Bennet,

Allow me to assure you, this isn’t a retread of last night. You owe me nothing, and that includes your time. But I humbly ask that you read this, if only to have a fuller picture of the circumstances surrounding the grievances you listed: my separating Charles from your dear Jane and shameful treatment of George Wickham.

What I observed in Charles was unlike anything I’ve seen in him before. Never has he been so freely affectionate with a partner, nor so light and at ease. But instead of respecting the source of that affection, I only considered how it might be used to hurt my friend, and I took that consideration too far.

Charles’s confidence has never been steady. I confess to using that knowledge to undermine his hope that Jane returned his affections. Jane’s own enthusiasm, as well as Andrea’s repeated allusions to how Charles’s involvement in the club would be “beneficial” to Jane and applauding Jane for landing a “sugar daddy,” convinced me I was acting in my friend’s best interest.

I won’t condemn my instincts, but I can regret acting on them without doing my due diligence. You were right; I never once allowed that Jane’s attachment to Charles might have been as legitimate as Charles’s obvious affection for Jane. For that, I am profoundly sorry. I should have discussed their relationship with you before jumping to any conclusion. However, I feared confirming the worst—that you, too, were in on some ruse—more than I wished to exonerate your friend. This was sheer cowardice on my part. Cowardice, and a predisposition toward distrust I hope to, if not validate, at least explain to your satisfaction in the course of this letter.

For now, as it was my action and inaction that caused this separation between our friends, I will take it upon myself to mend the rift.

Regarding Wickham . . . that is its own painful series of complications.

As boys we were close, but we drifted apart in high school. I became more involved in crew and preparing for college, while he committed his time to . . . other pursuits. The resale of classmates’ Ritalin was rumored to be his endeavor, and accusations about similar schemes circulated during his time at NYU. Ultimately, he took a leave of absence that coincided with my father’s final months and began visiting him frequently.

Despite the circumstances of Wickham’s availability, I was glad to have a familiar face checking in on my father. Wickham accompanied him to specialists and kept me updated on Dad’s condition. When I’d comment on his visible deterioration, Wickham would assure me that I’d simply caught Dad on a “bad” day or that recent, alarming bloodwork had been compromised by a medication. Trusting my old friend, I believed my father’s health stable.

After a few months of this, my uncle, Fitz, flew to LA to confront me over neglecting Dad. He explained that Wickham had made it clear I couldn’t be bothered to visit. Wickham had convinced family and friends I’d simply abandoned my only living parent. As it was, doctors believed Dad had weeks—days, possibly—left, though even those grim estimates proved optimistic. Dad died that night, sometime while my plane was taxiing into JFK. I didn’t get to say goodbye.

Then came Wickham’s claim of the inheritance. Fitz was executor of the estate and had received no notes on the subject, nor had any changes to Dad’s will been made to back Wickham’s assertions. We did, however, discover a sum of money missing from my father’s personal accounts. There was no guarantee that the blame could be placed on Wickham, but there were no other suspects. When pressed, he claimed his innocence and would not relent on the issue of Pemberley. In the end, my father’s lawyers and I chose to extend him a few thousand dollars, though now I believe he uses the generosity as further evidence of my plot against him. Personally, I have not spoken with him since my father’s passing.

For all my insistence upon it, trust is, in the end, a choice. I have ample evidence to support my stance with Wickham—electing to trust the man again would be sheer folly. But in matters of the heart, as with Jane and Charles, I cannot seek evidence of absolute truth. Your steadfast belief in Jane’s affection is where I must satisfy my need for fact, and I trust you. I choose to trust you.

At the beginning of this letter I claimed that you had only two grievances, but I know I’m guilty of more. As for the comments you overheard the night we met, I know I said I didn’t have to explain myself, but I want to.

I won’t mince words: it offends me that you are so committed to your first impression of me, while my impression of you has not stopped evolving. Seeing you care for Jane that day on the sidewalk secured my interest more than any playing card could, however alluring its image (and make no mistake, it is; I have looked at that card more times than would be considered gentlemanly).

Further, the wit you expressed that night at the show was practiced: skillful, but not genuine. The way you’ve conducted yourself in our meetings that followed has shown me just how quick and clever you are. Our correspondence as you secured Pemberley for Work It’s function revealed the scope of your professionalism and tenacity; you are owed a far better title than “glorified receptionist.”

Similarly, I deeply regret suggesting that your kittening was a detriment. The comment was unkind, informed by old prejudices and mobilized in anger. Between your cheeky emails, your care for Jane, and, whether I “trusted” it or not, your playful, stunningly sexy persona at Meryton, you had me well and fully enchanted before that night at Pemberley. The push and pull of my attraction to you and my concerns over manipulation were unsettling, though to hear you phrase it yesterday, that I wanted to have you anyway, revealed the depth of my delusion. You are, delightfully, the sum of your parts, Ms. Bennet/Kitten/EBenAdmin.

I will be on the West Coast for the remainder of the month, but business has me back in New York in two weeks. If you would care to further discuss anything mentioned here, it would be my pleasure to meet and do so. Better still, if the contents of this letter have softened your opinion of me, I would be honored by your company over dinner. I leave it entirely to you. If this has left you unmoved, know I will see that as a sign that you prefer I stay away and I will respect that desire.

Yours,

William Darcy