The Last | F. Dracy

Chapter 3: The Letter

Adele sat at the small writing desk in her chambers, the candlelight wavering as a cool night breeze drifted through the half-open window. Sleep had long since abandoned her, though she had sought it in vain. Her thoughts, restless and unyielding, refused to be stilled.

Her hand was not quite steady as she dipped her quill into the inkwell.

She had written to Lady Marshall countless times before—letters full of pleasant observations, affectionate assurances, the trifling incidents of daily life. But tonight, her pen felt heavier in her grasp.

Tonight, she was not writing to amuse or console.

Tonight, she was confessing.

She set the nib to paper.

Marshall Manor, Derbyshire

My Dearest Aunt,

I scarcely know how to begin.

For several minutes, I have sat here, my pen poised above the page, though I cannot say whether it is the weight of my own thoughts or my reluctance to see them put into words that has stayed my hand. And yet, I must write. If only to unburden myself, I must write.

Lydia is married.

I set down the words, and still, I cannot bring myself to believe them. I had thought, when this day came, that I might feel relief. I do not. Instead, a sensation far more troubling has taken its place. It is guilt, Aunt, and it has lodged itself so firmly in my heart that I know not how I shall ever be rid of it.

For I know the truth. Or at the very least, I suspect it. And my suspicions may as well be certainties.

Our uncle has taken credit for securing the marriage, and my father, with no cause to doubt him, has accepted it as fact. My mother, eager to turn scandal into triumph, has scarcely questioned it at all. Even Elizabeth, though she perceives some mystery in the affair, does not see what I see.

But I know better.

It was not my uncle who arranged this marriage.

It was him.

Mr. Darcy.

The certainty of it grows stronger with every moment. I see it now, as plainly as if he had spoken the words to me himself. I see it in his manner on the night he returned to Gracechurch Street—the fatigue that clouded his features, the bruising along his cheekbone, the careful, measured tone of a man concealing more than he revealed.

I see it in his departure.

So swift. So silent.

I asked no questions then because I did not need to. I already knew the answers.

I suspected it in London, but now, here, seeing how easily my family has been deceived, I am certain.

He found them.

He sought out Wickham—that man, who has brought nothing but ruin upon us—and he bargained with him. He paid whatever was demanded, settled whatever debts were owed, and in doing so, he secured my sister's name from disgrace.

And no one knows.

No one but me.

Aunt, how am I to bear this knowledge? How am I to express gratitude to a man who has taken such care to conceal his own deserving of it?

For I understand now—he did not wish me to know.

He had every opportunity to confess what he had done, and yet he chose silence. Not from pride, nor from a wish to be credited with some noble sacrifice, but from an utter indifference to whether he was thanked at all.