Confessions & Correspondence: Mrs. Gardiner to Elizabeth

Welcome to our epistolary retelling of Pride & Prejudice! Jane Austen’s original version of the story, First Impression, was told entirely in letters, so it seemed like a great group project! We’ll be posting a new letter every Wednesday. 

Mrs. Gardiner

Mrs. Gardiner closed the door to her personal sitting room and latched the door behind her. What a trying morning it has been. She sank heavily into the chair that sat before her writing table. The contents of her writing box were arranged neatly before her, and she fingered the feathered quill thoughtfully. She was a letter in debt to her niece, Elizabeth, and there was much to be transcribed before a missive could be posted.

She hardly knew where to begin. Dear Jane, already depressed and dismal, now appeared more despondent than ever–a natural reaction when so-called friends revealed their true colors.

There was nothing for it. She pulled a fresh sheet of paper towards her and dipped her quill into the inkpot.

14 January, 1812

My dearest Lizzy,

I promised myself I would write as soon as I had anything of substance to report, and though I would much rather send you nothing but cheerful intelligence, honesty compels me to set down the events of yesterday while they remain fresh in my mind. You know me well enough to guess that I would not trouble you with trifles, yet neither would I conceal from you what may bear upon Jane’s happiness, or her peace of mind.

Before I come to that, however, I must begin with the ordinary occurrences of our household, if only to preserve the proper order of a letter. Your uncle continues in excellent spirits and tolerable health, though he insists on overexerting himself at the warehouse, as if moderation were a vice rather than a virtue. Mrs. Reynolds has at last prevailed upon Cook to alter her method of boiling beef, with much improvement to our table, and the maid you admired upon your last visit has justified my good opinion by being both diligent and discreet. Jane occupies herself quietly, dividing her time between reading, assisting me with small domestic matters, and accompanying me on errands when the weather permits. To a casual observer, she would appear perfectly content.

It was into this orderly, unremarkable routine that the Bingley sisters chose to make their appearance yesterday afternoon.

I must confess, Lizzy, that when their card was brought up, I felt at once surprised and ill at ease—not because the call itself was unexpected, for I had anticipated some acknowledgement of our presence in town, but because I feared too keenly what form that acknowledgement might take. Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst arrived precisely at four, their carriage drawing up before the house with a degree of ceremony that seemed curiously at odds with our modest street. I saw from the window that Miss Bingley surveyed the neighbouring houses with a rapid, assessing glance before alighting, her expression composed yet unmistakably critical.

From the moment they entered the drawing room, it was evident that Gracechurch Street did not meet with their approval. Miss Bingley’s eyes travelled over the furniture, the curtains, the arrangement of the chairs—not rudely, for she is too accomplished to be openly uncivil, but with a manner that suggested comparison rather than appreciation. Mrs. Hurst, for her part, smiled languidly and sank into her seat as though she found the air itself somewhat fatiguing. Their politeness was faultless; their warmth was another matter entirely.

Jane received them with her usual gentleness, her countenance brightening at their entrance despite what I am certain must have been a flutter of anticipation she would scarcely admit even to herself. Miss Bingley greeted her with a smile that was quick and elegant, accompanied by an embrace so light it seemed more ceremonial than affectionate. She spoke at once of the weather, of the inconveniences of town life, and of how exceedingly busy one is obliged to be in London—observations delivered with such animation that they scarcely allowed for reply.

Throughout the visit, Miss Bingley spoke much and listened little. She praised Jane’s looks in general terms, remarking that country air had preserved her complexion admirably, yet there was an air of surprise in her tone, as though she had not quite expected Jane to retain her former attractions. More than once, she contrasted the advantages of their present lodgings with those “unfortunately situated” parts of town where one must make allowances for noise, proximity, and—here she paused delicately—trade.

I need hardly tell you, Lizzy, that Jane bore all this with exemplary composure. She answered kindly, never sharply; she smiled when courtesy required it, and remained silent when speech might have betrayed her feelings. Yet I saw, with an aunt’s anxious eye, how her colour came and went, how she clasped her hands together when Miss Bingley spoke too freely of the pleasures of exclusive society, or of the necessity of choosing one’s connections with care.

Mrs. Hurst contributed little beyond murmured assent, though she did find time to remark upon how very different our street was from Grosvenor Square, and how she could not imagine residing in a neighbourhood where one’s tradespeople lived so conveniently close. This was said with a small laugh, as if to soften the observation, but the effect was quite the opposite. Jane’s smile faltered then—only for a moment, but long enough that I could not mistake it.

I attempted, as best I could, to redirect the conversation—to speak of mutual acquaintances, of the theatre, of agreeable walks—but Miss Bingley seemed determined to impress upon us the distinctions of London society, and to position herself firmly upon its higher rungs. She spoke of her brother only in passing, and when she did, it was with an ease that suggested the subject held little personal consequence. Jane listened attentively, but she did not inquire after him, nor did she permit herself any expression that might be construed as particular interest.

When at last the sisters rose to take their leave, Miss Bingley declared the visit quite charming and professed herself gratified to have seen us. Yet there was no suggestion of a return invitation, no warmth that might encourage further intimacy. The door had scarcely closed behind them before Jane excused herself under the pretext of a headache and withdrew to her chamber.

I found her there a short while later, seated by the window with a book open upon her lap, though it was evident she had not read a word. She looked up at me and smiled, and for a moment I feared I had imagined the tightness in her voice when she said she was quite well. But when I sat beside her and took her hand, the truth was written plainly enough in her eyes.

She did not complain, Lizzy. She did not accuse Miss Bingley of unkindness, nor did she express resentment at their manner. She spoke only of how different London must be, how one cannot expect old acquaintances to resume their former closeness, and how grateful she was that the visit had at least been conducted with civility. Yet her disappointment lay beneath every word, like a shadow she could not entirely banish.

I would have given much at that moment to spare her the lesson she was learning, but lessons of this sort are rarely avoided, however earnestly one wishes it. I reminded her—gently—that her worth does not depend upon the attentions of those who measure kindness by convenience. She agreed with me readily, too readily perhaps, as though she had rehearsed the sentiment for her own comfort long before.

Do not imagine, my dear Lizzy, that she is undone by this encounter. Jane’s strength lies in her quiet endurance, and I am confident she will recover her serenity. Still, I cannot deny that the visit pained her, nor that it revealed more of the Bingley sisters’ dispositions than I had hoped. If there was ever a time when their regard might have been sincere and unaffected, I fear it has passed.

I wished you to know all this, not to distress you, but because you understand Jane as few others do, and because I know you will guard this knowledge with discretion. Should you write to her, I trust you will offer comfort without reviving disappointment. She does not require counsel so much as the assurance that she is seen and valued for exactly what she is.

I shall write again soon, and with happier intelligence, I hope. Until then, believe me ever,

Your most affectionate aunt,
Madeline Gardiner

With careful movements, she sanded and sealed the letter, pressing her personal seal into the hot wax blob in the center of the folded missive. Hope was such a fleeting thing, and it pained her to see it fade from her niece’s eyes with each passing day.

I shall have enough hope for both of us, Madeline resolved. Perhaps that will be enough.

Read all the letters from Confessions & Correspondence here!