The Confession of Fitzwilliam Darcy

by Mary Street

  ‘You could not have made me the offer of your hand in any possible way that would have tempted me to accept it.’

  My cousin Anne is a lady of consequence and heiress to the estate of Rosings Park, yet I could have married her any time this last six years. I could keep her waiting another six years and still she would have me. Caroline Bingley is a lady of some fortune, if not so well connected: she would continue to plague me with her attentions, never giving up hope of flattering me into her coils.

  There had been, and still were, other ladies who deferred to my opinions, offered every attention, and thought and spoke and looked for my approbation. And always there were newcomers into society, ladies who very quickly took an interest in Fitzwilliam Darcy when they learnt he was master of great estates and had a vast fortune.

  My father had told me I would be sought after. I had not given it much thought until he mentioned it, but when he did I knew it was true.

  That conversation between us took place when we both knew he was dying and his purpose had been to inform me of Lady Catherine’s scheme of marrying me to my cousin, Anne. After we had exchanged our views on the subject, he added, ‘You will be master of Pemberley before the year is out. You understand your future, do you not?’

  ‘I do, sir.’

  ‘You are young for the responsibility, but you are equal to it, I think. However, there are pitfalls and you must be on your guard. You will find your aunt is not the only mama who schemes to marry you to her daughter.’

  ‘That I have discovered already, sir.’

  ‘You have given no lady cause to reproach you, I hope?’

  ‘I have not.’

  ‘That is well. It is easy, all too easy, for a young man who is courted and flattered to believe himself in love. Take care: be certain your lady is a proper match for you, for you will be married a long time. An unfortunate marriage could be the ruin of you.’

  ‘I am not so easily beguiled, sir.’

  But I had, perhaps, been beguiled by so many attentions into the belief that I could have any woman I wanted. I had never suffered a moment’s doubt about securing Elizabeth.

  ‘… your arrogance, your conceit …’

  In justice to myself I have to say I was not conceited enough to imagine Elizabeth returned my feelings with the same fervour I felt for her. But I had, I confess, been persuaded she liked me well enough. And I had thought the material advantages of marriage to me would have been enough to secure any woman in her circumstances.

  With her father’s estate entailed on Mr Collins, her hopes of future prosperity were bleak indeed. I could not feel she had fortune enough to give her a decent income: only marriage could preserve her from want. Marriage to me would have done more than that: it would have given her riches, it would have given her consequence in the world and it would have secured the financial comfort of her family.

  ‘… do you think any consideration would tempt me…?’

  Yes, of course I did. I am a man of the world, I know how matters are arranged. I knew her situation. With her want of fortune, her vulgar connections, she must know she had little hope of making a good marriage. To secure the affection of a man like myself, an affection strong enough to overcome every rational objection would, for a woman in her circumstances, be considered a triumph indeed.

  ‘… I had not known you a month before I felt you were the last man in the world I could ever be prevailed on to marry.’

  I flinched, knowing that even in the bitterness of my resentment I was moved to a new admiration and respect.

  What a mockery she had made of all my rational objections! I could have spared myself the whole struggle. Her low connections, the folly and imprudence of her mother and younger sisters were not to be any concern of mine. Elizabeth herself had put forward the one objection which could cancel all the others: she wanted none of me.

  She had spared me from the embarrassment of such connections. Perhaps I should be glad of it? But I could not: wiser now than I had been yesterday, I knew I would rather have her good opinion than any other.

  ‘You could not have made me the offer of your hand in any possible way that would have tempted me to accept it.’

  All my thoughts twisted and taunted and jeered as I recalled that other, that most humiliating of indictments:

  ‘… had you behaved in a more gentleman-like manner.’

  With all her words bell-beating in my brain, I could no longer remain seated. I got up, paced around, kicked savagely at a clump of nettles, pushed my hands deep into my pockets and stared morosely into the misty green woodlands.

  ‘I have every reason in the world to think ill of you.’

  I had never given any thought to the possibility that Wickham might prejudice her against me. Looking back, I could hardly believe my own folly in not anticipating the mischief he might cause. If my own knowledge of him was not enough to warn me, and it should have been, I had also received definite information on the subject from Bingley.

  I could easily comprehend now: I had been too ready to believe Bingley’s assertion that I had the good opinion of the two eldest Bennet sisters. I had no doubt Bingley himself believed it: Jane Bennet would pursue her enquiries in a delicate manner, giving no hint of disapprobation.

  I recalled Elizabeth’s more robust attempts to probe into the matter when we had been dancing together at Netherfield. I had been angry, but I could not accuse her of giving me no opportunity to enlighten her: she had sought the truth and received no answer.

  After this came our hasty departure from Netherfield. Until last night, I had given no thought to Elizabeth’s view of the matter, never even considered she might resent it. Clearly, she had perceived my design had been to detach Bingley from her sister: add this to her dislike of me and her belief in Wickham was assured. She might have suspected, even, that Wickham’s presence in Hertfordshire gave me yet another motive for leaving.

  My letter, endorsed by the assertions of Fitzwilliam, might overthrow her good opinion of Wickham: it could do little to improve her opinion of me. She would acquit me of cruelty towards him, she might regret having done me an injustice, but she would easily comprehend my own attitudes and behaviour had done much to encourage her misapprehensions.

  And there was another cause for disapprobation, one which more nearly concerned her, that of separating Bingley from her sister.

  ‘… the unjust and ungenerous part you acted there involving them both in misery of the acutest kind.’

  Had I really misled myself into inflicting pain on Jane Bennet? I did not know the lady well enough to judge. I could assert that in her appearance she showed no sign of special regard for Bingley, but I had given no thought to her character. Should her disposition lead her to conceal her feelings then I might indeed have fallen into grave error.

  Now, with hindsight, it took no stretch of imagination to comprehend Jane Bennet as a modest lady who would not wish to display her affection for a gentleman in the presence of inquisitive and impertinent neighbours.

  Elizabeth, most likely in her sister’s confidence, could hardly be mistaken in her belief of Jane’s affection. And I knew Bingley still cherished tender feelings for Jane. He did not speak of them: he did not need to. His silences, the hint of strain in his eyes, and the fact that no other lady had taken his fancy during the last four months was enough to convince me this attachment was of a more enduring kind than any I had previously witnessed in him.

  ‘Can you deny that you have done it?’

  I could not: I had separated them without feeling the least compunction. If I could plead ignorance of Jane Bennet’s true feelings, I could not deny awareness of Bingley’s attachment.

  I had separated them for reasons which seemed compelling, at the time. Now, in the light of my own pursuit of Elizabeth, my interference in Bingley’s affairs seemed absurdly presumptuous.

  Always an adept at finding excuses for myself, I found I was dismissing the affair between Bingley and Jane as uni
mportant, an affection that had been the growth of only a few weeks.

  I caught myself doing it, and stopped myself, appalled at my own hypocrisy. I had no right to judge the affair on those grounds for my own attachment to Elizabeth had grown just as quickly.

  I had given no thought to my friend when I had blundered into the parsonage, last night. Having determined that Bingley should forsake his Jane, I had then gone about the business of trying to secure her sister for myself. Even when Elizabeth confronted me with the realization, I had felt no remorse, not even embarrassment. All I had felt, at the time, was a certain impatience, as though their affections, their miseries, were nothing in comparison with my own.

  ‘… your selfish disdain for the feelings of others …’

  Her reproofs were beginning to strike home.

  ‘… your arrogance, your conceit …’

  Every review of my own past behaviour was becoming a source of vexation and regret. I recalled my petulant disdain when I refused to dance with her at the Meryton assembly and even I could not excuse myself for that. With a deepening sense of shame, I recalled my resolve to ignore her on that last day when she had been staying at Netherfield. Occupied with my own disapproval of her family, I was determined to crush any expectations I might have raised. Never once had I considered she might disapprove of me.

  I had ignored the mischief that was likely to occur wherever Wickham went, and I had compounded this folly by separating Bingley from her sister.

  If I was kind to myself, I would still have to say my manner of proposing to her was ill-judged: if I was honest, I could only regard it as the worst kind of insolence.

  For, I am ashamed to say, I had been far more eloquent on the subject of pride than I had of love, explaining how the consequence of my family would be wounded by connection with her own inferior relations and how my own better judgement was opposed to such an inclination, but such rational objections had been unable to overcome the strength of my attachment.

  Miss Bennet had disdained the strength of my attachment.

  ‘The feelings which, you tell me, have long prevented the acknowledgment of your regard, can have little difficulty in overcoming it, after this …’

  There was no consolation in reflecting that, had I been more circumspect in the way I had paid my addresses, I would not have been more fortunate.

  ‘… I had not known you a month before I felt you were the last man in the world whom I could ever be prevailed on to marry.’

  She had detested me right from the very beginning.

  ‘… the mode of your declaration … spared me the concern which I might have felt in refusing you, had you behaved in a more gentleman-like manner.’

  ‘… had you behaved in a more gentleman-like manner.’

  ‘… had you behaved …’

  Her words sounded repeatedly in my brain and I actually put my hands over my ears as though I could blot out the tormenting reproofs. But I could not. Neither could I deny their justice.

  It had been all my own doing: I would never see her again.

  I had lost her.

  I knew not how I was going to support myself.

  Ten

  TIME HAD PASSED and I had to pull myself together: I must return to Rosings and, much as I craved solitude, I knew I would have to endure the company of my relations throughout the evening.

  A freshening wind whipped some colour into my cheeks as I rode back at a steady canter and I presented myself at dinner with an appearance of normality. I toyed with my food and no one appeared to notice how little I ate.

  When the ladies withdrew, Fitzwilliam and I were left alone in the dining-room. He filled my glass and his own, and said, ‘Miss Bennet was out walking when I arrived at the parsonage, this morning. I waited over an hour, but she did not return. So I have been unable to fulfil your commission, sir. Do you wish me to make another attempt? I could go down to the parsonage again, this evening.’

  I stared at Fitzwilliam, my thoughts busy, calculating the length of time she had been out: over two hours! I could not believe my letter had held her attention all that time.

  ‘I am sorry, Fitzwilliam, what did you say?’

  ‘I see no reason to add my word to yours; Miss Bennet must know you would not make up a story about your own sister.’

  ‘Perhaps you are right.’

  ‘Of course I am. What is wrong with you, Darcy? You are not usually so dull-witted.’

  ‘I beg your pardon. I am rather tired this evening.’ I drank some wine and made an effort to rouse myself.

  ‘I think I may have done enough, at all events,’ he told me. ‘I spoke to Mrs Collins: such a sensible woman. One wonders how she can bear to be married to such a numbskull. Well, I told her I had heard Miss Bennet was acquainted with Wickham and suggested she should drop a word of warning in her friend’s ear because I knew of several occasions when his conduct had not been quite right. I did not go into particulars, but I daresay Miss Bennet will recognize greater import, should her friend pass the message on.’

  ‘Yes. Thank you, Fitzwilliam.’

  ‘We need have no fear of any partiality for him blinding her to the truth. Miss Lucas tells me Wickham has been courting an heiress since Christmas: and Mrs Collins says Elizabeth is quite untroubled by it. She is certain about that, and ladies have great penetration in these matters, you know.’

  I could not deny the lady had penetration in my own case, but I had doubts of her fully understanding her friend: she, who had married Mr Collins to preserve herself from want, would scarce comprehend the higher principles which governed Elizabeth.

  I only said, ‘So Wickham has another heiress in his sights, does he? Let us hope the lady has a diligent guardian.’

  When we joined the ladies in the drawing-room, my aunt perceived I was out of spirits, but immediately attributed that to the fact of our leaving tomorrow. ‘But really, there is no need for you to go. Why do you not delay your departure for another week? If you did that,’ she added, ‘you could take Miss Lucas and Miss Bennet as far as London in your own carriage, and spare them the obligation of travelling post.’

  I could think of nothing Miss Bennet would dislike more, but I only said, ‘I regret, madam, I must be in London tomorrow.’

  ‘Oh, well, if you must, you must. But I cannot bear the idea of two young ladies travelling post, by themselves! It is most improper.’

  ‘I expect Mrs Collins will send a servant with them.’

  My aunt said she would put it to Mrs Collins. ‘Or perhaps I might persuade the young ladies to stay another month, when I can take them into town in my own carriage. You would not object to their company, would you, Anne?’

  ‘I would not object, Mama, but I thought the ladies were to join Miss Bennet’s sister in town, next week.’

  My aunt immediately decided Miss Jane Bennet could stay in town another month, regardless of the wishes or convenience of the lady, or her relations. I swallowed and wished my aunt would stop talking about the Bennet sisters.

  It was the greatest relief, at last, to find myself in the solitude of my own bedchamber. With a mind so occupied, it had been difficult indeed to listen to my aunt’s conversation and I think I took care to answer her with civility only because Elizabeth’s reproofs were so fresh in my mind.

  ‘… had you behaved in a more gentleman-like manner.’

  How those words tortured me. Every review of my own past behaviour brought home their justice and my sense of shame was severe indeed.

  I had not expected to sleep at all: but I had not slept last night, either, and when a drowsiness began to overtake me, I gave in to it gratefully, thankful to be granted a few hours of oblivion before I had to face the world again.

  I slept as though I had been drugged.

  I awoke feeling sluggish and stupid. The business of dressing took twice as long as usual and my valet regarded me in some concern and asked if I were ill.

  I was ready at last, went downstairs to b
reakfast, ate a little, talked a little, eventually took leave of my relations and settled into my carriage with Fitzwilliam.

  By this time I had shaken off the sluggish aftermath of sleep, and now I knew I felt decidedly odd, but in a way that was not illness. It was neither pleasant nor unpleasant, and I could not quite understand it. I felt like a stranger to myself.

  Mr Collins was at the lodge gates, waiting to make a bow to us as we passed. I shook my head, thinking he was not such a bad fellow, for all his parading and absurdity. He was respectable, happy in his situation and as sincere as a man with his limitations could be. Next time we met, I resolved to be more patient with him.

  It was some time before it struck me as strange I should now feel so kindly towards Mr Collins, a man I had barely been able to tolerate only two days ago.

  ‘… your selfish disdain …’

  Elizabeth’s reproofs were having an effect.

  Elizabeth would be in town next weekend. I swallowed, wishing I could see her. She planned to spend a few days at her aunt’s home in Cheapside before returning to Hertfordshire with Jane.

  Jane Bennet was still in town! I started at the realization, knowing I must grasp the opportunity to make confession to Bingley, giving him time to see her before she left.

  Bingley would be angry, and rightly so, to learn of my interference in his affairs, but I could not hesitate. I had felt myself justified when I believed Jane Bennet indifferent: now that I had better information it would be wickedness indeed to conceal her presence in town.

  As soon as he knew, Bingley, I was persuaded, would visit Jane Bennet in Gracechurch Street. I felt he would have little difficulty in assuring her he had previously been ignorant of her visit to town and, once that was accomplished, matters would take their course.

  We arrived in London by one o’clock. After a cold luncheon, Fitzwilliam then transferred to his father’s carriage, which had been sent for him, for he was to travel on into Derbyshire. I returned, thankfully, to the solitude of my own house in Eaton Place.