Flickering wildly from my floundering about, the candle guttered, spilling a blob of hot beeswax onto the page. “Oh, for the love of . . .!” One would not think writing a letter at half past three in the morning would prove so taxing; but, apparently, nothing was easy where Elizabeth Bennet was concerned.
I crumpled the waxy paper and tossed it at the fireplace.
The matter of a salutation was then readdressed. “Greetings and Felicitations, Termagant” was deemed uncharitable—one of those aforementioned “expressions which might make her hate me.”
A simple “Miss Bennet” was contemplated. My mind, however, wandered to tributes I had anticipated addressing her with . . . My dearest, loveliest Elizabeth. My darling Lizzy. My beloved Mrs. Darcy. My precious lover . . .
Alarmed by such lapses, I snatched a pristine sheet of paper from the ink-stained drawer and quickly wrote: Be not alarmed, madam, on receiving this letter . . .
Having experienced a prolonged spell of success, I paused to admire my penmanship and evenness of lines. Reading through the initial paragraph, I gasped and leaned forward. Near the end of the section, I had written: You must, therefore, pardon the freedom with which I demand your affection . . .
What? Affection? Noooo, not affection . . . attention! Egad. Stupid, unfulfilled, and unattainable desire! Perhaps I should just march over there, barge into her room, drag the woman from her bed, and insist upon compliance. “Miss Bennet, I demand that you love me!” Yes, yes, numbskull, that would go over well.
Instead, I resolved to defend myself on paper with all the eloquence at my command.
The page containing the offensive erratum was crumpled and flung in the general direction of the hearth. In doing so, my elbow knocked into the rummer. Brandy spilled across the desk and sweat broke across my brow. Forgetting about the egg-shaped lump thereon, I swiped at my forehead with a handkerchief and howled in pain. Clamping one hand over my mouth while mopping up brandy with the handkerchief in the other, I eyed the door, praying Morpheus held the cranky creature next door in thrall.
Thrall. I certainly knew how it felt to be in someone else’s power. I had been in Elizabeth’s thrall just as surely as my friend had been in her sister’s. What, I wondered, is it about those two eldest Bennet sisters? Pish! I should be thankful Bingley and I were saved from those sirens and their seductive powers.
The desk drawer held at least a quire of hot-pressed paper, so I plucked out a handful of sheets and, contriving to write evenly despite exhaustion and umbrage, began anew. Be not alarmed, madam, on receiving this letter . . .
Minutes later—another section achieved and spleen vented—I mended the quill point with my penknife. Then, having allowed brandy and animosity to dictate my words, I went back and scratched out all traces of acrimony and inappropriateness in that second paragraph and replaced them with a bit more civility.
Two offences of a very different nature, and by no means of equal magnitude, you in a rather unladylike manner and with an evident design of offending and insulting me last night laid to my charge. The first mentioned was that, regardless of the questionable sentiments of either, I had detached my wet behind the ears friend Mr. Bingley from your unfeeling, mercenary sister’s clutches; and the other, that I had, in defiance of various claims, in defiance of honour and humanity, ruined the immediate prosperity, and blasted the prospects of a posturing pustule Mr. Wickham.
Glancing at the clock, and knowing I wrote rather slowly—and, as Bingley would say, not with ease—and that my letters tended to be lengthy ones (riddled as they were with words of four or more syllables), I decided the expensive paper would not be tossed at the fire but employed as a preliminary version of my elucidation. A cooler head would prevail, and a final copy would be neatly written out, with neither errata nor enmity to spoil its perfection.
Satisfied with my subsequent sentence which contained a vehement comparison of her two accusations, I then wrote: But from the ferocity severity of that condemnation blame which was last night so scathingly liberally hurled at me bestowed, respecting each circumstance, I shall hope to be in future secured, when the following account of my actions and their motives has been read. If, in the explanation of them which is due to myself, I am under the necessity of relating feelings which may be offensive to yours, I can only say that the truth sometimes hurts I am sorry. The necessity must be obeyed—and further apology would be beneath me absurd.
Hostility and heartbreak pressed hard. The nib splintered into sharp fragments not unlike those she had thrust into my breast, and I wanted to weep. Insomnia had created an emotional, ungentlemanly mess.
Gritting my teeth and blinking away tears, I gathered myself. Calmly, quietly, I prepared another pen and, somehow, managed to elucidate my observations regarding Bingley and Jane Bennet without resorting to excessive sarcasm or acrimony.
The next section suffered no such restriction. Her family’s situation deserved a bit of caustic criticism.
My objections to the marriage were not merely those which I last night acknowledged to have required the utmost force of madness passion to put aside in my own case; the want of connection could not be so great an abomination evil to my friend as to me. But there were other causes of horror repugnance; causes which, though still existing, and existing to an equal degree in both instances, I had myself endeavoured to forget, because they were not immediately as ungovernable as they were last night before me. These atrocities causes must be stated, though briefly. The situation of your mother's family, though noxious objectionable, was nothing in comparison of that total want of propriety so frequently, so almost uniformly, betrayed by herself, by your three younger hoydens sisters, and occasionally even by your father. Pardon me. But it pains me to have offered for you.
Lawks! Yes, it pains me! But my exhausted brain and lacerated heart must not take control of my writing hand.
Shaking cramped fingers down by my side, I bent my weary head to the desk and thereon rested my cheek for just a moment . . . and drifted off, only to awaken with a sheet of paper adhering to my face. Peeling away the page and snatching up the candle, I rushed to the cheval glass and tilted it to the light. “Blast!” As feared, wet ink had lifted from the paper onto my cheek. “Gad!” Stumbling to a ghastly pitcher and ewer—matching the previously mentioned chamber pot—I seized and wetted a cloth and scrubbed at the backwards words.
“Lud!” I muttered. “Backwards, indeed!” My writing had progressively deteriorated, and I had yet to address the most serious charge against me. In the meantime, Bingley had to be finished off.
I trudged to the desk and, sighing, picked up the pen and amended the sentence. It pains me to offend you. But amidst your concern for the defects of your vulgar 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 further that, from what passed that horrific night 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 blighted most unhappy connection. He fled left Netherfield for London, on the day following, as you, I am certain, remember, with the design of over my dead body soon returning.
The next section explained my coincidence of feeling and complicity with the Bingley sisters concerning Jane Bennet. In retrospect, like trying to detach a leech, I may have rubbed salt into my friend’s wound.
It is done, however, and it was done for the best. On this subject I have nothing more to say, no other justification is necessary 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 unjust and ungenerous insufficient, I have not yet condescended to admit I was wrong learnt to condemn them.
Satisfied, I set
my pen aside. Further fortification was required to tackle the thorny affair of Wickham and Georgiana. My rummer, therefore, was refilled to an indecent level and its contents imbibed in a most ungentlemanly manner. In other words, fine French brandy was guzzled in three greedy gulps.
It sickened me. What I had to say next about Ramsgate, that is—not the brandy, although my stomach was, by then, a tad queasy.
When I had finished ripping from my chest the sordid details of my association with George Wickham, I held up the page to the candlelight, squinting to read whatever I had thereon scribbled. The brandy burned in my gut, raging ire burned in my breast . . . and the paper burned in my hand, flames licking along the left margin. Overtired, overwrought, and without proper consideration of the consequences, I shouted, “Aargh! Fire! Fire!”
The charred remains were already resting in the grate, and I was sitting calmly at the desk again—rewriting the accursed page—by the time Richard, Anne, Baddeley, and a footman all barged into my room. I apologised, and I thanked them en masse for their concern. All but the footman gave me a withering look as they, respectively, swore, tut-tutted, snickered, or bowed before exiting.
Completely enervated, I had yet to compose a closing, and previous pages still had to be rewritten. By God, if this is what ensues, I shall never propose to a woman again! I had expected to be betrothed to Elizabeth by then. I had hoped to steal a kiss or two from her, and I had looked forward to the expectation of much, much more to come. I had hoped to have sweet dreams not shattered ones and nightmares. The letter had already taken three hours and a great deal of blood, sweat, and tears to draft, and I was afraid my well had run dry.
My fingers shook as I picked up the pen and dipped it into the inkwell. When lifted out, the nib was deucedly dry. “Confound it!” I had barely enough faculty to rein back a paroxysm of temper and rummage for another pot of Japan ink rather than fling the writing implement clear across the room. It was close, but in my lassitude the exertion of trying to hurl a quill feather any distance hardly seemed worth the bother.
Slumped over the desk, pen poised above the page, I began an ending.
This, my darling Elizabeth madam, is a faithful narrative of every event in which we have been concerned together; and if you do not absolutely reject it as resentful rubbish false, you will, I hope, acquit me henceforth of cruelty towards that concupiscent carbuncle Mr. Wickham. I know not in what manner, under what form of falsehood, the debauched ne’er-do-well he has imposed on you; but his success is not, perhaps, to be wondered at. Blind Ignorant as you previously were of every thing concerning either, detection could not be in your power, and suspicion certainly not in your inclination except where I am concerned.
My hand cramped again, and my heart likewise suffered a painful contraction. It was time. Time to close the letter and, somehow, bid Elizabeth Bennet farewell forever.
I walked away from the desk to compose myself.
Although nothing remained in the grate but cinders, I bent down in front of the hearth staring at the ashes and wishing my heart could be as cold as that dying fire. Poker in hand, I stirred and prodded a few embers, but they refused to rekindle. There was no warmth, no comfort, only a stale, acrid smell.
Drawing myself up, I let the metal rod fall from my grasp and clang on the parquet. Holding my breath, I turned worried eyes to the far wall, the one separating my room from Richard’s. I waited a few moments before exhaling and striding away from the fireplace. In want of fresh air, I flung open a curtain and raised the double sash, forgetting that particular window was the one with noisy pulleys and weights. “Pish and a pox on it!”
My cousin, it seemed, was still safe and sound in the arms of either Morpheus or Dawson. The latter was Lady Catherine’s personal maid, with whom Richard maintained a liaison since Eastertide of whichever year she came to work at Rosings.
Jumping out of my skin, I whirled around as my door banged open. There was, clearly, no privacy at all to be had in that house.
Apparently awakened by all my thoughtless clatter, Cousin Anne had burst into the room. Barefoot, with hair done up in curling papers, and frilly nightclothes fluttering about her frail form, my petite relation flounced up to me, barely reaching my shoulder.
“Do you know what time it is, Witsfailhim?” She, at least, had enough sense to convey anger at a whisper and not call forth the bugbear next door.
“Erm. Do you not have a clock in your room?” My smile was weak and my attempt at humour ill-timed.
Standing on tiptoes and with hands planted on her slim hips, she hissed, “’Tis a quarter to six! Mother says I must have at least ten hours of uninterrupted sleep in order to keep my appearance young and beautiful.”
Biting my tongue, I resisted any mention of hibernation. “My apologies.” Tugging on the sash of my banyan, I added, “Truly, I am sorry”—Lord, am I ever—“to have disturbed your sleep.”
“Oh, you did not awaken me,” said she, smiling sweetly. “I was already wide awake, reading.” She swept across the room and curled up on an ugly chair. Tucking her feet beneath her, she sniffled and studied me as I fidgeted. “I know why your sleep has been disturbed.”
“I should imagine not.”
She sat there, gloating, nodding her head.
Gesturing at the desk, I explained there had been an urgent matter requiring my attention. “And, as you see, I am still involved in the beastly business.”
“Beastly? Oh! Are you writing her a love letter? One full of instinctual need and—”
“Dear God, no!” Horrified, I, nevertheless, nonchalantly strode to the mantle. “I mean, who?”
Anne scoffed. “Do you think I am ignorant of the fact you went to the parsonage last evening and made an off—”
“You know nothing, madam!” Turning, I glared but could not quite meet her eyes.
“I know that you went to the parsonage last evening and made an offer to Miss Bennet.” Dragging a handkerchief from her sleeve, she dabbed at her nose and snuffled, looking suddenly quite watery-eyed and miserable.
I crossed the room to crouch in front of her. “I thought we agreed to never marry one another, Anne.” I then gently asked, “Are you upset over me?”
She laughed in my face. “Lawks, you are a conceited man! No. I sniff because of your overpowering perfume or pomade or—”
“I do not use pomade,” I protested, raking fingers through my hair.
“Well, whatever it is, that musky, mossy, minty smell makes me sneeze. It is, by the bye, one of the myriad reasons why you are the last man in England whom I could ever marry.”
Rising and towering over her, I snapped, “What?”
“You heard me. The point, however, is moot. I assume congratulations are in order and that you are impatient and restless to see your betrothed and for the intimacy of—”
“I say again, Anne, you know nothing!”
“Oh, lud! I have read those sorts of novels, you know.” Suddenly sheepish, she added, “Keep that under your hat, will you? Mother would have hysterics.”
“Anne—”
“Have no fear, Fitzwilliam. I like Miss Bennet and support your choice. Pray, do send her my best regards for fulfilment in . . .” She giggled, covering her mouth. “That might be a bit gauche in a love letter, I suppose.”
“Anne!”
“I am off,” she said, springing to her feet, “and impatient to finish my naughty novel. Do get some rest, Cousin. You will need strength to deal with Mother. She will have hysterics, you know, when you announce your engagement to anyone other than me.”
With that, she flounced out of the room, leaving me shaking my head at her presumptuousness and wondering how she knew my business at the parsonage.
Sighing, I settled at the desk to close the letter and bid my love goodbye.
You may possibly wonder why all this was not told you last night. But I was out of my mind heartbroken enraged not then master enough of myself to know what could or ought to be revea
led. For the truth of every thing here related, I can appeal more particularly to the testimony of Colonel Fitzwilliam, who from our near relationship and constant intimacy, and still more as one of the executors of my father's will, has been unavoidably acquainted with every particular of these transactions. If your abhorrence of me should make my assertions not worth the paper they are written upon valueless, you cannot be prevented by the same cause from confiding in my cousin with whom you seemed quite intimate rather cosy entirely too comfortable; and that there may be the possibility of consulting him, I shall endeavour to find some opportunity of putting this accursed letter in your hands in the course of the morning. I will only add, I love you still God bless you.
Fitzwilliam Darcy (the last man in the world whom y
Under the circumstances, I thought my adieu was naught but kindness itself. Whether she, in her small-mindedness, might appreciate such charity, I gave not a fig.
Henceforth, her pert opinions must mean naught to me. But the thought of casting off Elizabeth sent me adrift. Obviously, I—akin to a certain bridge spanning the Thames—was falling to pieces.
The blighted pages on the desk before me looked as though they had been penned in the most carelessness of execution by either Bingley or a crazed, drunken wretch. “Hah!” I mumbled, “They were written by a crazed, drunken wretch!”
Half of my words were scratched out, and the rest blotted with ink, brandy, wax . . . or a clear, unidentified liquid which might have tasted salty had one sampled it.
Bleary-eyed, I stared in disbelief as light filtered through cracks in the draperies. Good God, ’tis cockcrow already. Birdsong and the sounds of servants beginning their labours spurred my stiff fingers to the tedious task of transcription.
With daybreak, however, came another dawning. Somehow, I would have to walk away and forsake the one woman I desired above all others. Pemberley needed an heir, and I would be compelled to take another woman as my wife while Elizabeth . . . Aargh, no! The thought of her as another man’s lover was too painful. Expunging that awareness, I applied myself to completion of my occupation.
The Darcy Monologues: A romance anthology of Pride and Prejudice short stories in Mr. Darcy's own words Page 5