The Confession of Fitzwilliam Darcy

by Mary Street

  I could not help smiling. ‘It is proof of your own attachment to Hertfordshire. Anything beyond the very neighbourhood of Longbourn, I suppose, would appear far.’

  Her colour rose: perhaps she thought I had been patronizing, for she said sharply: ‘Where there is fortune to make the expense of travelling unimportant, distance is no evil. But that is not the case here. Mr and Mrs Collins have a comfortable income, but not such a one as will allow frequent journeys – and I am persuaded my friend would not call herself near her family in under half the present distance.’

  This was a new point of view for me, but not one I wanted to consider at the moment. I had fortune enough to make the cost of travel negligible, but Pemberley was a long way from Hertfordshire and I was concerned: I knew not the exact degree of affection she felt for her family, but I had to suppose she cared for them more than I did and might feel the distance and separation more keenly than I would wish.

  I said persuasively, ‘You cannot have a right to such a very strong local attachment. You cannot have been always at Longbourn.’

  Elizabeth looked at me in astonishment and I realized the direction the conversation had taken. I drew back in some confusion: it seemed my reflections during the night had taken hold of me and I was beginning to pursue my interest with her before I had properly made up my mind.

  It was time to change the subject: I asked if she was pleased with Kent. She answered, and we had a stilted conversation on that subject until Mrs Collins returned to the house with her sister.

  They looked surprised to see me. I said I had intruded on Miss Bennet by mistake, supposing they were all at home.

  Mrs Collins glanced at Elizabeth, then at me again: something in her look told me she had suspicions. I left as soon as I could.

  When I wrote next to Georgiana, I told her enough about Elizabeth to incline her favourably towards the lady. I said nothing about my own inclinations, though it occurred to me that, should my sister be willing to accept Elizabeth, I might not care too much for other opinions.

  During the next week, I called at the parsonage every day, sometimes alone, more often with Fitzwilliam and once my aunt accompanied us. I found it difficult to talk, especially as I now knew myself to be the object of scrutiny from Mrs Collins. When that lady heard my cousin Fitzwilliam laughing at me for being so tongue-tied, her interest deepened, making everything worse. I knew she had the advantage of remembering some of the incidents which had occurred in Hertfordshire and I was persuaded she understood me.

  Time was passing and I was still no closer to making up my mind. We were to leave Rosings on Saturday, but when my aunt pressed us to stay longer, I agreed to remain another week. Had my aunt understood my motive she would have been most indignant, but she did not, and chose to take it as a compliment to herself and my cousin, Anne.

  Elizabeth’s habit of wandering the countryside now became a matter of interest to me. There was a grove on one side of the park with a pleasant sheltered path; once, I had seen her there and avoided her, but now, desiring her company away from the constraints placed upon me by the presence of others, I wanted to know if she often frequented that spot. I went there myself, waited a while and found myself rewarded: she came, and was so far encouraging as to inform me it was her favourite haunt.

  I met her there several times, after that. I asked how she liked being at Hunsford and about her love of solitary walks and was fairly soon satisfied: her attachment to Hertfordshire was not so great as to cause her any deep pain to leave it, or any desire for frequent visits. I was persuaded she would prefer the wilder beauties of Derbyshire, which would more than adequately compensate for whatever favourite places she had to leave.

  She liked the countryside in Kent, too. Our visits to Rosings would be no hardship for her, especially as she had a friend living in the parsonage. I supposed I might have to tolerate the society of the unctuous Mr Collins rather more than I did at present, but if I gritted my teeth I could bear it for half an hour, now and again.

  My own feeling about that gentleman made me wonder how any sensible person could tolerate his society and, curious on the subject, I asked Elizabeth for her opinions on the happiness of Mr and Mrs Collins.

  ‘They seem to be tolerably happy together,’ she replied. ‘My friend has an excellent understanding and manages her own and her husband’s domestic felicity with remarkable insight.’

  She would say no more, but there was a glimmer in her eyes and I saw she found the subject diverting. She had some understanding I was not privy to, nor was I likely to be, since it would have been most improper for her to entertain me on the subject of her friend’s marriage.

  Such reservations increased my desire for the kind of confidence between us that could exist only in marriage. I began to comprehend she was exactly the kind of woman who would most suit me. The way she had nursed her sister proved she could be caring and affectionate. She would, as my aunt put it, ‘express her opinions very decidedly’ which made a refreshing change from those who constantly deferred to mine. But most of all, it was the ease and liveliness of her disposition which appealed to me and which would, I knew, temper my own, more serious nature.

  Yet still the thought of connecting myself with such a decidedly inferior family was anathema to me. The consequences of doing so could be distressing indeed. I recalled one of Miss Bingley’s taunts on the subject: ‘Do let the portraits of your uncle and aunt Philips be placed in the gallery at Pemberley. Put them next to your great uncle, the judge. They are in the same profession you know: only in different lines.’

  I winced and resolved I would not go to the grove again.

  I went to the grove again, in spite of my resolve. This time, to my absolute rage, she was not alone: Fitzwilliam was with her, all attention, chatting away, making her laugh. I could see that any interruption to their tête-à-tête would be very unwelcome indeed.

  They did not see me. I turned and walked away, furious and bitter as I reflected on what I had seen. Clearly Fitzwilliam wanted her for himself: he was exerting himself to engage her affections and she was by no means averse to his attentions.

  I could not bear it. The thought of losing her to my own cousin was too painful to contemplate. I raged against myself for agreeing to stay at Rosings another week: had we left when planned, this could not have happened. I was persuaded he was, at that very moment, proposing to her.

  I wondered how I was going to stop it. I despaired, knowing I could not stop it. My imagination leapt forward: I saw them coming up to Rosings, announcing their good news; I saw myself obliged to congratulate the pair of them; I saw myself as groomsman at their wedding; I saw myself obliged to propose a toast to the happy couple.

  In the end I calmed down and tried to think in a more rational manner. Fitzwilliam, I told myself, knew very well he could not afford to marry a lady with no fortune. He had no intentions. He had simply come across Elizabeth on one of her walks and, naturally, he was escorting her back to the parsonage. I tried to reassure myself there was no more to it, but I could not help suspecting them.

  He returned alone to Rosings. I watched him, but could detect no particular excitement in his manner, he seemed much as usual. He looked pleased when my aunt informed us she had invited Mr Collins and company to drink tea at Rosings that evening, but only said he hoped Miss Bennet would not think it too much of an imposition if we prevailed upon her once more to entertain us with some music.

  Still I suspected him: I was resolved to watch them together that evening, and determine for myself, if I could, the extent of their involvement with each other.

  To my utter confusion, the others arrived that evening without Elizabeth. Mr Collins was most profuse in his apologies to my aunt. ‘My cousin sends her humble apologies and most earnestly begs you will forgive and excuse her for not accepting your ladyship’s most kindly bestowed invitation. She is indeed, most unwell, and I am persuaded nothing but the most severe headache could prevail upon her to absent her
self from the very great kindness and condescension of your ladyship’s company.’

  I was all astonishment. Elizabeth? With a headache? It was possible, I supposed, but it did not sound at all like her. I glanced at Mrs Collins and saw she was watching me, a little smile playing at the corners of her mouth.

  Fitzwilliam expressed his disappointment and concern and begged Mrs Collins would, upon her return, convey his best wishes to Miss Bennet for a speedy recovery. Lady Catherine conceded, rather grudgingly, that if Miss Bennet were unwell then, of course, she must be excused. When I could find my voice I said I hoped she would soon be better.

  That look from Mrs Collins had my mind in turmoil: I was persuaded she knew of my feelings and had alerted Elizabeth. I recalled a slight embarrassment in Elizabeth when I had seen her last, and saw this must account for it. She must have been wishing me to declare myself.

  I thought she must have been disappointed, today, when she met Fitzwilliam instead of myself: I thought she might have stayed away purposely, this evening, to give me a clear opportunity of finding her alone at the parsonage.

  I drank tea and debated with myself whether to go: I knew that even if I did not, Mrs Collins would report my disturbance to her friend. I recalled the pain when I had so foolishly thought I might lose her to Fitzwilliam.

  And later I found myself ringing the doorbell at the parsonage.

  Nine

  I threw down my pen, shuffled the sheets into order and began to read through my own letter, wincing here and there at the things I had been obliged to write.

  For a moment I was tempted to tear it up: it was not the kind of letter I should like to receive and Elizabeth would not like me any better for reading what I had to say. I knew, however, that nothing could give her a worse opinion of me than the one she now held.

  Last night, still smarting from having seen her with Fitzwilliam, confused by the quizzical look from Mrs Collins, desirous of solitude in which to reflect, I had excused myself from the party at Rosings.

  Repulsed, still, by the idea of connecting myself with her relations, I had, nevertheless, found myself walking to the parsonage. I persuaded myself I was concerned about her health: I persuaded myself I was simply visiting.

  I had not been there five minutes before I was blurting out how ardently I admired and loved her.

  Now I wished I had not. It had been the worst, the most bitterly humiliating experience of my life.

  All my regard, all my struggles, counted for nothing with her. She cared not at all that I was prepared to disgrace myself for love of her, that I was prepared to face the derision of the world by making her my wife.

  So far from being flattered by my declaration, she had rejected me with an incivility which bordered on contempt.

  ‘… I have never desired your good opinion and you have certainly bestowed it most unwillingly….’

  Worse was to follow:

  ‘… do you think that any consideration would tempt me to accept the hand of a man who has been the means of ruining the happiness of a most beloved sister?’

  Shaken and dismayed, knowing my own cause was lost, I had found a mean satisfaction in admitting my part in separating my friend from her sister. I told her I rejoiced in my success. ‘Towards him I have been kinder than towards myself.’

  She ignored this, for she had another accusation to fling at me: to my utmost incredulity, I now learnt that she held me responsible for wantonly and cruelly blighting the life of George Wickham.

  I will not repeat what she had to say on the subject: evident it was that Wickham had imposed on her with some falsehood: evident also that she believed it.

  I had been too angry to defend myself. Now, though still bitter, I was capable of cool rational thought. I saw that, however my pride revolted against imposing on her yet again, my own reputation required me to give an explanation.

  In my letter, I told her of my reasons for separating Bingley from her sister. It pained me to do so, for I knew what I said about the defects of her closest relations must cause her distress; the necessity, however, could not be helped.

  I went on to assert my own belief that Jane Bennet’s affections had not been engaged, but even as I did so I began to feel distinctly uneasy. Elizabeth said I had ‘ruined her happiness’ and I had to admit she was likely to have better information than myself. I went to some trouble to emphasize that, if I had inflicted pain on her sister, it was unknowingly done, as a result of my own impartial observation.

  I described the means by which I had detached Bingley from her sister, making no secret of his regard for her, allowing that only my own conviction of her indifference had persuaded him not to return to Hertfordshire. My connivance in concealing Jane’s presence in town was admitted also, though I could not deny I felt some pangs of conscience there.

  Dealing with Elizabeth’s misapprehensions about George Wickham took longer. I had no idea what form of falsehood he had used against me, although I suspected it would be some kind of half-truth, for that was Wickham’s usual way: I thought it most likely I had been accused of going against my father’s wishes and depriving him of the living intended for him.

  I will not repeat everything I wrote to Elizabeth. It is enough to say that I described Wickham’s character, his connection with my family and my dealings with him in the matter of my father’s Will.

  It cost me no little pain to reveal my sister’s intended elopement and for a while I hesitated, wondering if it was necessary. Only when it occurred to me Elizabeth herself might be in some danger from Wickham did I perceive that, for her own sake, I must reveal the whole of his character. So, assuring Elizabeth I had no doubt of her secrecy, and excusing Georgiana as best I could, I made that disclosure.

  It remained only to add that my cousin, Colonel Fitzwilliam knew every particular of these matters and would, should she wish to consult him, vouch for the truth of my assertions.

  I took my letter and went out to the grove, waiting there for some time in the hope of meeting her.

  At last, she came. She turned away when she saw me, but I called her name and she turned back, reluctantly. Her face was pale and her eyes unfriendly but she took my letter. I bowed and felt my throat tighten as I took my final look at her.

  She would not open my letter with any expectation of pleasure, but she would open it and she would read it.

  Knowing it would keep her occupied for some time, I returned to the parsonage, this time to take my leave of those within. Mrs Collins pressed me to sit down and wait. ‘Lizzy is out walking again: I am sure she will be sorry to miss you.’

  My better information told me she would not be sorry at all, but I was thankful to infer that Elizabeth had not confided in her friend. I said I had seen Miss Bennet and had spoken to her. In no mood to listen to Mr Collins, I took my leave as soon as I could.

  Back at Rosings, Fitzwilliam was at breakfast. I could not eat, but I took some tea whilst I considered how much to tell him. I could not bring myself to confide the whole of it.

  In the end, I merely said it had come to my attention that Miss Bennet was on friendly terms with Wickham and, knowing what he was, I had felt obliged to inform her of his true nature.

  ‘If she is partial to him,’ I said, keeping tight control of my own composure, ‘and I suspect she is, then she may be unwilling to accept my assertions. I have recommended you as my witness in these matters and I would be obliged, Fitzwilliam, if you would give her the opportunity to consult you today, should she wish to do so.’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ said Fitzwilliam, looking startled. ‘How much may I tell her? You surely would not wish her to know…?’

  ‘I have told her everything,’ I admitted. ‘I set it down in a letter, so she might refer to it whenever she wishes.’

  ‘Georgiana?’ Fitzwilliam sucked in his breath as I nodded confirmation. ‘You have taken a risk there, Darcy.’

  ‘I think not.’

  ‘I hope you are right. I had no idea she
knew Wickham, or I would have warned her myself. How is she acquainted with him?’

  ‘I told you: his regiment is stationed in Meryton, barely a mile from her home.’

  ‘Oh, yes, of course. I had not previously made that connection.’

  He gazed into his teacup as though seeking inspiration, then added, ‘She may be friendly with him, but I do not think she can be at all partial towards him. She has been at Hunsford now for five or six weeks and will remain for another week at least. I cannot feel she would agree to such a long separation were she harbouring any tender feelings towards him.’

  I seized upon that line of reasoning with some relief. ‘I hope you are right.’

  By the time Fitzwilliam set off for the parsonage, an hour had elapsed since I had put my letter into her hand. She had had sufficient time to read it and draw her conclusions. She would know how far she wished to question my cousin.

  Unable to support the idea of remaining in the company of my aunt and cousin, I had my horse saddled and took myself off, wishful of putting as much distance between myself and Hunsford as I could.

  I confess I galloped recklessly that day, and it would have served me right if some accident had befallen me. None did however, and at last, rather shamed by the way I had used the beast, I dismounted and let him graze whilst I, taking advantage of the lonely spot, seated myself on a convenient tree stump and struggled to come to terms with Elizabeth’s contemptuous rejection of my suit.

  ‘… I have never desired your good opinion, and you have certainly bestowed it most unwillingly.’

  I felt a surge of the most bitter resentment: I had told her I loved her enough to overlook her low connections and I had gone so far as to pay her the greatest compliment a man could pay a woman: and that was to be my answer.

  ‘… why, with so evident a design of offending and insulting me, you chose to tell me you liked me against your will, against your reason, and even against your character?’

  All this, because I had been honest and told her of my struggles and the scruples which had so long prevented me from forming any serious design on her.