tell you everything when I see you next.

Your loving brother,

Fitzwilliam


Miss Georgiana Darcy to Mr Darcy

Darcy House, London, October 11

Oh, dear brother, I cannot tell you how delighted I am! I have always wanted a sister, and Elizabeth is the very one I would have chosen. I do so hope she will love me as much as I already love her.

When you told me you wanted to introduce me to her in Derbyshire, I suspected you were in love with her; indeed, I suspected it even before that, for you had a look about you whenever her name was mentioned. No one who did not know you as I do would have noticed it, but I hoped then that you might have found someone to make you happy. I know how difficult you are to please—oh dear! that did not come out as it should!—but there are so many women who court you for your name instead of yourself and you see through them at once. I am beginning to know something of it myself, and although last year I could not see through it, I believe that I now know the difference between honest interest and self-interest. At least I hope so.

But Elizabeth is not like that. She is warm and kind and genuine. I do not know how else to explain it. She was so good to me in Derbyshire. She persevered in talking to me, even though I was so shy I could do nothing but murmur in monosyllables. I wanted to make a good impression on her, as I could tell at once that you were full of admiration for her—your eyes soften when you look at her, you know, and the expression of boredom you frequently wear completely disappears—and I was so afraid of saying something foolish that I could scarcely say anything at all. Then I worried that she would think me a fool, but she made such an effort to put me at my ease that I soon felt much more comfortable.

But I think it was when we stayed beyond the half hour, and you then asked me to join you in inviting her to dinner, that I was sure she was special to you. And I was so pleased, even though I was alarmed at the thought of being your hostess on such an important occasion, for you know I do not want to ever let you down again in any way.

That is why I decided to receive her in the salon. The windows there, you know, are my favourite, opening as they do right down to the ground. I was so afraid of doing wrong that I was tongue-tied when she arrived, but I saw by her expression that she did not think any the worse of me for it. I am glad she was so forgiving, for you know I did not perform my duties as hostess very well. Having given orders in the kitchen the night before and having sent to the hothouses for the best fruits, I froze when they were brought in, and if not for Mrs Annesley, I would not have remembered what to do. You will think me a sad case, I am sure! I am only glad you were not there to see my embarrassment. I was very glad when you came in to play the host, and I felt such happiness when I saw your eyes go to Elizabeth. I was glad for you and glad for me, selfishly, because I felt from the first that I could easily love such a sister.

She was so good to me when Caroline began to talk about the militia. I wanted the ground to open up and swallow me. I could not lift my eyes from the carpet. I knew that Caroline wanted to pain Elizabeth, for she had not been able to resist laughing at the Bennets when we were playing our duets or singing together, and saying that they all ran after the officers. She could not have known how she was wounding me when she mentioned them. Elizabeth’s collected behaviour, however, soon calmed me and I was able to raise my eyes again.

I was hoping to see more of her, and I was very sorry when her uncle had to return suddenly, taking her with him.

And here, dear brother, I have a confession to make. It has troubled me for some time but I cannot have secrets from you. I know what it was that took you to town. You handed me one of my guardian’s letters in a hurry, without first removing the page that was for you alone. I also know why you helped in the way you did. I suspected it at the time, and I hoped to hear that I would have a sister months ago, but, however, I am very glad to learn that I am to have one now, especially as it is the right one.

Do you think we might go shopping together when she is in town? It would be such fun to do the things that sisters do. Elizabeth, I know, has four sisters of her own, but I am persuaded that she is kind enough to indulge me, if you will permit it. I am so happy I feel as if I could write another four pages, but I cannot end the letter without asking when the wedding is to be.

Your loving sister,

Georgiana


Lady Catherine de Bourgh to Mr Darcy

Rosings Park, Kent, October 12

Fitzwilliam,

I do not call you nephew, for you are no longer a nephew of mine. I am shocked and astonished that you could stoop to offer your hand to a person of such low breeding. It is a stain on the honour and credit of the name of Darcy. She will bring you nothing but degradation and embarrassment, and she will reduce your house to a place of impertinence and vulgarity. Your children will be wild and undisciplined, and your daughters will run off with stable hands. Your sons will become attorneys. You will never be received by any of your acquaintance. You will be disgraced in the eyes of the world, a figure of contempt. You will bitterly regret this day. You will remember that I warned you of the consequences of such a disastrous act, but by then it will be too late. I will not end this letter by wishing you happiness, for no happiness can follow such a blighted union.

Lady Catherine de Bourgh


Miss Anne de Bourgh to Miss Georgiana Darcy

Rosings Park, Kent, October 12

Dear coz,

We have just heard the news. Mama had a letter from Fitzwilliam, telling us of his betrothal. It is such a relief, I am overjoyed and I wish Fitzwilliam and Elizabeth every happiness!

Mama, on the other hand, is not overjoyed, and I am keeping out of her way. I sent a message downstairs to say that I was not well and I intend to keep to my room all day. I hear from my maid that the Collinses have thought it expedient to visit Mrs Collins’s family in Hertfordshire and I am not surprised. Mama is livid. She has had three of the maids and two of the footmen in tears this morning, upset by her complaining about anything and nothing. She has written a letter to my aunt in Cumbria, telling her she must write to Fitzwilliam and forbid the match. It will do no good, I am sure my aunt is too sensible to take any notice, but it has gone some way to relieve Mama’s feelings. She further relieved them by writing to Fitzwilliam and telling him he would disgrace his name, his family and indeed everything else if he married Elizabeth. However, I am sure he will be too happy to care for anything Mama might say.

I intend to remain in my room for two or three days and I have had the foresight to bring my pencils and paints, my needlework and my novels with me.

Do you think Henry will be home for the wedding? If so, I hope he might call on us here at Rosings, though I would not blame him if he stayed away. I wish we might attend the wedding, but Mama is so angry that she has declared she will not go and so there is no hope of that—unless she changes her mind, so that she can stand up when the vicar asks if any man can show any cause why they may not be joined together, and say that yes, she knows of a just cause, that Elizabeth would pollute the shades of Pemberley! Oh dear, I wish that thought had not occurred to me, for I now find myself wondering if it might happen. I will have nightmares about it, I am sure; or, even worse, that Mama might stand up and say that he was promised to me.

I will not think of it. I will think of church bells and white satin and flowers instead. You must tell me all about it; I rely on you, Georgiana.

Your dear coz,

Anne


Mrs Bennet to Mrs Gardiner

Longbourn, Hertfordshire,

October 15

My dear sister,

Were there ever such times! Jane to marry Mr Bingley, Lizzy to marry Mr Darcy! We are coming to London to shop for wedding clothes and we will be with you on the eighteenth. Poor Lydia had no time to shop for her clothes, but I mean to make up for it with Lizzy and Jane. I will not let anyone say that my girls did not have the best dresses for their wedding. Speaking of Lydia, I have told her to write to her sister and beg her husband’s help for poor Wickham. He has been very hard done by and I am sure that Lizzy’s husband would be glad to be of use to him. Who better than his own brother-in-law to assist him? I am sure he deserves it, for never a handsomer young man lived.

Now, if I can only get Mary and Kitty married, my happiness will be complete. Mr Darcy’s cousin, Colonel Fitzwilliam, will be standing up with him, and I think he might do for one or other of them. Then there is Mr Bingley’s younger brother, who is to stand up with him. To be sure, the Bingley fortune comes from trade, but Mr Bingley and his sisters are very genteel, and I am sure the rest of the family is just the same.

We will stay with you until Monday.

Your sister,

Janet


Miss Mary Bennet to Miss Lucy Sotherton

Longbourn, Hertfordshire,

October 16

Most noble Friend,

This has been a doleful time for the cause of Learned Women. One of my sisters is already married, and now two more of my sisters are betrothed. Although I never had any hope of Lydia, and very little of Elizabeth, I did think, in time, that my sister Jane might abandon the path of frivolity and walk the highway of learning. But alas! It is not to be. Now Kitty and I are the only two girls remaining unspoken for. Kitty says she will never find a husband if Papa keeps her chained to Longbourn. I applauded her attempt at imagery; however, as we were at my aunt Philips’s house at the time, her metaphor of being chained to Longbourn was not well chosen. When I pointed this out, Mama said, ‘Oh, Mary, do be quiet,’ but Mr Shackleton agreed with me.

He told me I looked charming in my new gown and asked me to dance with him. When I demurred, he reminded me that dancing was a healthful exercise and said that, in point of fact, he thought it more beneficial than playing the pianoforte, for that exercises only the fingers and dancing exercises the entire body.

I was much struck by his comment and I have decided that I should dance more often. Once my sisters have left the neighbourhood, I will no doubt be called upon to display true elegance and erudition, in the physical as well as the mental arts.

As Mr Shackleton led me back to my seat, I overheard my aunt Philips saying that we had had three weddings, and would no doubt soon have another one.

I cannot think what she means, unless she was referring to Kitty, who sat next to Mr Haydock all evening. He is visiting his cousins and means to spend some weeks in the neighbourhood, though what he can have to talk to Kitty about I do not know.

Your fellow traveller through this vale of vice,

Mary


Miss Kitty Bennet to Miss Eleanor Sotherton

Longbourn, Hertfordshire,

October 17

Dearest Ellie,

It is not fair, Mama is to go to London tomorrow with my sisters Jane and Elizabeth, but she will not take me. I do not see why I should not go to London, for I am sure that my attendant’s gown is just as important as their bridal gowns, or at any rate, nearly so. But I am to be left behind with Mary.

We have had a new visitor to the neighbourhood: Mr Haydock, the vicar of Kympton. I met him at my aunt Philips’s house. You may be sure I let him know what I thought of him for stealing poor Wickham’s living from him, but Mr Haydock just looked down his nose and pretended not to know what I was talking about, then tried to say that Wickham had not deserved the living, and then laughed at me when I told him he was an odious man and that I would not speak to him. And he is odious, though admittedly very handsome. It is a good thing Lydia was not here, or she would have been very severe on him.