More Letters From Pemberley

by Jane Dawkins

  Affectionately,

  Lizzy

  Pemberley

  Tuesday, 1st July, 1817

  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

  Pemberley

  Thursday, 10th July, 1817

  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.

  Pemberley

  Friday, 18th July, 1817

  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.

  Pemberley

  Sunday, 20th July, 1817

  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

  Pemberley

  Tuesday, 22d July, 1817

  My dear Jane,

  It is done. We laid our Darling to rest this morning. You will for
give 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.

  Pemberley

  Sunday, 27th July, 1817

  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

  Pemberley

  Wednesday, 30th July, 1817

  Dearest Sister,

  We visited her grave this morning, Mr. Darcy and I. The excursion was neither planned nor spoken of previously, yet when my Husband offered to accompany me on a walk, our steps led us to the cemetery of their own will. The day’s warm sunshine seemed to mock us as we stood there quietly together staring at the wilting flowers atop that pile of earth beneath which lies our Daughter. We lingered just a few moments. Not a word was said; the press of our hands together more than sufficed.

  Returning to the house, Nurse informed us that Annie was distraught, insisting on a funeral for her favourite doll, Rosebud, who had just died. With our permission, she suggested, might not a “funeral” help Annie with her own grief at the loss of an adored Sister. After consoling Annie, Mr. Darcy and I agreed and this afternoon, with a great deal of formality and garlands of flowers kindly gathered by Hopwith, in a box provided by Mrs. Reynolds, Annie laid her beloved Rosebud to rest in a grave dug by Johnson, an under-gardener, in a spot carefully chosen by Annie herself which she can see from the nursery. It was a short, very affecting ceremony conducted by Annie herself: the first lines of the Lord’s Prayer, which she is presently learning, followed by an approximation of the first verse of Nurse’s favourite hymn, which she hears daily in the nursery. The chief mourners were the two of us, Mrs. Reynolds, Nurse, Hopwith and several maids who were not immediately required elsewhere.

  Afterwards, I accompanied Nurse and Annie to the nursery where Annie almost immediately fell into a deep sleep. Thus reassured, I withdrew to my bedchamber. Only moments later, that thick ice wall which has surrounded my heart finally shattered, releasing torrents of grief and the tears I had hitherto been unable to shed. I thought I was weeping quietly and unheard, but the next thing I recall is my Beloved taking me into his arms and holding me closely until the tears were spent.

  Next, I find I am lying on my bed, and observe Mr. Darcy in conversation with Mr. Brownley, who is holding a small bottle and appearing to console my Husband. I recall wondering, What could they possibly have to discuss in my bedchamber? The bottle must have contained a strong sleeping draft, for when I next awoke it was morning and I saw Mrs. Reynolds herself drawing the curtains.

  “Where is Flora? Is she unwell?” I asked, puzzled at my maid’s absence.

  “She is in perfect health, Ma’am,“ replied Mrs. R. “I was concerned, indeed the entire household was concerned to know—that is to say—I—we, were worried—after yesterday—that I thought it best …”

  We were both spared prolonged embarrassment by my darling Annie bounding into the room and jumping on my bed, followed by Nurse.

  “Excuse me, Mrs. Darcy, I told Miss Annie, Mamma was not to be disturbed, but she scampered away when I had my back turned …”

  Reassuring Nurse that no harm was done, I took my naughty Annie into my arms, thanked Mrs. Reynolds for her concern and begged her to assure the household of my good health and my profound gratitude for their kindness and consideration during the past difficult days.

  And so, dear Jane, let me reassure you, too, that I am at peace. I am determined not to dwell upon the past with melancholy and tears, but to think of my sweet Cassie with smiles, remembering the joy she brought us for such a short time. To avoid thinking of the past, I shall immerse myself in the present, mindful of the abundance of gifts with which I have been blessed. She will never be far from my thoughts, but I have in mind to write to Mr. Repton about planting a laburnum walk in her memory. Those pendulous blossoms dancing on a summer day will remind others of the happiness she gave us all.

  Tomorrow, I shall pay a visit to Mrs. Barford, who has been much on my mind of late, and to whom I must make amends for my callous words upon the death of her Infant Son. I blush to recall what I said as I urged her to set her grief aside—that she was at least fortunate in not having to bear the burden of years of happy memories of her Child; that she had three other healthy Children. How those words haunt me now! Were I to have ten more, my grief at losing Cassie will not be lessened, ever. There will always be a special place in my heart that is hers alone.

  Pray tell Mr. Bingley that Mr. Darcy’s refusal of his invitations is no reflection upon Mr. Darcy’s regard for him, I assure you. My Husband is withdrawn into himself and not even I seem able to offer any comfort. He is so accustomed to being in command of every situation, great and small, that it falls hard when life takes the reins from him.

  Let me now hasten to the library in the hope of finding Mr. Darcy. Perhaps, at last, we can put into words what we have been unable to say to each other, words of consolation, and words of hope that brighter days will dawn. In saying them and repeating them often, we may actually come to believe them.

  As always,

  E.D.

  Pemberley

  Wednesday, 8th October, 1817

  My dear Charlotte,

  I will endeavour to make this letter more worthy your acceptance than my last, though my abilities decrease and I have no more notion of penning a smart letter than of making a smart cap. I endeavour, as I must, to submit graciously to the will of providence and begin each new day with good intentions, yet by breakfast time usually find my anger rising and my spirits lowered. My poor, dear Family little know of what passes in my mind, and I am truly glad of it. Mr. Darcy at last makes a tolerable recovery, having given me grave cause for concern with his long, dreadful, deafening silences. I had feared I would never reach him again, but he is returned to me, thank goodness. Yes, we are both bruised and damaged, but more than ever united.

  Annie is enchanted with her kitten, Parsley, and by day appears to be her normal little self once more, yet she has grown afraid of the dark. We agreed (Nurse and I—she is a remarkable woman of good sense and I have been so grateful for her reassuring presence, for my own as well as Annie’s sake) to deal most tenderly with her. All of us (her Father, too) have taken to walking
about the house with her without a candle, and talking and telling stories and enjoying the quiet dark. Parsley, previously dispatched to Mrs. Reynolds’ room at bedtime, is now allowed to stay in the nursery at night. When I look in before retiring, it is such a precious picture to behold, these two small creatures curled up side by side contentedly.

  My Mother and Father and Kitty spent a full six weeks in the neighbourhood, mostly at The Great House, where they had been expected for Elizabeth Cassandra’s christening, and where, I dare say, Kitty had expectations of renewing her acquaintance with one Mr. Perrot, a curate whom she met on her earlier visit this year. I have not yet had the pleasure of meeting him.

  My Mother had in mind to remain at Pemberley for several weeks, but my Father sensibly persuaded her that a visit of several days only would be far more appropriate at this time. How grateful I was for my dear, wise Father! I could not have borne it, I know. My Mother’s notion of comfort would have offered me no solace at all, quite the reverse. It was finally agreed that they would arrive in time for the opening of partridge season, which would be a very welcome diversion for Mr. Darcy also, who might otherwise not have bothered at all. Thus, my Father and Mr. Darcy were happily occupied in the fields and not inconvenienced by the melancholy company of we women. All in all, it was a tolerable visit of just five days.

  Yet, how strange it was, Charlotte—I had been in expectation of my Mother smothering me with condolences and platitudes and empty words of comfort. The reality, however, was that it was I who was expected to comfort her! She spent a good part of every day in tears bemoaning the loss of a beloved Grand-daughter and taking most meals in her room. Her nerves would not allow her to visit the grave, nor even to enter the nursery where she feared she would be overcome with grief. Poor Annie, how she longed to show her kitten to her Grandmamma, but not even a little girl’s entreaties would persuade her! (Another source of profound grief for my Mother was that Mrs. Hill had had the wrong gown dyed black, but I shall not bore you with the particulars of that lengthy, daily subject.)