Through a Different Lens

by Riana Everly

  “Obnoxious, insufferable man!” she huffed beneath her breath. It would have been bad enough had Darcy stepped in where not wanted in order to bring his friend to his senses about his duties, about engagements in Town where he might be needed, or about other social responsibilities that precluded his remaining in Hertfordshire. But to so calmly and smugly take pleasure in the act of destroying an amour, with no real incentive that Elizabeth could decipher other than removing his friend from a poor alliance—that was beyond cruel. It was heartless.

  If she had not been furious before, she now felt herself almost swept away by that emotion, and she fought to retain any sense in her words and clarity in her thoughts. “Kinder than towards yourself? How can you possibly think that you showed your friend any sort of kindness? You have a strange notion of friendship, sir, and it is one I wish little to experience. Jane loved him, and you broke her heart as readily as his! That, sir, is not what I think of as kindness!”

  To his credit, Darcy blanched again briefly, then went red. He is angry now at my recognition of his true nature, Elizabeth decided. He had hoped to dupe me, to sway me to his favour. This knowledge of what he really thinks is beyond what he expected from me.

  But to her surprise, Darcy responded, “I saw no such affection in her manner. Your sister is lovely and all that is charming, but I detected no special regard for my friend. I did not wish him trapped in a marriage to one who did not truly love him.”

  “You, sir, detected no special regard on the part of my sister? How dare you even suggest such a thing? You, who by your own admission, have no easy time in discerning the emotions and feelings of others? You, who were unable to see, upon walking into this room today, that I was in a state of great anger, directed towards you? You took it upon yourself to determine whether my sister, whose manner and nature are so composed and reserved, felt more towards your friend than towards his income? How dare you even think it?

  “And then, to work so actively to separate them, as if they were toys at your disposal, to manipulate to your wishes? Is that the behaviour of a true friend? At any time, did you seek to discern the true feelings of your friend, to learn his thoughts and inclinations towards my sister? Or did you even once speak to her? How could you possibly think you should know better than those who have loved Jane all their lives how she feels towards your friend? You are a cruel man, and should be heartily ashamed of yourself!”

  The ire that had previously turned her voice to ice was now a veritable flood of fury, and she stormed around the room, the aura of anger that surrounded her almost physically palpable.

  Darcy cleared his throat as if wishing to speak, perhaps to justify his actions, but Elizabeth would hear nothing from him. Raising her hand, one finger pointed, she effectively silenced the words he was about to utter, before proceeding with her list of accusations.

  “But it is not merely this affair,” she continued after some moments, “on which my sentiments are founded. Long before it had taken place, your character was unfolded in the recital which I received many months ago from Mr. Wickham. On this subject, what can you have to say? In what imaginary act of friendship can you here defend yourself? or under what misrepresentation, can you here impose upon others?

  “I had recently begun to think myself misled by Mr. Wickham: I had considered my earlier opinions of you mistaken, as we worked together to ease your conduct in society. You are a fine actor, Mr. Darcy, for one who claims to eschew deception. But whilst you may abhor deceit in others, you seem to have no difficulties in executing it yourself. When I considered the hours we spent together, you and I, deciphering and analysing social situations, I had truly come to think that you were a decent man whose only true faults lay in understanding how you presented yourself to others. In that light, Mr. Wickham’s words seemed ill-considered and unjust, seeing that you were unable to defend yourself against them. But I was correct in my first impressions, I fear. I thought we might be friends, but now I find myself sorely disappointed. Alas, Mr. Darcy, you are the last man in the world I could be prevailed upon to offer my friendship now, let alone marry. Now please, leave me be.”

  “You are truly angry!” Darcy was bewildered. His words were a combination of a question and statement. He inhaled, a deep shuddering breath, seeking the gentlemanly behaviour he knew must be required at such a time. “I am most deeply sorry to hear of your sentiments. Forgive me for having taken up so much of your time, and accept my best wishes for your health and happiness.” And without a further word, he turned and left the room

  The space in which he had been standing seemed cold and empty, the air vacated by his commanding presence an endless void, and Elizabeth stepped forward into it, almost as if hoping to be comforted by the man she had just dismissed so abruptly and with such harsh words. Tears welled in her amber eyes and she wrapped her arms around herself, unheeding of the wet trail that led down her cheeks. She staggered backwards and fell onto the nearby sofa, the tears now streaming unchecked, and she wept for a good many minutes.

  “Oh, Jane,” she cried into her arms, “how you have been maligned. How poorly treated! Oh, that I could return in time to at least make your situation known to that odious man. You might be happy now, perhaps even married.” She sobbed some more. “How dare he have mistaken your regard for Mr. Bingley? To think that you, of all the people in the world, would care only for a man’s riches, is unfathomable. ‘Tis true, you display your sentiments but little, but could he not have seen enough even to inquire? It is too sad, too awful to contemplate!”

  And yet, even in this melancholy and accusatory frame of mind, Charlotte’s words from so long ago reverberated through Lizzy’s mind. “It is sometimes a disadvantage to be so very guarded,” Charlotte had said to her, near the beginning of their acquaintance with the party from Netherfield. “If a woman conceals her affection from the object of it, she may lose the opportunity of fixing him. Bingley likes your sister undoubtedly; but he may never do more than like her, if she does not help him on.”

  “Oh, Jane,” Lizzy repeated. “Was Charlotte correct? Did Mr. Bingley truly see no real evidence of your regard for him? Mr. Darcy was undoubtedly wrong in his actions, for he is only newly come to understanding the interpretation of feeling, and even that he does poorly, but did Mr. Bingley himself see so little in your placid countenance?” She moaned and the tears flowed afresh. “Oh, poor, poor Jane!”

  She sat thus for a very long time, crying and helplessly recalling every instance of interaction between the various parties involved, until the sound of Lady Catherine’s carriage intruded upon her woeful ponderings. Feeling ill capable of meeting the party with any degree of calm, or of encountering Charlotte’s observation, she fled the room and hurried upstairs to her bed.

  Chapter Ten

  Explanations and Ruminations

  The morning dawned bright and sunny, promising a beautiful day ahead, but Elizabeth felt as if storm clouds were all that waited on the horizon. She had slept ill, and awoke with a headache, the same meditation that had tormented her the night before still plaguing her every thought. She could not sit still to read, nor to sew for the poor of the parish, and when she sought to aid Charlotte in the still room, she spilt the lavender water and nearly put the wrong herbs in the liniment. “Lizzy, you are not yourself today,” Charlotte had chastised her, “and are not helping me! Much as I love you, perhaps you should take yourself elsewhere lest I make mustard preserves and berry compresses for little Jenny Mullin’s cough.”

  Thankful for a respite from the day’s planned activities, and hopeful that the fresh air and sunshine might ease her mind and sore head, she grabbed her bonnet and was soon outside and walking towards the folly.

  Why she made that her destination, she was uncertain; her feet seemed to carry her there of their own accord. “‘Tis the cool shade in the fresh air of the outdoors,” she reasoned as she approached the hillock on which the structure stood. She found purchase on one of the cool marble benches an
d took out her book to read, but her mind would not remain still enough to concentrate, and after reading the same words for the fifth time, comprehending not one of them, she resumed her exercise, heading now down to the lanes where she had walked so many times with her supposed friends.

  A shadow beneath one of the trees caught her eye, and recognising its shape, she turned back abruptly, hoping to make her way out of the shadows and light before the owner of the shadow took note of her presence. But she was to be disappointed, for the shadow moved and called out in a rough voice, “Miss Bennet.”

  A lifetime of enforced civility coerced her to turn and reply in a suitable greeting, “Mr. Darcy.” He was holding out a letter, which instinct required her to take, without thinking of the import of the action.

  In the same rough voice, laden with emotions she had never heard from him before, he announced, “I have been walking in the grove some time in the hope of meeting you. Will you do me the honour of reading that letter?” And without waiting for a reply, he spun around and disappeared back into the shrubbery.

  Elizabeth stared at the letter in her hand. The seal was soft, the wax fresh, and it was imprinted with the insignia from his ring: FD. She should not read it. She should take after him and return it, or better, cast it into the river where it would be rendered into rags and tatters, the ink forever ruined by the rushing water. But her fingers were already fumbling with that fresh wax seal, and before her mind came to a rational decision of how to proceed, the letter was open before her and her eyes flickered down to take in the first few words. It was dated that morning at eight o’clock, from Rosings.

  Be not alarmed, Madam, on receiving this letter, by the apprehension of its containing any repetition of those sentiments, or renewal of those offers, which were last night so disgusting to you. I write without any intention of paining you, or humbling myself, by dwelling on wishes, which, for the happiness of both, cannot be too soon forgotten; and the effort which the formation and the perusal of this letter must occasion should have been spared, had not my character required it to be written and read. You must, therefore, pardon the freedom with which I demand your attention; your feelings, I know, will bestow it unwillingly, but I demand it of your justice.

  Such was her surprise at Mr. Darcy’s concern about his character that she found her eyes moving on the next few sentences.

  As we have often discussed, I express myself much better through the written word than through extemporaneous speech. My nature renders me ill-equipped to acquit myself in person; these, therefore, are the true expressions of my thoughts, my incentives, and my intentions. I can only trust you to consider them with the fairness of nature which I know is fully resident within your being.

  Before she knew what she was about, Elizabeth found herself back at the folly, sitting once more under the deep shade of the cupola, shielded from the strength of the morning’s sun. Her earlier agitation was now stilled to deep curiosity, and whilst expecting no pleasure at what she was about to read, found herself most unwilling to discard this last opportunity to learn something of Mr. Darcy’s nature. She had thought him a friend once. She owed him this one last chance to explain himself, even if she could never forgive him for his actions. She read in silence:

  Two offences of a very different nature, and by no means of equal magnitude, you last night laid to my charge. The first, that, regardless of the sentiments of either, I had detached Mr. Bingley from your sister, we discussed, nay, fought over.

  In reflection, you were correct. Until your kind offer of assistance with my social inadequacies, I had only lightly considered the impact of my words and actions upon others, and most especially in the realm of the emotional. Having been lauded from early childhood for my intellect and skills at solving problems, I have never learned to think about the feelings of others, which I am, as you well know, so poorly able to determine. Contrary to the nature of our discussions, I have until now always taken pride in this ability to remove myself from a situation and regard it analytically, and this I did with regard to my friend and your sister.

  Mr. Bingley is a good friend and he accepts me as I am, and I him. But I have often seen him in love, for he is not a man to keep the exuberance of his emotions silent, and despite the preference I saw him show towards your sister, I did not perceive any regard beyond what I have so frequently seen him display towards his latest amour. But it was not until the evening of the dance at Netherfield that I had any apprehension of his feeling a serious attachment, when I heard talk that Bingley’s attentions to your sister had given rise to a general expectation of their marriage. Until that moment, when it was so explicitly explained, I had not taken notice of my friend’s inclinations. It was only then that I could perceive that his partiality for Miss Bennet was beyond what I had ever witnessed in him. This blindness on my part, I partly attribute to my inability to understand the emotions of others; I now also blame myself for not having paid the attention due to one whom I call a friend.

  If I was so blind to my own dear friend’s affections, he whose open nature I know so well, it should be little surprise that I was quite unable to observe any special regard on the part of Miss Bennet. She, I also watched. Her look and manners were open and cheerful, as engaging as ever, but without any symptom of particular regard that I could determine. It appears I was mistaken. I was in error. I did not believe her to be indifferent because I wished it; —I believed it on impartial conviction, as truly as I wished it in reason, which, as we have long determined, is a poor judge of the affections that roil within men’s hearts.

  Now Elizabeth felt the stirrings of emotion other than rage and hatred for this man. He had been confronted with his shortcomings and had confessed to them fully, acknowledging his error, even admitting some degree of regret. She had to read more.

  But my purpose in coming between the two was altruistic; my objections to the marriage were not merely those which I last night acknowledged to have required the utmost force of passion to put aside in my own case; the want of connexion could not be so great an evil to my friend as to me. (How dare he bring this up once more?) But there were other causes of repugnance; foremost among these was the great emphasis your mother placed, in the hearing of the principal members of the community, on the monetary value of a union between your sister and my friend. If I had been concerned based on my own observations as to your sister’s motivations, hearing the words from your mother convinced me that Miss Bennet was encouraging him more to satisfy your mother and her quest to marry off her daughters well. Any other objections regarding your mother’s family and the want of propriety displayed by others in your family—I shan’t dwell on your father’s indifference or your youngest sister’s unseemly flirtations—paled before what I believed to be a mercenary action on your parent’s part, if not your sister’s.

  But amidst your concern for the defects of your nearest relations, and your displeasure at this representation of them, let it give you consolation to consider that to have conducted yourselves so as to avoid any share of the like censure is praise no less generally bestowed on you and your eldest sister, than it is honourable to the sense and disposition of both.

  I will only say farther that, from what passed that evening, my opinion of all parties was confirmed, and every inducement heightened, which could have led me before to preserve my friend from what I esteemed a most unhappy connexion.

  Elizabeth hung her head in shame. It was true. Her mother’s unthinking words, her constant crowing about Mr. Bingley’s five thousand pounds, her brazen shouts and obvious comments about how well Jane would do as the mistress of such an estate, coupled with her sister’s placid nature, could only give a man such as Mr. Darcy—he who admitted to a scientific and unemotional analysis of the information most obvious to him—that Jane was nothing but a fortune-hunter, spurred on to her prey by her mother. Blind he might be to his friend’s true feelings for Jane, and even more so for Jane’s towards him, but in truth, Darcy had nothing in
mind other than Bingley’s ultimate happiness at heart, even if he had blundered so very badly in the management of it. Her anger towards him remained, but some small threads of sympathy, some minute filaments of understanding, now began to influence her rage and upset.

  Mr. Darcy’s letter next enumerated his actions, in concert with Bingley’s sisters, to remove the man to town, with little thought of returning. How easily Bingley had been convinced of Jane’s faint regard for him; how easily he let his friend and sisters persuade him that he had deceived himself as to her true feelings. Darcy himself admitted that had Bingley been stronger in his own sentiments, he should never have allowed himself to be this convinced; perhaps it was Bingley, and not Jane, who did not feel as deeply as he should. Darcy’s letter continued:

  There is but one part of my conduct in the whole affair, on which I do not reflect with satisfaction; it is that I condescended to adopt the measures of art so far as to conceal from him your sister’s being in London for the winter. I knew it myself, as it was known to Miss Bingley, but her brother is even yet ignorant of it. Perhaps this concealment, this disguise, was beneath me.—It is done, however, and it was done for the best, according to my weakness of understanding at that time. On this subject I have nothing more to say, no other apology to offer. If I have wounded your sister’s feelings, it was unknowingly done; and though the motives which governed me may to you very naturally appear insufficient, at the time I had no cause to condemn them. However, with my newfound understandings of the true workings of the heart, I may have made other decisions.