“Why do you call my uncle dishonest? What gives you the right to slander such a good man?” Elizabeth squeezed the the chair tighter until her knuckles turned white.
“He hides his deceitfulness by blaming his problems on Mr. Cuffage.”
Elizabeth’s eyes widened. “Mr. Cuffage? You, sir, are woefully mistaken. That evil man caused my father to lose his investment in the Gas Light Company. Not my Uncle Gardiner.”
“Miss Bennet, you are not familiar with the business world, and have not been privileged with the right information. Believe me, it pains me to be the one to tell you the truth. I nearly made a disastrous decision, had I listened to your other uncle, Mr. Phillips. He, too, tried to deceive me by placing Mr. Cuffage in a bad light.”
Elizabeth announced, “You, sir, are just too proud to admit you are wrong.” She raised her chin, stood tall as was possible and said, “You are vain, in addition to being proud. You believe your knowledge superior to everyone else’s, even gentlemen who have lived twice your life. Well, one day you will find out how truly inferior your assumptions are.”
“You have said quite enough, madam. I perfectly comprehend your feelings, and have now only to be ashamed of what my own have been. Forgive me for having taken up so much of your time, and accept my best wishes for your health and happiness.”
She remained motionless by the window as he wished her a happy life and disappeared out of the room.
He bounded up the steps of Rosings, and did not slow until he had locked himself in his bedchambers. He rang for his man and told him to pack. They would leave in the morning, and when the man turned to leave, Darcy asked him to refill the brandy carafe. He began to pace the floor while he recalled the whole conversation. He directed his comments towards the window, other times to an invisible Elizabeth standing in the room.
“You did not seem ill when I arrived. I should have known then that something was wrong. I was polite about your health, but you were not welcoming. I did not comprehend your curt reply, ‘I am well, Sir.’ You spit the words from your mouth, I see it now.”
His long legs carried him from the door to the window and back again as he tried to calm himself. His directed his words to an invisible audience seated around the room.
“The whole time I was pacing and trying to select the best words with which to propose, she just sat there glowering at me with laughing eyes, and she certainly did not offer me any help. ‘In vain I have struggled. It will not do. My feelings will not be repressed. You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you.’ Yes she must have been well entertained by me, and is no doubt laughing tonight.”
He plopped into the chair. “She stared at me, her face red, her eyes black. I do not know why I thought that was encouragement to continue. Why did I assume she was not a woman that needed flowery words?” He jumped up and returned to marching across the room.
“I spoke the truth. She is inferior! There can be no argument with that. Her family? It would be a degradation. Did I not tell her how I conquered those feelings because my attachment was strong? Did she not know how difficult this decision was for me?”
He did not pay attention to the thud of his boots stomping on the rug. He wrongly assumed the rich carpet muffled his movement, or that his cousin, Richmond, could not hear him swearing through the door.
“Damn her. Damn me.” He glared at his reflection in the window. The only image he could make out was of himself—no Elizabeth, no conjured up audience. “I did my best to use kind and gentle words when I explained to her my sacrifice. She seemed affable at first, but then her face turned to stone. Her eyes, those beautiful, expressive eyes tuned black, and I swear she singed me with her gaze.”
Standing up to his full height, he glowered at his reflection. “Well, I did try to be kind, and besides, I did ask for her hand in marriage. Did I not tell her how anxious I was? Who is she to refuse me?”
He spun around and trudged over to the table holding the brandy decanter, and poured to the brim of his goblet. He saluted the invisible guests.
“Never once did I expect the words that flew out of her mouth when she said, ‘In such cases as this, it is, I believe, the established mode to express a sense of obligation for the sentiments avowed, however unequally they may be returned.’ She understood she was hurtful; the color in her cheeks was bright red. She knew, but she said it anyway. If I did not have the mantle-piece to keep me upright, I would have collapsed that second. I struggled, and she sat in her seat and did nothing to lighten my burden. Why did I go on? Why did I not leave then, and never look back?”
He slumped in his chair, both arms lying dead along the sides and his legs gone limp. He remained unresponsive for several moments while the images of Richmond, Kent, Rawlings, Blake, Bingley, and even Jane Bennet departed, they were not swayed.
“I will write her a letter. I will defend myself to her alone. Surely, she will go on one of her walks tomorrow as if nothing important happened today. She admitted she is not ill. I will hand it to her then. I shall defend myself against her accusations, but I will not degrade myself any further. And I shall make no more offers about my ardent love—not in writing, nor when I face her.”
Darcy moved to the desk, retrieved his pens and stationary, and then began to write. He was not sorry for the first words he consigned to the smooth paper. He read them twice and sneered. “She needs to read these words to understand my feelings today.”
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.
Darcy leaned back in his chair and tried to recreate in his mind the exact scene. He spoke to his quill as if it was he and she was him. ‘Had not my own feelings decided against you, had they been indifferent, or had they even been favorable, do you think that any consideration would tempt me to accept the man, who has been the means of ruining, perhaps for ever, the happiness of a most beloved sister?’.
I must apologize. He dipped his quill in the ink well, took a breath, and began to write the words swirling in his head.
If, in the explanation relates feelings which may be offensive to yours, I can only say that I am sorry
He reread it several times and was content. He dipped the quill in the ink again, to give his view.
I had not been long in Hertfordshire, before I saw, in common with others, that Bingley preferred your eldest sister to any other young woman in the country.
He sorted out the images spinning in his mind. Bingley had defended Miss Bennet after the assembly dance. He called her an angel. During their entire stay, Bingley fastened himself to Miss Bennet’s side, regardless of the situation. He even carried her scarf and many times, it stuck out of his coat pocket. He knew his friend was more serious than he had been with any flirtation in the past. Sir William validated his fears with the admission of the neighborhood assumptions to the impending marriage between the two.
Yes, he thought as he drummed his fingers on the desk. It was the Netherfield ball when he realized the extent of Bingley’s attachment He recalled every occurrence when Bingley and Miss Bennet were together, and could not discern her particular preference for him. “Was I wrong? Elizabeh would know her sister’s feelings. And if she believes differently, then…”
Darcy dipped his quill in the inkwell and proceeded to write.
If you have not been mistaken here, I must have been in an error. Your superior knowledge of your sister must make the latter probable.—If it be so, if I ha
ve been misled by such error, to inflict pain on her, your resentment has not been unreasonable. But I shall not scruple to assert that the serenity of your sister's countenance and air was such as might have given the most acute observer a conviction that, however amiable her temper, her heart was not likely to be easily touched.—
Leaning back in the chair, Darcy shook his head. “I acted as a true friend to Bingley. I will not allow another friend to fall prey to a schemer, whether it would be the woman, such as Rawlings’ wife, or a mercenary mother, like Mrs. Bennet. I will defend myself in this matter.” He returned to putting words on the paper.
That I was desirous of believing her indifferent is certain,—but I will venture to say that my investigations and decisions are not usually influenced by my hopes or fears.—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.—
“Was I vain to write this?” He reread the words. “No. Elizabeth, you do not know everything, and your sister is not as independent as you. Your mother may have been pushing the connection, and she is not as strong as you, and could not refuse.”
Darcy shuddered, sighed, and then returned to his letter, writing words he knew would cause Elizabeth pain. Although he did praise her and her sister,he meticulously explained her family’s improper behaviors, He assumed her youngest sisters would be compromised by any sweet talking scoundrel. His head shot up like a wilted flower in a rainstorm.
Darcy rose from his seat and moved to the window. He pulled back the drapes and peered out into the blackness. He recalled that day in Ramsgate when he discovered George Wickham attempt to elope with his sister. “I must warn Elizabeth. She must not remain defenseless from his charm even if…I must reveal my own sister’s impropriety. Georgiana will understand.”
He returned to the desk and began his next defense—Wickham and his relationship to the Darcy family. He explained about their childhood and their growing independence from one another. He wrote in detail about the living and the payment made to Wickham.
Pausing to take a large drink from his refilled glass, he attempted to select the best words to describe his sister’s behavior. He knew Elizabeth was honorable, and would never reveal the truth, so he began the lengthy confession that he had never shared with anyon except Richmond, of course. Darcy stopped, stood, and finished his brandy.
“You bastard.” Darcy stomped around the room for a quarter of an hour, not caring if the carpet did not muffle the sounds of his boots. He glowered at the door to the hallway. “It was you, Richmond. I am positive you told Elizabeth about my detaching Bingley. You did this to me. Why? Humph. I will charge you with your betrayal and demand to hear why!.”
After draining the last of the brandy into his glass, a calmer Darcy returned to his writing. He finished the explanation about how his sister had only a year ago attempted to elope with Wickham, whose purpose was not love but revenge. He pieced together the words without emotion, otherwise he would have used inappropriate language—those vulgar words that presented themselves whenever the thought of that cur surfaced. He finished quickly, and did not bother to reread the painful words written on the page.
“Three more of her accusations left to defend. I shall address Blake next.” Before he wrote the first word, he rang for his man and handed him the empty decanter. While he waited, he stood at the window, gazing at the darkness. The vision of the little children reappeared, but this time a fair-haired man was holding their hands. The servants were calling him “Your Grace.”
He thought about what he should say about Blake. ‘Did you detach your friend, Lord Blake, from me as well? Did you persuade him to leave Netherfield Park and never to contact me again? Are you the conductor of every friend’s life?’
“Conductor? Humph. She does not know how much effort I expended keeping out of his way. I could have…”
With a smile on his face, he mended his quill before setting it to the letter. Darcy had assumed months ago that Mrs. Bennet was the one who had deceived Blake. He remembered clearly the moment she had opened the balcony door, and which part of the conversation she overheard. She had left, believing Blake was destitute, or at least penniless, and never learned his friend had resources of his own. Perhaps, he should have told Blake about Mrs. Bennet’s eavesdropping, but he reasoned that if Elizabeth’s mother discouraged the union, it would only be for mercenary reasons. He reasoned that concealing the truth to her was different than keeping Miss Bennet’s visit secret from Bingley. He had no qualms this time. . He dipped his quill in the ink and carefully wrote the next words.
I was neither a party to, nor the reason for, any sudden disinterest between my friend, Lord Blake, and you. Nevertheless, I am aware he went to Longbourn the day after the ball only to discover by your own mother’s words that you had left that morning for London because—and I wil try to quote my friend accurately—you wished to avoid him. He informed me there was no longer any reason to stay. I do not know what actions he took once we arrived in town.
Sighing, Darcy pressed his lips together, mended his quill, dipped it in the ink, and controlled the slight tremble in his hand. He would address the charge of mockery.
Your accusation of my total disregard of your family based on a request for a book on Gas Lighting was woefully misplaced. While I cannot go into detail without betraying confidences, I will admit, I was at that time pursuing new investments. Gas lighting was a particular interest of mine. Having seen Mr. Bennet’s excellent library, and having had several judicious conversations about progress with him, I merely suspected he might be in possession of such material. I now understand your abruptness at leaving that day when I requested you to ask your father for such a book. Please understand, I meant no offense at that request.
He held his head in his hand knowing the next accusation would be the hardest for her to hear. He must be truthful if he wanted his name cleared, and there was nothing left except his good name. He understood no person wanted to admit their family member is dishonorable; even he would not want to discover this about his own relatives. He recollected their conversation dealing with the matter. They were standing close; she with her back to the window, and he, just inches away. and now even hours later, he still felt the heat of her glare when he remembered her words.
“Mr. Darcy, why do you call my uncle dishonest? What gives you the right to slander such a good man?”
“He hides his deceitfulness by blaming them on Mr. Cuffage.” He tried speaking the truth without a hint of the disgust he felt.
“Mr. Cuffage. You, sir, are the one woefully mistaken. That evil man caused my father to lose his investment in the Gas Light Company—not my uncle Gardiner.” Her gaze bore into his with a defiance he had only been a party to once, years before—Wickham accusing him of lying about the living. However, Wickham’s defiance was a ploy, while Elizabeth’s attitude was misguided.
Darcy sat at his writing table, tapping his fingers on the desktop. He stared at the blank section on the page where he would have to provide his position. When he lifted his quill, her final assault upon his person echoed in his mind.
Elizabeth’s eyes had turned dark, and with her shoulders straight, sputtered the most unforgiveable accusation when she said:By calling my uncle dishonest you, sir, are no gentleman!”
He remembered exactly how she glared menacingly at him. He had never witnessed such hatred from anyone, with the exception of Wickham. With him, he did not give a damn, but her feelings mattered. He wrote,
Nevertheless, I am saddened to report it was your uncle, not Mr. Cuffage, who caused the problem with the investment. If you have not been mistaken here, I must have been in error, but unlike your superior knowledge of your sister’s feelings, I do not believe my understanding is false. I am sorry to inflict pain on you, and I understand your resentment of what appeared to be a callous request, but I merely believed your father has not shared the whole story, choosing instead to shield you f
rom the odious truth.
There, he said it, and in writing. Refusing to reread the letter, he finished it with, “God bless you,” and signed his name,
Fitzwilliam Darcy.
He did not sleep that night, preferring to gaze out the window where he could see the Hunsford church steeple. He had spent many evenings searching for a just the smallest glimpse of her among the trees. Every so often, he would look at the sealed letter on the desk, and then close his eyes tightly in an attempt to shut out the image of her face, and her hands.
A World of Expectations_Book 2_The Confrontation Page 29