Twelve days. Elizabeth had received Mr. Darcy’s brief reply to her letter twelve days ago, but he had yet to send a longer missive. She assumed he had been in contact with her father, at least in regard to signing the settlement, but for whatever reason, though she likely knew the reason perfectly well, he was not communicating with her. Elizabeth was in a state of anxiety beyond anything she had experienced before. The documents were signed, the date was set, the announcement had been sent to all her family. It was done—she was as good as married now. Breaking an official engagement was nearly impossible and would be humiliating in the extreme. She couldn’t think of doing such a thing, even if she thought her father would support her, and she was sure he would not.

After another restless night and no word from her betrothed, she concluded he was not going to send her a lengthier letter. The questions she’d dreaded were clearly not coming. Deciding she had to do something, she sat down to write a letter to Mr. Darcy. She had said she would say nothing more about their lack of suitability and endeavor to be a good wife to him, and so she would. Starting now.

Dear Mr. Darcy,

How is London? I hope your business is being seen to satisfactorily. (This is ridiculous, but what else can I start with?) How is your sister? I cannot wait to meet her. I hope we shall be good friends. (And I dearly hope she is not as proud and awful as Mr. Wickham said she is. I could not bear two Darcys staring at me all day long.)

Margate is just as pleasant as I hoped it would be. I walk along the shore daily. (Really, Elizabeth, could you be more dull?) I’m afraid I have become quite tan! I hope you will not mind a brown bride overmuch. Mama is constantly telling me to carry a parasol and stay out of the sun, but when the light is dancing on the water so prettily, I cannot be bothered with such mundane details as parasols.