The Confession of Fitzwilliam Darcy

by Mary Street

  I made a suitable answer and our conversation continued until we reached Rosings Park. As we turned into the gates, we spotted Mr Collins waiting to make his bow as our carriage passed. Fitzwilliam wondered if he had been there all morning.

  ‘Certain it is,’ I said, ‘the ladies at the parsonage will learn of our arrival even before my aunt.’

  Our first evening at Rosings was spent listening to my aunt’s authoritative voice speaking on the affairs of everyone in the district and giving her opinions on all of them. In due course, she embarked on the subject of those at the parsonage.

  My aunt described Mr Collins as a ‘very good, clever young man’. I stared at her, all astonishment, recalling I had heard Mrs Bennet also express that opinion. From that lady it was not so surprising, but I had thought my aunt more discerning.

  My aunt held the opinion that Mrs Collins was a quiet, sensible lady: she had, somehow, also become acquainted with her father, Sir William Lucas. ‘One of nature’s gentlemen,’ my aunt pronounced, ‘although I believe he kept a shop before his elevation to the knighthood.’

  Maria Lucas was a pretty child who did not have much to say for herself. Miss Elizabeth Bennet was a very pretty, genteel sort of girl, my aunt supposed, ‘But upon my word, she expresses her opinions very decidedly for one so young.’

  Fitzwilliam raised an eyebrow at me, a look I returned with a half-smile. And later, when we were alone together, he said, ‘Do you suppose Miss Bennet actually dared to disagree with Lady Catherine?’

  ‘I would not find it astonishing,’ I admitted. I confess I found some pleasure in speaking of Elizabeth, now I was no longer tormented by an attachment for her. I went on, ‘Miss Bennet has a lively sense of humour and would, no doubt, find it diverting to trifle with my aunt’s curiosity.’

  ‘I am impatient to become acquainted with this lively lady.’

  ‘I expect we will see her at church, if not before.’

  Mr Collins came to Rosings the next morning to pay his respects. Fitzwilliam greeted him good-humouredly: I bowed and remembered to congratulate him upon his marriage. ‘I look forward to renewing my acquaintance with Mrs Collins,’ I told him, which gratified him enormously and produced one of his long pompous speeches of no consequence whatever.

  Fitzwilliam flickered an eyelid at me, and suggested we should both repair to the parsonage immediately to pay our respects to the ladies within. Mr Collins was quite overcome by such a striking civility.

  As we set off to walk the half-mile distance to the parsonage, I could easily account for my own excitement. I anticipated great pleasure and satisfaction in seeing Miss Elizabeth Bennet and knowing I was no longer in her power.

  We arrived at the parsonage; we were shown into the presence of the ladies; and, at the very first sight of Elizabeth, my insides turned upside down.

  To my utter mortification, I discovered the whole desperate struggle was about to begin again, for I was just as much in love with her as ever.

  Eight

  THERE WAS ONLY one thing to be done about it. I determined I must stay away from her as much as possible. Several times, during the next few days I excused myself to my relations and went out alone, to walk and rage and struggle with myself.

  I know not how I had so far deceived myself as to believe my feelings for her had vanished, but the vexation of my spirits on discovering my mistake was the only circumstance which had given me a tolerable appearance of composure during our visit to the parsonage.

  Elizabeth had scarce looked at me. A flicker of a glance when she curtsied, and the usual civilities had been all she admitted: I confess I had little enough to say, myself.

  Fitzwilliam had immediately entered into conversation with all the ladies: it was clear they were taken with him and perhaps this was fortunate, for my silence went unnoticed.

  I had managed, after a while, to so far gain command of myself to ask after the health of Elizabeth’s family. She assured me they were all well, then disconcerted me completely by informing me her sister Jane had been in London for the last three months. ‘Have you never happened to see her there?’

  I swallowed, and forced myself to say I had not had that pleasure. I was perfectly sure she was already sensible of the fact. I hardly knew how to look. It put an end to my efforts of making conversation.

  When we left, Fitzwilliam reproached me for not having told him the half of it. ‘Quite pretty!’ he repeated my own words scornfully. ‘Heavens, man, she is beautiful! And never have I met a lady with such happy manners! Easter at Rosings Park,’ he added, ‘might just be tolerable, after all.’

  Fitzwilliam called at the parsonage several times during the following week. I avoided the temptation to accompany him, instead taking myself off, either on foot or horseback.

  I soon discovered even this occupation to be fraught with danger, for I had forgotten my information that Elizabeth, too, was in the habit of roaming the countryside. Once I almost ran across her: only by great good fortune did I see her in time to strike into another path without being observed.

  When we attended service on Good Friday, it took all the solemnity of that awful day to keep my mind on religious observance and not on the slight figure who stood on the north side of the church.

  On Easter Sunday, after church, my aunt invited Mr Collins and his company to come to Rosings in the evening. I had time to brace myself and when they joined us in the drawing-room, I was able to meet Elizabeth with tolerable composure.

  Fitzwilliam left me to listen to my aunt’s conversation, making it clear he was going to monopolize Elizabeth. For a time I was content, thankful even, for him to do so. He seated himself beside her: it soon became clear he had found many subjects of conversation to interest her and I found my attention was continually straying towards them.

  A surge of bitterness consumed me as I watched them together. I wanted to join in: I was too far away to hear their discussion, but it was clearly far more interesting than my aunt’s conversation.

  After a while, my aunt noticed she was no longer the centre of attention: she called out to Fitzwilliam, demanding to know what they were talking about.

  They were talking about music, Fitzwilliam told her. To my acute embarrassment and true to my sister’s word, my aunt then claimed to be the foremost authority on the subject, the only superior to my cousin Anne. Having established this, she asked, ‘How does Georgiana get on, Darcy?’

  ‘Extremely well, madam. I venture to protest there are few of her age who have such a thorough working knowledge of their instruments as my sister. Or, indeed, such a feeling for musical expression.’

  My aunt instructed me to tell her to practise more. I thought of bleeding fingers and said coldly, ‘She does not need such advice, madam. She practises very constantly.’

  My aunt, having silenced the conversation between Fitzwilliam and Elizabeth, went on to patronize that lady. ‘I have told Miss Bennet that she will never play really well unless she practises more. She cannot expect to excel if she does not practise a great deal.’

  After coffee, Fitzwilliam persuaded Elizabeth to play for him and drew up a chair next to her at the pianoforte. To my intense annoyance, my aunt insisted on talking to me, interrupting my own enjoyment of Elizabeth’s performance.

  At last, I could take no more. My aunt could keep her dreary conversation until I had nothing better to listen to. My cousin Fitzwilliam, I decided, had had Elizabeth to himself for long enough. I left my seat and strolled over to stand beside the pianoforte, finding a spot where I had a perfect view of Elizabeth.

  She immediately bestowed upon me her most mischievous smile. ‘You mean to frighten me, Mr Darcy, by coming in all this state to hear me. But I will not be alarmed, even though your sister does play so well.’

  I knew she did not really suspect me of entertaining any such design, and I said so. ‘I have had the pleasure of your acquaintance long enough to know that you occasionally find great enjoyment in expressing opinions which,
in fact, are not your own.’

  She laughed, and turned to Fitzwilliam. ‘Your cousin will give you a very pretty notion of me and teach you not to believe a word I say. I am unlucky in meeting a person so well able to expose my real character in a part of the world where I hoped to pass myself off with credit.’ Then she turned back to me, and told me I was provoking her to retaliate. ‘… and such things may come out as will shock your relations to hear.’

  The silent laughter in her eyes made my insides melt. I smiled and told her I was not afraid of her.

  Perhaps I should have been, for when Fitzwilliam asked her what she had to accuse me of, she recollected the first time she had seen me, at the Meryton assembly. ‘And what do you think he did?’

  I, who was remembering perfectly well what I did, felt the heat underneath my collar.

  ‘He danced only four dances!’ She shook her head sadly at Fitzwilliam. ‘I am sorry to pain you, but so it was. Only four dances, though gentlemen were scarce and more than one young lady was sitting down without a partner. Mr Darcy, you cannot deny it.’

  She was generous enough to make no mention of the worst of it, but I knew she was thinking of it. Yet there was laughter in her eyes as she looked at me and perhaps a little kindness, too. Nevertheless, I felt the reproof and could only mutter a lame excuse about not knowing any lady beyond my own party.

  ‘And nobody can ever be introduced in a ballroom!’ She made the nonsense sound like the worst kind of impropriety. My cousin laughed and tut-tutted, enjoying my embarrassment.

  Elizabeth asked what we would like her to play next, indicating she would let the subject drop, but now I could not help myself. I tried again, admitting I would have done better to seek an introduction. ‘But I am ill-qualified to recommend myself to strangers.’

  ‘Shall we ask your cousin the reason?’ said Elizabeth, still addressing Fitzwilliam. ‘Shall we ask why a man of sense and education, who has been about in the world, is ill-qualified to recommend himself to strangers?’

  Fitzwilliam told her I would not take the trouble.

  ‘Some people,’ I said with a cold glance at Fitzwilliam, ‘possess the talent of conversing easily with those they have never seen before. I confess, I do not. I cannot catch their tone of conversation as I often see done.’

  Elizabeth was playing something soft and soothing. She talked as she played. ‘My fingers do not move over this instrument in the masterly way achieved by so many women. But then, I have always believed it to be my own fault – because I would not take the trouble of practising.’

  I thought of Georgiana and bleeding fingers and of her awkward, crippling shyness with strangers, comparing her with Elizabeth, who played well enough to please without torturing herself and had enough self-confidence to be satisfied with that. I thought perhaps Elizabeth had the better philosophy.

  I told Elizabeth she was perfectly right: she had employed her time much better. She stared at me, her hands stopping their music in surprise. ‘No one admitted to the privilege of hearing you can think anything wanting,’ I went on. ‘We neither of us perform to strangers.’

  My aunt chose that moment to interrupt, putting an end to all possibility of pursuing the conversation. Elizabeth immediately began playing again. My aunt insisted on telling me Miss Bennet would play much better if she practised more, though, of course, her performance would never equal what my cousin Anne would have achieved had her health allowed her to learn.

  I saw the faintest hint of amusement curve Elizabeth’s mouth and wished my aunt would stop her absurdities. She did not, however: she continued her criticisms of Elizabeth’s performance and added many instructions on execution and taste. How Elizabeth remained civil and forbearing, I know not.

  I found myself wishing Fitzwilliam would take my aunt away and engage her in conversation at the other side of the room, leaving me to enjoy Elizabeth’s company in peace. I quickly saw he was wishing I would perform that service for him. Our eyes met, like two cats trying to stare each other out: neither of us would give way.

  After each piece, Fitzwilliam and I persuaded Elizabeth to play again and, at last, my aunt moved away to voice her opinions into the more receptive ears of Mr Collins.

  Having observed all my struggles against Elizabeth had, so far, had the contrariest effect, that night, when I retired to my bedchamber, I abandoned struggle, allowed myself to think of her and gave free rein to my feelings, perhaps reasoning that once I acknowledged them, I would deal with them more easily.

  It was a mistake. The force of my passion gripped me in spasm after spasm: I could barely keep myself from groaning aloud.

  At last, sleepless and bemused, I rose and paced my bedchamber, shocked and desperate and bewildered to discover such feelings could have been awakened against my will, without my own knowledge or consent.

  I had no power to conquer these feelings: I knew it and acknowledged it and, in so doing, I understood it remained only to determine what was to be done. My choices were clear, for with feelings such as these I could never offer myself to any other woman. I had to accept it: either I must remain single, loving her secretly, or I must give serious consideration to the idea of marrying her.

  I winced as I thought of her family; I winced as I thought of her low connections: in taking her, I knew I would attract the ridicule and contempt of all my relations and friends and I felt all the disgrace of such an alliance.

  But already I was scheming as to how her connections could be managed.

  I had always intended, upon marrying, to live at Pemberley. And Pemberley, in the northern part of Derbyshire, was roughly 150 miles from Hertfordshire, a considerable and happy distance from her family. I would certainly allow Elizabeth frequent visits from her favourite sister, Jane, for that lady was pleasing enough. Mr Bennet, too, had an intelligence which made him tolerable and I could bear his company.

  I did not think Elizabeth would press me to accept the rest. Although there would be times when I must admit the society of her mother and younger sisters, there were ways of making sure those times were of short duration. Should Elizabeth wish to visit Longbourn, I would permit it, but I would not accompany her. Should I discover in her any degree of affection for her Cheapside relations she could visit them when we were in town, but I would not encourage that, and never would I admit their society myself.

  This was the best that could be done, and perhaps life would indeed be tolerable without the worst of her relations. In the dark, in the night, it all seemed quite acceptable. In the morning I was more alive to what it would cost me: the connections would be there, whether I accepted them or not: that was the worst aspect of the whole case.

  After breakfast I took myself off for another walk, determined to empty my mind for a while. A break from thought, a break from feeling, fresh air, exercise, and perhaps then I would be able to think more clearly.

  I had arrived at the parsonage. How it happened I know not, for I certainly made no conscious decision to visit, but I found myself pressing the doorbell. On being admitted, I was astonished to find Elizabeth, and only Elizabeth, in the room. I stammered an apology for intruding on her, saying I had understood all the ladies to be within.

  She told me Mrs Collins and her sister had gone into the village, invited me to sit down, asked after Rosings and then, after a few moments of silence, she made enquiries after the Bingleys and asked me what my friend intended to do with Netherfield.

  She might have been making conversation, or she might have the design of discovering what had happened to make her sister’s suitor quit the place so suddenly: she could not, however, have chosen a subject more injurious to her own prospects of securing me, for I was then reminded, most forcibly, of all the follies and indiscretions of her closest relations at the Netherfield ball.

  She persisted with her questions. ‘I think I have understood that Mr Bingley has not much idea of ever returning to Netherfield again? It would be better for the neighbourhood that he should gi
ve up the place entirely, for then we might possibly get a settled family there. But perhaps Mr Bingley did not take the house so much for the convenience of the neighbourhood as for his own, and we must expect him to keep it or quit it on the same principle.’

  I told her coolly that Bingley would probably give up Netherfield if a suitable purchase offered.

  Elizabeth did not answer. Neither did she introduce any other subject of conversation: the silence lengthened and then it seemed to me as though I was hearing again those teasing words she had spoken as we danced together.

  ‘Now it is your turn to say something, Mr Darcy….’

  Someone had to say something.

  ‘You ought to make some kind of remark on the size of the room….’

  I made some remark on the way the parsonage had been made comfortable and, in the hope of showing her my aunt had her good points, I added, ‘Lady Catherine, I believe, did a great deal to it when Mr Collins first came to Hunsford.’

  ‘I believe she did – and I am sure she could not have bestowed her kindness on a more grateful object.’

  Knowing Elizabeth, I could not be quite sure how this was meant. I went on, ‘Mr Collins appears very fortunate in his choice of a wife.’

  ‘Yes, indeed; my friend is one of the very few sensible women who would have accepted him and made him happy – though I am not certain I consider her marrying Mr Collins the wisest thing she ever did. She seems perfectly happy, however, and in a prudential light, it is certainly a very good match for her.’

  Casting about me for something else to say, I remarked it must be agreeable for Mrs Collins to be settled within such an easy distance from her own family and friends.

  ‘An easy distance?’ Elizabeth stared at me. ‘It is nearly fifty miles! I should never have said Mrs Collins was settled near her family.’