15th November 1848

Allestree Hall

Mama,

I hope your wedding was all that you wished for.

Mary’s was a fine celebration, although her subsequent letters from Keighley give me some anxiety about her happiness. The Claphams don’t live as well as she had hoped, and her husband is often absent. Auntie says she must give marriage time and that brides often feel so. Is that true? Either way, I will see Mary soon. In a little over a week, I go to stay with her. We will visit Miss Brontë together, if her sister Emily’s health has not worsened. They fear at Haworth she will soon join her brother.

For now, though, it is hard for me to be the only one left. I had even taken to writing to Ned, but he insists on replying in pig Latin. My spirits were already depressed and then, a few days ago, Uncle Charles arrived, looking very grave. I thought it was on business, as he spoke with Uncle William first, but then the pair of them called me into the study and told me what was the matter.

Will Milner means to sue me.

I didn’t understand at first what it was he could sue me for. Uncle Charles called it a “breach of promise,” but when had I promised him anything? Then they read me a passage from one of those foolish letters that Lydia helped me write years ago.

Oh, Mama, I’ve never been the sort to blush or to agonize over mistakes in etiquette as girls in novels are wont to do. But just then I wished that the ground would swallow me whole. I couldn’t defend myself or even blame Lydia. She’d known then nearly as little as me.

When I stayed silent, my uncles made excuses for me, saying I had learned from you or “hadn’t been watched by the governess, that scoundrel’s sister.” And I started to say that it wasn’t true and that Miss Brontë was the best governess we could have wished for.

They didn’t care what I thought, but sent me away and conferred again, this time with my aunt too. And when I came back, Aunt Mary took my hand and patted it. She told me that she and Uncle could pay lawyers, and even the Milners if necessary, to make those girlish letters melt away. I need only trust them to advise me and I might make myself a fine match—with the Jessops’ son, perhaps, who is due to visit next week.

But I could not help thinking, Mama is Lady Scott and has money now, mightn’t she help me? And, were I to owe such a debt to Uncle and Aunt, what if I found myself unhappy like Mary, married to a man of their choosing?

Mother, I am frightened. I delight in the open field and the fair chase, in having no one before me, just a straight shot to the horizon. Must I give that up? Must I be hemmed in? Aunt and Uncle are good and kind, but I’d much rather have my freedom from Will Milner delivered by your hands.

Ever your loving daughter,

Bessy