Welcome to our epistolary retelling of Pride & Prejudice! Jane Austen’s original version of the story, First Impressions, was told entirely in letters, so it seemed like a great group project. We’ll be posting a new letter every Wednesday.
Charles Bingley, 23 September 1812
That the Bennet family was made happy by Jane’s engagement, could not be doubted. Her mother’s torrents of ecstatic exclamations left no one else with a chance to say much, and soon after breakfast Mr. Bennet, though as sincerely satisfied with the match as anyone else, retreated to his library to be a little way from his wife’s expressions.
As Mrs. Bennet speculated in rapid succession about every thing from details of Jane’s future married housekeeping at Netherfield, to the likelihood of the young couple’s spending the season in London, and what it all might mean for her younger daughters, Mary and Kitty listened, wide-eyed, drinking it all in uncritically. Elizabeth, however, thought she saw something in Bingley’s face that suggested a desire to be alone with his bride elect, and Jane’s embarrassment at her mother’s raptures was discernable to her sister’s eyes. So when Bingley rather hastily proposed, in the midst of a speech of Mrs. Bennet’s about her plans for Jane’s trousseau, that he and Jane might go out for a walk, on this lovely September morning, Elizabeth supported his wish for air, and assured her mother that she would remain behind and listen to the particulars. Mrs. Bennet only needed listeners, and although Mary returned to her books, Elizabeth patiently, and Kitty with eager awe, attended to Mrs. Bennet’s speculations about materials, and trimmings, that grew more fanciful each time she drew breath.
“Will Jane really have satin bed-sheets?” Kitty asked excitedly.
“Mama, you are spending Mr. Bingley’s income rather rapidly,” Elizabeth observed dryly.
“How you talk, Lizzy! Why you know he has five thousand a year and likely more; and you know he thinks nothing too good for Jane.”
That much was true, and at the moment, walking among the yellow leaves in the shrubbery, Mr. Bingley’s and Jane’s minds could not be farther away from the subject of money. They had not yet said every thing there was to say to one another about their newfound, extraordinary happiness; there was no want of subject to discuss; three times for every rapturous exclamation to be repeated, was by no means too many.
“Dear Charles,” said Jane, her complexion aglow with delight, “I can never thank you enough. My own happiness is beyond any thing I ever imagined; but that it should bring so much satisfaction to my dear family – it is almost too much!”
“They do seem glad, do they not?” Bingley answered with a smile. “No one could be in any doubt, to hear your mother.”
Jane blushed a little. “I am afraid she is rather too effusive,” she admitted, “and her manner can make one feel almost overcome; but then you know it proceeds only from her extreme joy, and you can forgive that, I hope.”
“Oh, yes,” he assured her, “to see the rejoicing of a mother is no small thing. And your father balances her out, by contrast, for he is quite silent.”
“That is not because he feels any differently,” Jane assured him earnestly. “He spoke to me last night, with such feeling. He says I will be a very happy woman.”
“And so you will.” Bingley took her hand in his and they stopped in a leafy copse and stood together gazing into each other’s eyes, while he told her much more on that subject.
“And my sisters,” Jane remembered. “Mary and Kitty are too young yet to think of marriage, but they are both delighted at what interests them most, and what they can understand – Mary’s thoughts are all with the library at Netherfield, and Kitty’s are about balls.”
“Very appropriate, and we will be liberal about both matters,” he agreed.
“You are so kind and generous, dear Charles. I honestly do not believe I could think of a thing in the world that could make me any happier than I am, at this moment.”
“That is just as I would wish,” he said seriously, “and I feel just the same way.”
“Except – “
He looked concerned. “Except what, my love?”
“Well, there is my dearest sister, Lizzy. If only I could know that she will find her own happiness, too.”
“Elizabeth, in love?” He looked considering. “You know, it may sound strange, but I have often thought it possible that she could have Darcy if she liked. Has that occurred to you?”
Jane looked down at a pretty patch of purple asters, but without seeming to see them. “It has,” she admitted. “Lizzy told me about his proposal, long ago, and how she refused him. I could not wish her to marry where she does not love, yet I was sorry. Mr. Darcy seems such a worthy man.”
“He is that. Oh, Jane, when you are better acquainted with him, you will know what he is!” Bingley said eagerly. “From what I saw at Pemberley, when Elizabeth was there with your uncle and aunt, he is very deeply in love. I do not know much about it, but I suspect that he may have been too precipitate in his proposal, and wishes to make amends to her. I do not know the circumstances, but his behavior was very conciliatory.”
“Was it?” Jane hesitated. “Perhaps he may have had too much assurance in his manner, when he first spoke, which Lizzy might not have appreciated. I can’t guess, but I felt very sorry to know him a disappointed man.”
“I, too, feel that. People sometimes take Darcy for proud, even arrogant, but a better fellow never lived, and I think he and Lizzy might have suited – perhaps they still may. They are each one as clever as the other.”
Jane looked doubtful. “That is true, and I can suppose that in time they might become very good companions,” she said, “but I believe she was very decided in her refusal.”
“Yes, I suppose it is impossible,” Bingley said regretfully. “It is a very great pity.”
“Perhaps the best we can do, Charles, is to set an example for them both, by showing what happiness in marriage really is,” Jane suggested.
“I know we will do that, my dearest. That is the best hope. I know I have never known such happiness as you have given me. I never presumed, never dared, to think you could love me, but Darcy thought – “
“Oh, did Darcy say something to you about me?” Jane asked, surprised.
“In a roundabout way, he did. He told me that he had observed you, and was convinced that your regard for me was real. I trust his opinions more than those of any other man I know, and I believe it was what gave me the confidence to try my fate.“
“To propose, you mean?” Jane asked, archly. “Was it your idea or his?”
“Dearest Jane! Have I not told you that it was always my idea, my hope, my wish, almost from the very first, but I am not always as brave as my wishes. Darcy’s encouragement meant a great deal to me.”
“However it happened, Charles, it has brought us to this moment,” Jane assured him, smiling brightly, “and our happiness seems to be spreading outward. It has already reached Highbury, I know, for my mother has already told the news to my aunt Phillips, and it is easy to see what will happen. There is no need for any other announcement!”
“I have no objection, it saves us trouble,” said Bingley mildly. “Should you like to go in now? We have walked a mile or two at least, and I do not want you to grow tired. Shall we go back into the house and join the others?”
“Oh, yes. Let me pick a few of these asters, to bring in to brighten the house.”
“By all means, though nothing can brighten it more than your sweet face, my love.”
“I hope all this fuss, and talk about our wedding, will not be tiresome to you, Charles.”
“Of course not. I am the happiest man alive, and fuss as you call it, iss to be expected. Besides, we will soon be alone at Netherfield – only think of that, my Jane!”
“I do,” she said with a little shiver of happiness. “But, Charles, I wonder, your sisters are still at Scarborough. Will they come to Netherfield for the wedding, or go back to London with your aunt?”
He stopped and looked at her. “Upon my word, I do not know,” he said, surprised. “That shows how entirely my mind has been taken up by our own concerns. I forgot that Caroline and Louisa had gone to see our aunt, and to take the waters. I did not even think about them being gone!”
“Yet it is a material concern,” Jane pointed out, “as they ought to be told of our plans.”
“Good Lord, yes, I suppose they must.”
“When we are back in the house, I shall find you some writing-paper and you can write the letter before the post goes.”
“I write?”
“Well, yes, it ought to be you, ought it not? I can hardly write to Caroline and announce our engagement, myself!”
“No, no of course not, but I can’t say I want to very much,” he admitted grudgingly.
“I know,” Jane said gently, “so lately, and so thoroughly, as Caroline and Louisa disapproved of our match.”
She did not advert to his sisters concealing her presence in town from Bingley, nor Darcy’s collusion with it. Bingley had forgiven Darcy for his part, but he was, and looked, ashamed of his sisters. “I am sorry for it, and for much of my sisters’ ungracious behavior to you. They shall never behave so again, however, I promise you that.”
They gazed into each other’s eyes. “I am sure they will become reconciled to it, when they see how happy we are,” Jane said simply.
“I hope so. But look here, Jane. Which shall I write to? Caroline, or Louisa, or our aunt, or all three?” Bingley hated writing letters, and the idea of having to write three was appalling.
“Well, I think,” said Jane judiciously, “there can be no need to write three. Why do you not write to Aunt Bingley, inform her of our delight, and request that she be the one to tell your sisters? She will like being asked to perform such an important office.”
“To be sure, she will,” Bingley agreed with relief. “What a thinking brain you have, Jane. That is just the thing. Now what shall I say? I hope such a letter does not need to be long.”
“I should not think so,” said Jane, after a little thought. “Such things cannot generally be too short. You might say, ‘Dear Aunt, I am happy to announce to you my engagement to Miss Jane Bennet of Longbourn, and I desire you will tell my sisters the joyful news. Affectionately, etc. etc.’ Something like that?”
“That is perfect,” Bingley said with satisfaction. “Come, let us go inside and I will write that down at once, before I forget the words. We will send it to the post, just exactly like that. Goodness, Jane, it is going to be a fine thing to have you for my wife. You will be such a wise helpmate, as well as the delight of my heart!”
“I hope I shall be,” she told him earnestly, and they entered through the garden door at Longbourn, she holding her cluster of asters.
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