The Guest | F. Darcy

Chapter 8: Adele's Letter

Rosings, Kent
April 15

My Dear Mr. Darcy,

(I know not if, upon reading this, you will still think of me as a friend, but I can only hope you will not think too unkindly of me.)

You may think it strange that I should write to you, when you are so near, but I find I have not the courage to say what must be said. I have paced the length of Charlotte's parlour for an age, struggling to gather my thoughts, yet I remain at a loss. Perhaps it is best if I set my words to paper, for I know not how else to tell you the truth.

Fitzwilliam, we have known each other for a very long time, and I have always counted you among my dearest friends. I once believed our friendship unshakable, but time and circumstance have made it otherwise. You have no doubt observed the change in me, the coldness I now wear as armor, though I have never given you cause for it—until now.

It is not my intention to burden you with my sentiments, but I fear I have deceived you by my silence. For the better part of our acquaintance, I have been unapologetically, hopelessly in love with you. I know you could never return my affections—I have long suspected your heart belongs elsewhere (I saw the red chrysanthemum you concealed from me, meant for another). But I thought you should know, if only to understand me better.

Yet this letter was never meant as a confession of love, nor did I ever intend for you to learn of my feelings. I had resolved to carry them silently to my grave. There is another truth I must tell you, one far darker than mere unrequited affection.

Fitzwilliam, the Adele you once knew no longer exists. She perished long ago, along with one who was dearest to her heart.

I had a twin sister.

Her name was Adelina. We looked nearly identical, save for her dark blue eyes, inherited from our maternal grandmother, while I took after my father's mother. But where I was rational, she was a dreamer. She was the softer, kinder half of me, the one who could find beauty in the simplest of things.

When we were twelve, our newly wedded Aunt and Uncle Gardiner took us to London, believing it necessary that we be groomed for society. At that time, Lady Marshall—my aunt's sister—took a particular interest in me and decided that I should be educated under her care. Thus, for the first time in our lives, Adelina and I were separated: she remained at Cheapside, while I was sent to Derbyshire, to live under Lady Marshall's roof. I was alone, but I was not unhappy, for my aunt was kind to me in a way my mother never had been. And then, of course, I met you.

Through it all, Adelina remained in London, yet she never once complained. She wrote to me often, always cheerful, always full of hope. And then, years later—when you and I were no longer friends—she wrote to me of a man. A man who, she said, was kind and handsome, who made her heart race and her spirit soar. She loved him already, though they had known each other but a month, and she was certain I would approve. She begged me to meet him when we returned to London for the season.

I was happy for her. Truly, I was. I longed to see her joy and to meet the man who had won her heart so swiftly. But all my happiness shattered when I did.

Fitzwilliam, it was Wickham.

I shall never forget the horror of that moment, the disbelief that gripped me as I looked upon him and realized what he was. She was so innocent—so trusting. And he... he was everything I already knew him to be.

But I could not bring myself to ruin her joy. She spoke of him with such love, such unwavering devotion, and I had not the heart to take that from her. I told myself I was being cautious, that I would watch over her, that I would act if need be.

And then I learned the truth. She was with child.

I confronted him. I told him what he had done, demanded that he do right by her. And do you know what he said?

He knew. He knew, and he did not care.

I was desperate. I knew what this would do to her, knew it would break her. She was a dreamer, and he had made her dreams into nightmares. I pleaded with him—I offered him anything. I should never have done so. I regretted it the moment he named his price.

My chastity.

I was only seventeen.

But I believed I was saving her, and so I paid the cost.

I gave him everything—my innocence, my dignity, my faith in the world—and enough money to take them to Gretna Green. I was a fool.

Two days later, a constable came to Lady Marshall's house. A body had been found in the Serpentine.

I knew before he even said it.

I ran to Adelina's room, but she was already gone. On her writing desk, there was only a letter, addressed to me.

Wickham had told her everything. He had made her believe that I had debased myself willingly—that I had sold myself to him, just so that she might be free to run away with him.

She could not bear it.

Lady Marshall would not let me see her. She told me it was better this way, that I should remember Adelina as she was—laughing, full of life—not as a lifeless body pulled from dark waters.

But I disagree. Even now, I disagree.

I was a terrible sister. I should have saved her. I should have told her the truth. I should have done something. But I failed her, and I will carry that failure to my grave.

Now you understand, Fitzwilliam. Wickham did not only deceive Georgiana. He has done it many times before. He knew Adelina was my twin—how could he not?—and still, he played his wicked games, stole her heart, and then destroyed her.

And I? I let it happen.

I do not expect you to see me as you once did. I do not expect you to understand. By the time this letter reaches you, it will no longer matter. I wrote it long before I had the courage to send it, and you will likely not receive it until it is too late.

But at least you will know.

At least someone will know.

With love,
Adele