The Confession of Fitzwilliam Darcy

by Mary Street

  He laughed. ‘I would have forced myself to eat, all the same.’

  ‘And let Miss Bennet think you a glutton?’

  He caught his breath and was silent. In between his attentions to Jane Bennet throughout the evening, I had seen him direct one or two wary glances at me. He was hoping I had not noticed.

  I am a much bigger man than Bingley: taller and broader. Whenever he referred to our comparative size, Bingley always laughingly declared he was afraid of me. Never before had I taken this seriously: now I perceived, however humorously spoken, there was some truth in it. I came late to the understanding that I had, in some measure, actually intimidated him into renouncing his love.

  Neither of us spoke again until we arrived at Netherfield. Then, as we removed our coats, I said, ‘Bingley, I must speak with you.’

  ‘Am I stopping you?’ When I did not answer he added, ‘Very well. You mean business, I see. Though why on earth you had to – oh well, never mind.’

  He led the way into the library, clearly agitated, wholly misunderstanding my purpose. I followed, knowing he would understand soon enough, knowing the next hour was going to be very painful indeed.

  Sixteen

  BINGLEY BEGAN TO talk the moment I had closed the door. Although he knew Jane Bennet was at present indifferent to him, he meant to do everything in his power to woo her and hope to win her at last.

  ‘Er … Bingley—’

  ‘I know what you are going to say, Darcy, I know you disapprove of her relations. I have tried to forget her but it is no use, I cannot. I am now determined. I should not have let you persuade me against her. I know you think I have been in love before, but I have not! Not like this, never like this! Oh, will you ever understand? You do not know what it is to be in love!’

  He went on in this vein for some time. When at last I was able to speak, I said simply, ‘You are wholly mistaken.’

  He stared at me. ‘How so?’

  ‘I am not going to try to persuade you against Jane Bennet. I do understand, and I do know what it is to be in love.’ And whilst he was struggling to comprehend, I added, ‘There are certain circumstances in my own life, Bingley, which have made my interference in your affairs seem somewhat absurd.’

  He shook his head. ‘Now, I am all bewilderment,’ he complained.

  I went to stare through the window, looking out over the moonlit gardens. ‘Can you guess what I did?’ I demanded. ‘Having decided last year that you should forsake Miss Bennet, having most emphatically represented to you all the evils of such a choice, can you guess what I then did?’

  ‘Darcy, what are you talking about?’

  ‘I proposed to Elizabeth,’ I said.

  An incredulous silence was broken at last by an incredulous laugh. ‘Darcy—’

  ‘Once you said should I ever fall in love, I would make myself ridiculous,’ I reminded him. ‘You were right. I have. Believe me, I have.’ Having kept the whole of it to myself for so long, I found that once I had begun to speak of it I could not stop. I told him all that had happened.

  Bingley was very surprised and very concerned. ‘Never had I the smallest suspicion,’ he confessed. ‘Oh, Darcy, what can I say?’

  ‘Nothing to any purpose,’ I admitted. ‘I am not the first man to suffer such a disappointment, and I doubt I will be the last. Forgive me, I had not meant to burden you with this. My intention was merely to inform you of the circumstance which has proved my interference in your affairs to be utterly preposterous.’

  He nodded, half amused, half attentive. I went on, ‘I have never wished to do evil, Bingley, but I have come to realize that separating you from Miss Bennet was truly a wicked thing to do. For what it is worth, I am sorry now that I did.’

  ‘You meant well, I know,’ he said. ‘It is not wholly your fault, for I have been thinking I myself should have been more resolute.’ He smiled at me and when he saw there was no lightening of my expression, he raised his voice to a bantering tone. ‘I think perhaps I may pardon you.’

  ‘Perhaps you may not,’ I said unhappily, ‘for you do not yet know the worst of it. I have, in fact, been guilty of some duplicity. I will deceive you no longer: Miss Bennet was in town for several months last winter, from January through to April, in fact. She was staying with the Gardiners. I knew it and I concealed it from you. And I know, I knew then, I should not have done so.’

  As Bingley took in this information his expression changed: his face became like a mask. At first he stood absolutely still, then he began to walk: he walked up and down the room, clenching and unclenching his fists and would not speak until he was certain master of himself. I waited in unhappy silence.

  At last he said, ‘And what excuse, what reason, do you have to give for this concealment?’

  ‘My reasons, for what they are worth, were the same ones I gave for separating you in November. At that time, I still believed Miss Bennet indifferent to you.’

  ‘At that time—’ Bingley became very still. I could perceive the implications were understood, but his countenance was still angry. ‘Am I to infer from this,’ he said coldly, ‘that you have undergone a change of opinion on that subject?’

  ‘I have, yes.’

  He flung himself down in a chair. ‘I find it astonishing,’ he said, ‘that having met with her only twice, as I have, since that time, your opinion can now be so altered. How do you account for it?’

  I watched him carefully. Never before had I seen such a mood in him and I could do no more than give him my explanations. I told him I had learnt something of Miss Bennet from both Elizabeth and the Gardiners and had come to realize my previous judgement had been too hasty, based as it was on observation of her appearance alone, with no real knowledge of her character.

  ‘I began to comprehend she was a modest lady, who would guard her behaviour and expression, particularly whilst in company of her neighbours. The Lucases mean well, but they are especially inquisitive, are they not?’

  ‘Jane would not like to be the subject of gossip,’ he admitted. ‘Though I find this a very insufficient explanation for your reversal of opinion.’

  ‘There are those who know her better than I. There have been hints that she was not as indifferent as I had supposed.’

  ‘Indeed? From whom?’

  ‘From Elizabeth, if you must know. And the Gardiners. I have been uneasy about my own actions for some time. I have said nothing until now, for I wanted to observe her for myself, to detect, if I could, some evidence of her true feelings. Tonight I did. Even the Jane Bennets of this world give themselves away, occasionally.’

  ‘You cannot believe she cares for me now? Not after all this time, after deserting her, after all my neglect?’

  ‘I am quite certain she does.’

  ‘I wish I could believe it.’

  It took many assurances on my part before he would believe it, but he was, fortunately, still in the habit of relying on my opinion. After a while he began to look happier.

  At last I said, ‘I shall take myself off to London tomorrow, out of your way. You will get on much better without me.’ I swallowed, adding painfully, ‘Bingley, I do not expect you to pardon my interference, after all the unhappiness I have caused. But I want you to know that I am truly sorry.’

  I know not how Bingley could bring himself to forgive me: certainly I could not have pardoned such interference as easily as he did. He was reconciled by his own observation that I had acted out of concern for his welfare and, upon discovering myself mistaken, I had taken pains to put matters right.

  ‘Unlike some,’ he added, ‘who are no doubt still preening themselves over their part in the enterprise.’ He gave a grim smile. ‘Do not look at me like that, Darcy. I know others have been involved in this.’

  ‘At my persuasion.’

  ‘How much persuasion?’ When I did not reply, he said, ‘No matter. They shall answer for themselves.’

  ‘Bingley,’ I said in alarm, ‘I beg you will not quarrel with your s
isters. I am sure they thought, as I did, that it was for the best.’

  ‘Best for whom?’ He shook his head. ‘I know my sisters, Darcy. They knew more of Jane than you did. If she cared for me last year, they knew it, whatever they professed to believe. They deceived me and they encouraged you to deceive yourself.’

  ‘For what purpose?’

  ‘I leave it to you to determine,’ said Bingley.

  Since I had already determined at least some part of their design, I felt it best, after exonerating Mr Hurst, to say no more.

  I left Netherfield for London on the following day, but not before Bingley had extracted a promise of my return. He said he would write to me as soon as he had news to impart and grinned when I begged him to make his letter at least halfway readable.

  I settled back into my carriage and began to take stock of my situation. I had fully expected Bingley to end our friendship as soon as he realized it had cost him almost a full year of happiness. Never had I been so grateful or so moved as when he held out his hand to me and said we need not mention the subject again.

  In such a friendship I was truly blessed, I thought. It behoved me now to be certain that never would he have cause to regret his generosity. He would receive such assistance as was in my power and I knew some assistance, at least, was in my power: his brother in law, Wickham, might impose upon him for money, but I would make certain that gentleman did not become too ambitious.

  I had not now the smallest hope of winning Elizabeth: after two meetings of such determined avoidance, I could no longer blind myself to the truth: she wanted none of me. I had to accept it, and rally my spirits as best I could.

  During those first few days in town, I found my own company, which had in these last few months been so necessary, was now irksome to me. Such business as I had was quickly despatched. Few of my acquaintance were in town, but I visited those who were.

  I attended the fencing school, went to the theatre, rode out in the park and wondered if the rest of my life was going to be spent in such aimless pursuits. I could not pass a shop window without seeing something I would like to purchase for Elizabeth.

  On Monday, I received the expected letter from Bingley. He told me he was the happiest man in the world, and I believed him.

  He had taken to heart my plea for a letter which I could read, and there was a postscript with which he had taken special care, telling me to make of it what I could. Jane, he told me, had been surprised when he mentioned our meeting with Elizabeth in Derbyshire, for Elizabeth had told her nothing. Believing herself in her sister’s confidence, Jane did not know how to account for this.

  I could account for it myself, though not in any way that brought me joy. There had been trouble in the Bennet household when Elizabeth returned: all other considerations would have been set aside. Later silence on the subject would be to avoid causing pain to her sister by mention of Bingley.

  Elizabeth, I knew, would be delighted by her sister’s engagement. Perhaps she would deduce I had played my part in reuniting the couple: I thought she would be pleased with me for that, at least.

  In the days that followed, I visited my tailor, went to the races, watched a prize-fight, attended concerts: anything to keep myself occupied.

  On Wednesday, I had just returned to my own house to change before dining with some friends, when I heard a commotion downstairs in the hall and a voice insistently demanding, ‘Where is my nephew? Where is he? I will speak with him.’

  There was no mistaking that voice and there was no mistaking the tone. My aunt, Lady Catherine de Bourgh, was most seriously displeased.

  Although I could not imagine what quarrel my aunt had with me, I felt, for an instant, all the trepidation of a guilty schoolboy. A moment later I was angry: angry because I had felt that way, angry that she was hectoring my servants, angry at this most acrimonious intrusion into my house.

  Summoning to my assistance all that was left of my arrogance and disdain, I sauntered down the stairs, regarding the scene before my eyes with some disapprobation.

  My aunt and my butler, being engaged in a battle of their own, were neither of them as yet aware of my presence. Monkton was politely insistent he had no idea whether or not his master was at home, but if her ladyship would be so obliging as to step into the blue saloon he would endeavour to discover if I could be seen.

  My aunt, incensed by what she correctly understood as my butler’s intention to give me the opportunity of escape, was threatening him with all the dire consequences of displeasing a lady of her rank and importance.

  ‘Do you know who I am?’ she was demanding. ‘Do you dare to trifle with me? I will not be thwarted. I will speak with him. Now where is he?’

  ‘He is here, madam,’ I said. When she turned to look at me I favoured her with my most insolent bow and went on, ‘To what do I owe the honour of this visit?’

  ‘Does not your own conscience, sir, tell you why I come?’ she said, to the interest of at least two of my servants.

  ‘I am not aware you have any claims on my conscience at this present,’ I replied coldly. ‘And I might wish to know why you choose to impose such a claim upon me, here, in my own house and in presence of my servants? I do not care for such treatment, madam, and so I take leave to tell you.’

  Such reproofs would not deflect my aunt from her purpose. She followed me into the blue saloon and there began again. ‘Do not imagine, sir, that I am in ignorance concerning the upstart pretensions of Miss Elizabeth Bennet. She may have drawn you in by her allurements, but if you are sensible of your own good you will not forget what you owe to yourself and your family. I will remind you, sir, that you are engaged to my daughter.’

  I know not whether I was the more astonished or embarrassed by the nature of my aunt’s application. I could, however, easily comprehend how she had come by whatever information she had. I said grimly, ‘I am, I take it, indebted to Mr Collins and his gossiping in-laws, the Lucases, for the pleasure of this visit. I am obliged to them!’

  I had been leaning with my arm along the mantelpiece. Now, I drew myself up to my full height and turned to face my aunt. ‘You choose to remind me, madam, of an engagement which you have proposed and which I have never acknowledged. Neither do I acknowledge it now. I do not consider myself bound to marry Anne.’

  ‘You have known from your infancy that you were destined for your cousin! It was my favourite wish and that of your mother: we planned the union whilst you were in your cradles.’

  ‘It is not my favourite wish, and you—’

  ‘Silence! I will not be interrupted. You are formed for each other, you are destined for each other by every member of your respective houses. Are you to be divided now by the impertinent pretensions of a young woman of inferior birth, one without fortune or connection? This is not to be endured. I will not endure it. I have told Miss Bennet I shall carry my point, and I shall not be dissuaded from it. I shall not go away, sir, until you give me the assurance she refuses to give. I demand your promise that you will never enter into an engagement with Miss Bennet.’

  ‘Madam—’ I stopped as all the astonishing implications struck me at once. ‘Am I to infer from this,’ I spoke slowly and coldly, ‘that with no better information than the idle gossip of the Lucases, you have been to Hertfordshire, to Longbourn, to importune Miss Bennet on the subject? You take too much upon yourself, madam. Indeed you do.’

  ‘Am I not one of the nearest relations you have in the world?’ she demanded. ‘Am I not entitled to know all your concerns? She denies all knowledge of it, but mark my words, sir, I have no doubt the report of your attachment to Miss Bennet has been circulated by the lady herself.’

  ‘I am sure it has not,’ I said. Elizabeth, who had not even told her sister of our meeting in Derbyshire, could not be responsible for this. It was more likely some look or expression of mine had betrayed my sentiments to the Lucases when we all dined at Longbourn. ‘And what did you propose, madam, what did you expect to achieve, by
this excursion?’

  ‘I hoped to find Miss Bennet reasonable as soon as I made my sentiments known to her. But I did not. She is obstinate and headstrong. She refuses to acknowledge the claims of your cousin; she refuses to have any regard for the wishes of your family and friends; she refuses to oblige me!’

  ‘Indeed?’ I could easily comprehend Elizabeth, offended by my aunt’s manner and importunings, refusing to oblige her. I did not dare raise my hopes on this intelligence alone. ‘And in what manner did you expect to find her so desirous of obliging you? Did you – forgive me, I wish to be quite clear on this point – what particular assurances did you demand from Miss Bennet?’

  ‘She is not, at present, engaged to you. That much she has admitted. But she has no regard for honour, or duty, or gratitude. She would not promise never to enter into such an engagement. She is determined to have you!’

  Whilst I was wondering how far I could trust this opinion, my aunt began insisting I should make the promise which Elizabeth would not make. Upon discovering I would not give a satisfactory answer, she was obliging enough to inform me of some things Elizabeth had said, believing, I suppose, that my indignation would be aroused against what she called Elizabeth’s insolence.

  ‘How far your nephew might approve of your interference in his affairs, I cannot tell; but you have certainly no right to concern yourself in mine.’

  I could imagine Elizabeth speaking so, but there was little enough in that speech to tell me what I wanted to know. Wishing to hear more, I determined to annoy my aunt: I told her it was the answer she deserved.

  I heard more:

  ‘I am not to be intimidated by anything so wholly unreasonable … would my refusing to accept his hand, make him wish to bestow it on his cousin? … You have widely mistaken my character, if you think I can be worked on by persuasions such as these.’

  In her indignation, my aunt continued to spill out other things Elizabeth had said. I listened very carefully indeed and it struck me there was ambiguity in every speech. Elizabeth was refusing to oblige my aunt, but her own wishes were well concealed.