Revelations

by Kirsten Bij't Vuur

  'I know you do, and I commend you for it. It is why I am sorry Miss Eliza never got to see the real Darcy, only a very reserved, disdainful shade of you. But you are a gentleman by birth, not by merit, and the same goes for your grounds and fortune: you take good care of them and use them well,

  but you would have had them no matter, for the sole reason that you were heir to them from the day you were born.'

  That was true, and something that justified some careful thinking.

  Ignoring the fact that his cousin just told him he would have married the woman Darcy loved to distraction without any second thoughts on her connections or family, if only he had the money, Darcy asked, 'You think she never saw who I really am? You think she doesn't hate me, but someone she thinks I am?'

  'I do, Darcy,' Fitzwilliam replied, 'you were a totally different man in her company, and at the risk of being rude, not a nice man. Very reserved and rather haughty. I know it's not who you really are, but it looks that way, and if you then proceed to tell her you love her against your will, against your reason, what do you expect her to say?

  'Don't worry about insulting me and everyone I love, Mr Darcy, I'll try to find affection for you anyway?'

  Darcy could only come up with a meagre, 'I just didn't know what to say most of the time.'

  But even when he said it Darcy knew it wasn't true. He did feel superior, and didn't want to talk to her as familiarly as his cousin did for fear of creating expectations in her. And now she hated him, and everything was lost. Nothing to do but sleep on it, write that letter, and hope the pain would go away eventually. He thanked his cousin and quietly retreated to his own room, where he managed to find some oblivion in sleep, but awoke the next morning to the same thoughts as the night before, and still with quite a bit of anger.

  Chapter 2

  Once dressed, he sat down at his desk and started to write, still unable to comprehend how he went out to give the woman of his dreams what he thought she wanted, and got a blunt rejection and a lot of reproofs in return.

  No need to study for words of four syllables now, finding the right tone was paramount, and the amount of information he wanted to let Miss Elizabeth Bennet in on.

  Did he trust her with all the particulars? Wait, better start by making clear what the letter was for, she might think he wanted to beg her for her hand once more, that would be humiliating into the extreme. If he thought it would have any effect, he would, but he knew it was hopeless, she'd only despise him more. When his intentions were described to perfection he started with her sister, putting George Wickham off a little longer. Suppose her sister did really love Bingley, then Miss Elizabeth had good reason to hate him. Seen from their point of view it was a despicable thing to do, but that was the trouble with people who let feelings run their lives, they hardly ever gained anything, what had his feelings brought him but anxiety and pain? Better he turned back to reason and safety, let his wishes go, be at peace again.

  He was progressing nicely now with his letter, trying not to humiliate himself too much, but admit to his wrongs where he saw them. As he wrote his mind calmed down even more, it was good to be able to explain, and he sincerely hoped she would believe him and be wary around Wickham.

  An hour saw the letter finished, and himself determined to deliver it to her in person. It would be very difficult, she had blighted his hopes, she had him under her foot, crushed, but he would face her to exonerate himself, she might still hate him, but not for things he didn't do. Gathering his dignity and avoiding his aunt at all costs he walked into the park in the hopes of meeting Miss Elizabeth there on her morning walk.

  The park was very pretty this early in spring, he could understand what drew

  her to it, her love for solitary walks had always intrigued him, her independent spirit to not rely on a companion, not even a horse, just herself and nature. Such a strong character she had, and still she was so attached to her family, her home, her immediate surroundings and all those rustic neighbours. He had been looking forward so much to seeing those lovely eyes gaze at him, mirroring the love burning inside him, a love he still felt in every fibre of his being. No. That was not the right way to handle this, she did not love him, she would never love him, he needed to be collected and calm, it wouldn't do to face her with love in his eyes and all over his face, she'd not only hate him but despise him for his weakness. Just be polite, he told himself, he'd allow himself to indulge in his feelings a little afterwards.

  But first things first.

  There she was, finally, now be strong. She was late, but at least she was here now. Miss Elizabeth saw him and turned away instantly, that was positively hurtful, but he needed to hand her the letter so he called out, 'Miss Bennet!'

  As she turned back and approached slowly, Darcy's throat closed, making it impossible for him to breathe, she was so lovely and not triumphant at all, but rather as nervous as he was, at least she was not gloating over having been able to hurt him so badly. He would really have hated that.

  With an effort he regained his voice, a strange, constricted voice, very much affected by his feelings, with which he pleaded her to read his letter to do him justice, and handed it to her with a polite bow. Then he took one last good look at her and walked back to the house, trying to hide his feelings by walking as upright as ever.

  So that was it. The last time he ever saw Miss Elizabeth Bennet, who took away his tranquillity for five months, set his heart afire, had him ready to throw off his family-honour, then trampled his heart and hurt his pride. He would give himself another six months to forget her, and then life would move on.

  But of course it didn't work that way. When he arrived back at the house his cousin told him, 'You cannot act any differently, Darcy, you would certainly visit the parsonage to say goodbye to Mr and Mrs Collins, and Miss Eliza, before we leave. It would be very impolite not to.'

  'You are right, Fitzwilliam, I would, and I shall do so now.'

  Darcy decided to go straight away, hoping Miss Elizabeth would still be away from home on her walk. And fortunately for him she was, he left a

  message with her friend and waited at his aunt's house for Fitzwilliam to return. For his cousin had promised to do his utmost to allow Miss Elizabeth the opportunity to ask him for confirmation of the facts Darcy stated in his letter to her.

  Although his cousin had been almost eager to comply, when he came back Fitzwilliam said, 'I'm sorry, Darcy, I waited as long as I politely could, nearly an hour, but I didn't get to see even a glimpse of Miss Eliza. I so wished to see her.'

  He seemed very disappointed at this, not just for Darcy but for also personally, and Darcy couldn't wonder at that since his cousin had admitted to admiring Miss Elizabeth very much himself. He must have wanted to say goodbye to her in person, there was not much chance either of them would ever meet her again.

  The next day they left, with Darcy barely able to say goodbye to his aunt and cousin Anne without showing his intense sadness and regret.

  The following week he spent with Fitzwilliam on the estate of his cousin's father, Earl Compton. Trying to keep his uncle's family from noticing his state of near constant despair and grief was difficult, even more so since Darcy's reproaches were now turning towards himself, as he slowly started to understand what he had done, mostly to himself. Recalling every word, every sentence he had said to Miss Elizabeth, and the reproaches she had made him in return, on his person, on his address, he was starting to see how his manner and his language must have angered her beyond belief. There was no way in which he could make any excuses for himself. He had been deluded about her feelings for him but that had all been his own doing.

  Honestly reviewing all their meetings and their conversations she had never once encouraged him in anything, she had always shown at least some dislike of him. How could he have been so blind?

  And his behaviour towards her really had been exactly what she reproached him with, arrogant, disdainful, not just reserved or shy, no, he really
did look down on her at that time, for being below his station. Had she accepted him, he would have felt obliged to change her, he would have expected her to check herself in company, to behave more fashionably and more lady-like. He would have ruined her by forcing her to be as artificial as the ladies he judged insincere. Frankly, he didn't deserve her, what he did deserve was a large dose of bitter medicine, to cure him of his conceit. He had always

  done his best to live up to his name and his position, but he now realised he had done that in disdain of people he thought below him, even when they had already proven to him they had more sense than most of his own class.

  By now he should already have joined his friends in town for some engagements, Bingley had written to speed up his return but he couldn't face his friend, not yet, knowing that he had ruined Bingley's happiness without any real reason, causing him unnecessary pain. And his own pain was still so fresh and so intense, Miss Bingley and her sister just couldn't be borne, their inferiority to Miss Elizabeth so glaring and so confronting. To think he would have tried his utmost to turn a woman of such feeling and such intelligence into one of them, the constant reminder of what he would have done in his infinite arrogance and foolishness was still too painful to face anyone, really.

  All these reflections did not diminish his feelings of loss, his love for Miss Elizabeth had kept him in a constant state of some gladness, even when he hadn't seen her for months on end. He was never an impatient man, his feelings at that time were still so torn, he had used their time apart sensibly, deciding how to act, and all that time an image of her had been ready to daydream about at a moment's notice. That memory now hurt unimaginably.

  She was never for him, she disliked him even then, and as he now admitted to himself, rightfully so.

  Despite the humbling realisation that because he thought she was not good enough for him, he was not good enough for her, he was still convinced they would suit each other very well. If he could only have accepted her superiority over all the ladies he knew, and appreciated her as such, and treated her with respect and yes, some affection, they could have been the perfect couple. With Miss Elizabeth keeping him aware that his birth was just a coincidence, as his cousin so rightfully stated, and her superior people skills and loving nature to keep him soft and human, she might have increased his respectability as well as made him perfectly happy and a lot easier to live with.

  And with his means at her disposal and his love and his mind to support her in her development, she could have improved herself even beyond his expectations, let alone her own. There was so much potential in her without ever having had tutoring, how much would she have learned with all the education a London residence had to offer? And for her playing they would

  not have needed a London master, the constant example of Georgiana's application alone would have motivated her to do the same, improving her performance until she was amazed at her own progress.

  Georgiana would have loved her so much, such genuine feeling, such frankness, she would always have known what her sister was thinking, never wondering whether Miss Elizabeth was just pretending to be her friend.

  All that could never be, and since after a week's contemplation he still didn't feel up to joining Bingley and his sisters he wrote to excuse himself, using business with his steward as the reason, and headed off to his beautiful estate all by himself.

  There was always business to attend to at Pemberley and this time was no exception. Keeping busy turned out to be the best cure for being sick with love, his self-reproach and deep regrets slowly sinking in and only bothering him at night, causing him sleepless nights despite his busy days. It was only rarely that heartache got hold of him shortly by day, whenever he found himself in a beautiful spot in his woods for instance, catching himself thinking how Miss Elizabeth would have loved to ramble here, all by herself, getting to know the trees and the lanes, or better still, with him holding her hand, kissing every time they were out of sight of the house, spending entire mornings together.

  Such regrets were not going to help forget her, but the sadness these thoughts brought was sweet in itself, and a sign he could at least feel love for someone, something he had started to doubt after years of being alone.

  A few weeks of steady exercise and application to his duties followed, Mrs Reynolds clearly worried at his lack of appetite and lack of interaction with friends, but too much in awe of him to ask. He found his staff to actually be quite good company in themselves, his steward a very smart and observant man, also very discrete for like the housekeeper he never commented on his master's solicitude. The stable hands were always helpful to saddle his horse yet another time for a solitary ride, Miss Elizabeth might have turned him into a walker in her company, as things were now he preferred to sample nature from the back of a horse, though he didn't feel like hunting at all.

  His huntsman suggested discreetly, 'Begging your pardon, sir, but you haven't taken a gun with you in weeks, nor have you ordered the hounds out.

  But you know there's always some times in a man's life when a morning or

  afternoon of quiet trout-fishing can settle his needs more than the exertion and excitement of a hunt.'

  Seeing the truth in this, Darcy replied, 'I believe you, Oliver, let's do that then, tomorrow morning after breakfast.'

  And Oliver was right, a morning of casting on the banks of the gurgling river did bring a lot of inner peace, and he continued the practice, but of course his regrets and his self-reproach kept haunting him regularly.

  Finally Mrs Reynolds dared to confront him with his worrying behaviour.

  'Mr Darcy, sir, I can't stand keeping my silence any longer. Whatever is the matter with you, there is no spirit or appetite left in you, you're not ill, are you?'

  She looked so genuinely worried, anxious actually, that he decided to tell her the plain truth.

  'Never mind me, Mrs Reynolds, I'm not dying of consumption, I've merely encountered some adversity in a matter of the heart. I'm lovesick, time alone will cure me.'

  Apparently Mrs Reynolds knew of another cure for love-sickness, for from that moment on all his meals and coffee-times included a few small sweet treats. And since they did indeed give some comfort he appreciated them and they kept coming, and Mrs Reynolds to all intents and purposes stopped worrying and never asked any further discourse on the nature of his grief.

  Physical exercise and his work on the running of his estate gave him even more peace of mind in the next month or so, and when his sister arrived for a week's visit he was ready for some company. She was as pretty and as sweet as ever, and her playing stirred a lot of feelings inside him, such a talent, and such determination in a girl her age. With the arrival of his sister the love he still felt for Miss Elizabeth could finally find a tiny outlet, and he showed her a lot more brotherly love than he used to. She was worried about him, he couldn't always keep his grief from showing, and she asked him,

  'Fitzwilliam, you seem rather out of sorts, are you all right?'

  He replied, 'Well enough', and though that proved something was the matter with him or he would have said 'I'm fine' or 'I most certainly am', he was clearly not in the mood to explain or elaborate. So she just accepted his tokens of affection, aware that sitting together and chatting quietly, or her playing and his listening to music, or walking out together clearly helped him process whatever depressed his spirits nearly all the time. He had to be

  depressed, not sick, for he ate sweets, which he didn't use to, and Mrs Reynolds didn't seem very worried, which she would have been if he were ill. Apparently he didn't want to share his feelings with his sister, and Georgiana couldn't force him to unburden his mind, though she wished he would.

  When she left for London he accompanied her to their town house, and in town he finally met Bingley and his sisters again. And as he suspected, in Bingley he could clearly recognise some of the symptoms he must have shown himself. Of course Bingley's had been processed longer and seemed therefore less ac
ute, but Bingley's suffering was of Darcy's infliction, which burdened his conscience and made him decide to set things to right with his friend as soon as possible.

  Darcy made sure to take great care his friends wouldn't see any of those symptoms in him, but to keep his mind from reminiscing, or reproaching himself, was very tiring, and he often excused himself to go home early to sit with his sister or even go to bed. Or to take a long walk through a public park, to be with as much nature as he could find in town. He often wondered whether Miss Elizabeth had given his explanatory letter any credit, and at such moments he felt anxious that its tone had still been rather haughty. It turned out not impossible to resign himself to never seeing her again, but he really regretted leaving her with such an impression of him. Still, as long as she was safe from Wickham his letter had served its main purpose.

  His cousin visited and they went out together with Georgiana, then had dinner with Darcy's friends in his house. Late that night, with everyone gone home and Georgiana off to bed, the two of them were sipping a superb brandy when Fitzwilliam observed, 'You're pining for Miss Eliza, aren't you Darcy? I can see it in everything, you still hurt so much. I commend your aptitude in hiding it from your friends, but wouldn't it give some relief to talk about your regrets?'

  'It would, but not with my friends. They wouldn't understand how I still have sleepless nights over a woman with family near Cheapside.'

  As Fitzwilliam drew him out further, Darcy realised he had not taken any trouble at all to let go of his love for Miss Elizabeth. He had processed his grief, had learned to hide it from the world, managed to enjoy himself again in the company of his friends, but he still cherished Miss Elizabeth's memory above anything else. He didn't reproach her with anything

  anymore, in both heart and mind she was more perfect than ever, he just couldn't stop thinking of her with love. He had managed to stop thinking of a future with her, but that was an entirely different thing.

  Showing his concern clearly, his cousin commented, 'There you go again, losing yourself in vain wishes. Can't you try to meet another lady? I know summer is not the prime season for socialising, but there must be somewhere you can see some fresh faces, make some new friends? Miss Eliza is not the only woman in the world, you know.'