More Letters From Pemberley (8 page)

My dear Aunt,

Where shall I begin? Which of all my unimportant nothings shall I tell you first? As I write, my dear Husband fishes for trout. Annie and I have just returned from a walk to find him—she has inherited her Mother’s love of walking, and at the great age of three years and three days, tries very hard to keep up even when her short legs show every sign of collapse (I fear she may also have inherited her Mother’s stubbornness). It would have amused you to see our progress; in climbing a hill, Miss Annie only with difficulty keeps pace with me, yet would not flinch for the world. On level ground she is almost my equal; on the slope down to the stream she scampers ahead. We always stop to look at flowers and listen to birds and watch passing clouds—I think it right to take pains to cultivate the eyes and ears of Children for nature. Moreover, nothing tends more to health than exercise and air, and the more Children are out of the house the better. (If there is any subject on which I feel diffident, it is that my affection for my Children will lead me to take too much care of them. Mr. Darcy has been instructed to tell me if I show any tendency towards the kind of suffocating Mothering practised by Lady Mansfield!)

Cassie, at eighteen months, shows every sign of becoming a natural, open hearted, affectionate little girl, adored by her elder Sister. I fervently hope that they will become loving friends as they grow up together. To be able to call a Sister one’s best Friend is truly a blessing, a gift I cherish dearly and one I would wish my Daughters to know.

Haymaking is now over and if the weather continues fair, Barford expects the corn to ripen early this year. Mr. Darcy cautions against hiring extra workers for another six weeks at least; Barford fears that if it is left too late, there will be no extra workers available to help with the harvest. Such, you see, are the burning issues at Pemberley—I cannot imagine dilemmas of this nature arising in Gracechurch Street!

How envious I am that you are to visit Longbourn—and how sorry that time will not permit you to come further north to Derbyshire! I should so dearly love to see you and my dear Uncle. But I do not despair entirely, for we are to visit Jane at the end of this month and remain there until her lying-in. In my mind’s eye I already see the Cousins playing together, our Husbands spending leisurely days fishing, and Jane and I enjoying lazy, unhurried days of reading, conversation, sewing, and whatever our fancies lead us to. Only your presence could improve upon our scheme, my dear Aunt!

Yours ever,
E.D.

My dear Jane,

To make long sentences upon unpleasant subjects is very odious, and I shall therefore get rid of the one now uppermost in my thoughts as soon as possible—we must delay our departure. There, it is said, much as it disappoints me to have to record it at all.

Yesterday morning at four o’clock I was awoken by Nurse, alarmed by my darling Cassie screaming in pain. Rushing to the nursery, I found her just as Nurse had described, quite purple in the face with pain and her little body hot with fever. Mr. Darcy ordered Brownley to be sent for immediately. By the time he got here, Cassie had calmed somewhat and the fever appeared to be abating, but she appeared to be still in pain, for which Brownley could find no apparent cause. Finally, spent and exhausted, she fell asleep. Brownley said the longer she rests the better, she may well sleep off her disorder.

I stayed by her bedside throughout the day and by last evening she seemed much improved, even managing to smile at me, twice! I was heartened enough to leave her in the care of Nurse through the night, though with instructions to wake me should there be any change. This morning, Mr. Brownley advises not leaving home until Cassie’s strength returns, a day or two, he says. Otherwise he is satisfied with her improvement.

I have been urging Mr. Darcy to depart with Annie, for I know he has looked forward to our visit as much as I have, but he insists that we will make the journey together. So, expect us all on 2nd July, towards two o’clock!

Affectionately,
Lizzy

My dear Jane,

I regret we are obliged to postpone our visit once again. My darling Cassie was taken ill again early yesterday morning with a fever. It is a grievous blow to our spirits for she had been making such good progress. I was at her side all day and by evening she had rallied again and slept the night through. This morning, she is weak from exhaustion, to be sure, but assured by Mr. Brownley that she is out of danger.

We are all quite fatigued and long for the restorative powers which your good company will surely bestow. I shall send an express when we are finally able to leave Pemberley.

With love,
Lizzy

My dear Jane,

I know you will forgive this short letter and the prior absence of news from me when I tell you that since Cassie fell ill, I have not left her side for more than an hour altogether. Her condition has given us all serious cause for alarm: when she is awake, the fever gives her so much discomfort and distress; when she sleeps too long, I begin to fear she will never awaken—a feeling impossible to describe. I hold her hot little body to my breast to soothe her, but she cannot settle for long. Brownley maintains that the fever will break soon, that we must be patient. How easy to say, how difficult to accomplish!

(My Husband insists that I join him for breakfast now. While I have little appetite to bring to the table, I must not add to his worries and shall attempt to eat a little to satisfy him.)

11th July, 1817

Good news, Jane! The fever has abated once more and my darling Girl rests comfortably. Brownley declares she is now quite safe. How pitiful she looks, so pale and thin, but with fresh air and nourishment, in a few months she will be well again. It is such a relief to cast this weight from our shoulders. At times during these past days and weeks, I thought—but no matter, it is over and we are all ready to be happy again.

My poor Annie has been sorely neglected—despite my efforts to spend time with her each day, I have been so fatigued and distracted with worry that she has gained little satisfaction from my presence. Today, however, we have played at spillikins, paper ships, riddles and cards, and later I have promised her we shall gather flowers and make a posy for Cassie.

With love,
E.

My dear Jane,

How can I bear to write these terrible words? In writing them, perhaps they will seem real at last, perhaps I will feel their full, awful import. Perhaps I will feel something, anything but this cold numbness which covers me like a shroud. This morning, just after dawn, Cassandra Jane, our dearest Cassie, aged one year and seven months, passed away peacefully, finally released from the ravages of the fever which consumed her tiny body.

Last evening, she was suddenly taken worse. Mr. Brownley was sent for and said she could not outlive the night. To see her little wasted body lying in a state of exhaustion cut to my very soul. This was once my lovely Cassie. Against Mr. Brownley’s and Mr. Darcy’s wishes and advice, I insisted upon holding her in my arms, and there at last she expired, peacefully, with her face on my breast. I gave her one last kiss and she was taken from me. My sweet, darling Girl. Gone. My head rings with Why? Why? Why? I get no answer. And still I ask, Why? Why? Why was my darling taken from me? She did no wrong, she scarce ever cried, not even as the fever raged, nor when she cut her first teeth, even when she tumbled and cut her head taking her first steps. Why is this world so cruel?

Forgive me, dearest Jane, for inflicting my despair on you. I know you will understand how much it means to be able to express it to you. I must not add to Mr. Darcy’s own grief, yet I am so frightened of tomorrow and of all the tomorrows we must face without that dear person, who will be forever one year and seven months, who will be forever absent from our lives, never to experience the thrill of the wind in her hair running through the woods on a fine spring morning, the excitement of her first ball, the pride in writing her name for the very first time.

How can I comfort my Husband on the loss of an adored Daughter? How can I comfort Annie, distraught at the loss of a Sister and frightened of dying herself? How can I comfort myself? Even though I would prefer to withdraw from life—yes, from even my adored Family—to the silence of my own room, I cannot. I owe it to them to guide us all from this day into the one that follows, and the one that follows after.

I
must
put down my pen and go to the nursery.

I
must
gather my living Child into my arms.

I
must
go to the library where I know I will find my Husband seeking solace among his books.

We
must
help each other somehow.

We
must
get through the dark days and nights ahead.

We
must
continue living; it cannot be otherwise.

Dear Jane, how I wish you were here, but I forbid you to contemplate it so close to your due time. Be assured that I will write to you often. Share our sorrow, but do not worry about us.

E.D.

Thank you, dear Jane, for the comfort of your letter. There are very few people able to supply real comfort, but your heartfelt words succeeded. I, too, long for the warmth of your Sisterly embrace, but it cannot be, and the pen must suffice. I am relieved to know that you are in good health.

You ask about Mr. Darcy. What can I say? I know not how to comfort him. Indeed our shared sorrow has made us strangers and we can give each other no solace. Is that not strange? We have each withdrawn into that private part of our souls to which we alone possess the keys, to which no other may gain entry; that place where grief reigns mistress and demands our all. Yet the loss of our Child is no less agonizing for the absence of hysterical expression. I am grateful that my pen continues to write even as my tongue fails me, and more than grateful that I may pen my despair openly to you. Would that this same pen could find words adequate to tell you how very, very thankful I am for such a loving, understanding Sister.

As I go about the house, I see her everywhere, Jane; it sinks my very heart to enter the nursery. Yet where can I go at Pemberley that I shall not be reminded of my darling Girl? As so often, I turn to George Crabbe to take stock:

Why do I live, when I desire to be

At once from life and life’s long labour free?

Like leaves in spring, the young are blown away

Without the sorrows of a slow decay,

I, like you withered leaf, remain behind

Nipp’d by the frost, and shivering in the wind.

Death casts such a long shadow; it seems to touch everyone at Pemberley, yet our lives have not stopped. There are mourning clothes to be arranged for ourselves and for the servants. Mrs. Reynolds has already given directions for cloth to be dyed and crape to be purchased. The funeral takes place the day after tomorrow.

Mr. Kirkland mentioned Cassie by name at church this morning and has called several times. I am sure he means well, he is a kind man, yet I long to cry out that he cannot possibly understand my loss: he has been spared the grief of losing a Child; he cannot know a Mother’s love and attachment to the Child she has borne; and the words he quotes from the Bible, intended to give me comfort, fall upon cold, barren soil. I wish him gone as soon as he is arrived. It is unkind of me, I know, and I trust my uncharitable nature is not too obvious to him.

The present would be unendurable without my Family to keep my eyes fixed firmly on the future, but, oh, Jane, how hard it is to envision that future without her.

Keep us in your prayers,
Elizabeth

My dear Jane,

It is done. We laid our Darling to rest this morning. You will forgive me that I feel unable to write more—there is nothing I can write about this day that you cannot as well imagine yourself.

I am tired of letter-writing; perhaps a little repose may restore my regard for a pen. Pray, do not fret. I am well, but exhausted.

As ever,
E.D.

My dear Jane,

When I received word of the express from Mr. Bingley this morning, you will hardly wonder that I was beside myself with anxiety, knowing that your lying-in was not for some weeks yet. Mr. Darcy assured me (as soon as I allowed him—which was several minutes later, and then only after I had ventured several imagined disasters which must have befallen you or your Family, each of which he was required to deny before I ventured another) that all was well and that you had been brought to bed of a fine Girl.

I congratulate you, dear Jane, on a Sister for Frederick and George, and beg you will believe me when I say that my joy on your safe delivery and the birth of a welcome Niece is not diminished, even though the event follows so shortly after my greatest sorrow. That my Niece shares my own name and that of the Cousin she will never have the pleasure of knowing gives me very great comfort and enormous pride, I assure you, and I thank you for the fine compliment.

Annie is at my side and begs me to add that she longs to see Elizabeth Cassandra and wishes Frederick and George to know that Mrs. Reynolds’ Mittens had five kittens on Thursday last, and that her Papa has said she may have one for her very own, to be called Parsley. To own the truth, her Papa and I are indebted to Mittens for this timely diversion from the gloom which overshadows Pemberley. Mrs. Reynolds, bless her, encourages Annie to visit the kittens as often as possible and Annie regales us with reports of their antics. Three years old is too young to dwell upon death for too long, and while we attempt to be our normal selves in her presence, I doubt that Annie is deceived.

Yours,
E. Darcy