“Only you would worry over a letter from home when we are in Brighton to make Mr Avery offer for me.”

Elizabeth needed no reminder of the reason for their second annual trip to Brighton. Lydia’s sole concern currently was capturing the proposal of Mr Avery, a soldier in the militia whom they had followed from Meryton to Brighton. Last year they had vacationed purely for pleasure. This year, with the spectre of Mr Bennet’s failing health, not even a walk along the boardwalk in the afternoon, the bracing sea breeze ruffling their skirts, was enjoyable. Worry clouded a cloudless day.

Lydia skipped ahead several steps, then paused and reformed her gait into the more deliberate sashay she insisted gentlemen preferred in mature, marriageable women of the grand age of sixteen.

“We shall be late, Lizzy. Can you not walk any faster?”

“Our father’s illness does not concern you?” she asked, voice cool. Her brow furrowed as she weighed the contents of Jane’s missive.
Jane had not outright said ‘come home,’ instead leaving it to Elizabeth’s best judgment. Mr Bennet was ill. Lydia needed a husband. Well—they all needed husbands. But Lydia was the only Bennet girl with an actual suitor. Mrs Bennet agreed that with father’s illness looming over all their heads, any chance at marriage for any of the Bennet daughters was to be pursued with all haste and ferocity. Mr Avery and Lydia had seemed to form quite an attachment while the militia was stationed in Meryton. There was hope that during the summer in Brighton, he might make an offer.

If their father was not long for this world, then it was even more imperative for them to all wed if possible. Well, all of them but Elizabeth. She had begun to take other measures.

“He was ill last summer,” Lydia said, “and he was soon well. Father cannot die before I wed. I forbid it.”

“Ah, well, in that case.”

Lydia either did not discern, or chose to ignore, the heavy sarcasm in Elizabeth’s voice.

“Besides, do not tell me you wish to return home before you have discovered the identity of your mysterious suitor.”

Elizabeth stiffened. “Dignified young ladies do not listen at doors.”

Lydia sniffed. “Then you should learn to lower your voice when you and Jane are gossiping.”

“Gossiping—” Elizabeth paused. She refused to be baited. “I have no suitor. The unknown gentleman and I enjoyed a mutually satisfying correspondence last summer and after the term was up, decided not to reveal one another’s identities. It was all in good fun.”

Thankfully she was well enough practiced in guarding her expression that the thrill of excitement did not show on her face. She had been looking forward to this beach picnic all year. Even now her heartbeat cantered in anticipation. Would he be there, her secret correspondent? Would he fulfill their promise to finally reveal each other’s identity after a year of regular letters?

And this summer. . .would the correspondence deepen into something more? Only time would tell. She thought of him often, to both her amazement and chagrin. Thought of a man whose character she knew only by his letters. She did not know his true name, or whether he was plain or handsome. Nor if he was rich or poor—though receiving an invitation to Mrs Frampton’s picnic required a certain level of status in society. No tradesmen would be invited, certainly, though the occasional well-connected solicitor or doctor—often fourth and fifth sons of gentry—had been known to grace the Frampton parlour. Considering the source of her husband’s family’s wealth, Mrs Frampton could not be too proud.

Elizabeth only knew enough about her correspondent, who signed his letters as Mr Shore as she signed hers Miss Seal, to send the letters in care of a London solicitor and await in return his replies in care of her father’s man of business in Meryton.

She only knew enough about him, from his elegant lettering and thoughtful, subtly humourous and at times gently poetic words, to have come to believe they were kindred souls, both of them brimming with carefully controlled passion for life, a determination to follow the dictates of their hearts while obeying the strictures of duty to family.

A more sensitive, well-rounded, and gentle soul she had never encountered in a man.

If God was kind, that soul would reveal itself in the form of a well-made, preferably no more than twenty years her senior, gentleman.
Wealth would also be agreeable.

But even if he were a vicar of modest living with greys in his hair, if he would have her, she would have him.

“And here you are, returned to Brighton for another summer to attend yet another beach picnic thrown by Mrs Lampton as is the custom every year for the last five. Because it was simply all in good fun.”

“I refuse to explain myself to you,” Elizabeth said, though with no rancour. “Decent adult conversation is hard to come by these days. I am surrounded by the silliest girls in Hertfordshire.”

“Tell me, Lizzy,” Lydia said, turning to walk backwards as she directed a half-mocking, half-mischievous stare at her older sister. “Did you arrange with your secret correspondent to pluck each other’s marks from the fishbowl again this year?”

The question struck too close to the truth for Elizabeth’s liking—she could not help the faintest tinge of pink on her cheeks and turned her face away.

“Do you not think we should return home, Lydia?”

Lydia’s eyes widened. “And leave Mr Avery in the clutches of Miss Gale? Never. He is on the cusp of proposing, I am certain of it.” Her eyes narrowed. “I may have to offer him a little encouragement.”

Alarm stiffened Elizabeth’s back. “Lydia, there can be no repeat of the mischief in Meryton. It is fortunate Mrs Forster invited you here for the summer, so you may be away while talk dies down.”

Lydia pouted. “Those old busybodies. A girl cannot even set her cap for a respectable young man these days without cries of shock. How are we even supposed to find husbands, I ask, if we are not allowed to flirt?”

Elizabeth glared, then smoothed her expression as they passed a couple and smiled politely. “Your antics went far and above mere flirtation. You must guard your behaviour, Lydia. Besides, no man wants a woman who flings herself shamelessly upon him.”

Lydia’s brow rose. “Oh?” Her lips curved in a smile slightly too dark for Elizabeth’s comfort. “If you say so, Lizzy. But we shall see who is wed by the end of our holiday. We shall see.”

“Is it a contest, then? I would rather compete in who is the more dutiful, sensible daughter.” No. . .better she continue on the path recently embarked upon. Life as a governess was better than starvation.

“Then do your duty and see me wed,” Lydia retorted. “Think of how improved Papa’s health will be knowing at least one daughter is happily settled.”

The aggravating thing was that her sister was right. Confound it.

* * *

“This is intolerable,” Darcy said, throwing the letter onto his desk. “Georgiana, face me.”

She turned, sullen expression hardly improved by a trail of tears. It was a ploy, but the sight still produced an internal wince. He was not heartless, no matter what people thought. Not that he cared what people thought. . .but he was not heartless.

“What is intolerable?” she asked. “Love? Friendship? A bond between two souls?”

The drama. This time he was unable to contain his wince, and she pounced upon the lapse in his control.

“See! You mock me, think I am just a silly girl.”

“I do not think you are silly.” His fingers twitched, longing for paper and ink. “I think you are a kind, impressionable young woman with a fortune that makes you the prey of—”

“I am not stupid, Fitzwilliam!” Her tears turned to rage in a flash. “Do you think I cannot tell when a man meddles with me for love of my fortune!”

“Can we discuss this in a level tone? Shouting is not necessary.”

“You are cold, Brother. Until you have been touched by true love, you will remain cold.”

“That is unfair, Georgiana. You know I only want the best for you.” He paused. “If I do not have your word that you will cease secret correspondence with this man, I will be forced to take steps. If he is honourable, let him come out into the light and approach me as is proper.”

“He knows you would deny him. He is neither rich nor titled.”

He pinched the bridge of his nose. How he longed for the subtle humour, good sense, and soothing wit of his writing companion.

Georgiana was wrong. He was not cold. He possessed emotions. He simply understood the value of self-control. It was only in his letters to his mysterious gentlewoman that he felt free to unburden himself. One, because they corresponded anonymously. Two, because there were no expectations in their missives. No recriminations. The year-long series of letters had freed him, in a way, given him an opportunity to engage another person in a way he was reluctant to do in real life.

In real life, women always had expectations. Of romance, of marriage, even when by their lower station, dismal accomplishments, and lack of charm, they should know better than to aspire to him as a husband.

He had promised Miss Seal—the ridiculous pseudonym she had chosen—they would meet in person this summer. Was he ready to give up the dream of her for the inevitably disappointing reality? The dream of his perfect woman? Elegant, accomplished, well read, and most of all, undemanding.

Darcy knew such a paragon could not exist. It was why he was loath to end the idyll. But he had promised, and a part of him anticipated the reveal even as he braced for it.

What accomplished woman possessing grace, wit, beauty and good family would waste her time in a correspondence with an unknown gentleman? She would not—she would be married, unless something was wrong with her.

But perhaps. . .a plain but not unpleasant spinster. A gently spoken woman who might blossom when offered the accoutrements of wealth. He had known many women who were not handsome, but their elegant dress and manners more than made up for the lack in beauty.

So, there was some hope. Please, God, let there be some hope. Let his duty be able to follow the path  which his mind and heart  inevitably led.

“I do not care if he is not wealthy or titled, Georgiana. But he must be of a respectable family of proper social standing and able to support a wife and family. Or would you have me give you to a farmer or a dockworker?”

The irony that Georgiana had her own suitor-by-letter did not fail to register. But he was a grown man and she a young girl, not yet seventeen.

Her lips curled with magnificent, feminine scorn. “A dockworker! Really, your imagination knows no bounds.”

More exclamations. He was getting a headache. Could she not just modulate her speech somewhat out of respect for his throbbing temples?

“No more letters, Sister. Your suitor will come into the light or scurry off into the darkness where all cretins must retreat. It is his choice, and if I find you have defied me. . .”

She exhaled in vexation and whirled, slamming the door behind her, feet pattering down the hall until there was blessed silence.

Darcy did not move for a moment, enjoying the relative peace. And then he moved towards his desk and began to write.