by Nancy Kelley
Apparently, she had expected an answer to her question, for after a moment's pause, she said, "Can you deny that you have done it?"
Her claims regarding Bingley and her sister restored Darcy to some of his equanimity. He rested one shoulder against the mantle and shrugged. "I have no wish of denying that I did everything in my power to separate my friend from your sister, or that I rejoice in my success. Towards him I have been kinder than towards myself." He could not withhold his bitterness. Would that I had taken my own advice.
Elizabeth took a deep breath, and Darcy braced himself for whatever might come next. "But it is not merely this affair on which my dislike is founded. Long before it had taken place, my opinion of you was decided. Your character was unfolded in the recital which I received many months ago from Mr. Wickham." Darcy dropped his hat in shock, and she looked at him with all the triumph of a vengeful Boadicea. "On this subject, what can you have to say? In what imaginary act of friendship can you here defend yourself? Or under what misrepresentation can you here impose upon others?"
Wickham! Darcy bent to pick up his hat and took the second to rein in his growing temper. "You take an eager interest in that gentleman's concerns," he bit out when he had straightened up.
Elizabeth, so bold, did not shy away from his anger. "Who that knows what his misfortunes have been can help feeling an interest in him?"
This was more than Darcy could bear. "His misfortunes!" he repeated sarcastically, wondering what story exactly Wickham had spun to Elizabeth. "Yes, his misfortunes have been great indeed."
"And of your infliction!" she cried out, and he finally saw in her expression the full weight of censure he had somehow missed before. "You have reduced him to poverty, comparative poverty. You have withheld the advantages which you must know to have been designed for him. You have deprived the best years of his life of that independence which was no less his due than his dessert. You have done all this! And yet you can treat the mention of his misfortunes with contempt and ridicule."
With his emotional lassitude broken, her words brought a wave of indignation and hurt; indignation that she could believe such things about him, and hurt that she did not first allow him to explain what had happened before accusing him. "And this is your opinion of me! This is the estimation in which you hold me! I thank you for explaining it so fully. My faults, according to this calculation, are heavy indeed!"
His temper carried him forward. "But perhaps these offenses might have been overlooked had not your pride been hurt by my honest confession of the scruples which had long prevented my forming any serious design. These bitter accusations might have been suppressed, had I with greater policy concealed my struggles and flattered you into the belief of my being impelled by unqualified, unalloyed inclination--by reason, by reflection, by everything."
He leveled a glare at her. "But disguise of every sort is my abhorrence. Nor am I ashamed of the feelings I related. They were natural and just. Could you expect me to rejoice in the inferiority of your connections? To congratulate myself on the hope of relations whose condition in life is so decidedly below my own?"
All traces of emotion vanished from her face. "You are mistaken, Mr. Darcy," she said in a voice so calm that Darcy felt a tremor of dread, "if you suppose that the mode of your declaration affected me in any other way, than as it spared me the concern which I might have felt in refusing you, had you behaved in a more gentlemanlike manner." Those words shocked him out of his anger, but she did not stop there. "You could not have made me the offer of your hand in any possible way that would have tempted me to accept it."
For an instant, Darcy feared his heart had stopped. He grabbed the mantle again to keep from falling, and listened with a dull pain in his chest as she continued to enumerate his flaws. "From the very beginning, from the first moment I may almost say, of my acquaintance with you, your manners impressing me with the fullest belief of your arrogance, your conceit, and your selfish disdain of the feelings of others, were such as to form the ground-work of disapprobation, on which succeeding events have built so immoveable a dislike; and I had not known you a month before I felt that you were the last man in the world whom I could ever be prevailed on to marry."
Mortification mingled with the sharp pain of rejection. "You have said quite enough, madam. I perfectly comprehend your feelings, and have now only to be ashamed of what my own have been. Forgive me for having taken up so much of your time, and accept my best wishes for your health and happiness."
Chapter Twenty-two
Once Darcy was free of Hunsford Parsonage, his mortification, felt so keenly only moments earlier, simmered into resentment. "I had not known you a month..."
"And she criticized me for forming my opinions too early!" The anger welled up, red-hot, and he stopped on the road until it had passed. He kicked the grass when he started walking again, and a startled grouse flew from a bush nearby.
When Darcy reached the gate to Rosings Park and saw the windows ablaze with light, he realized how unequal he was to be in company. Lady Catherine would inquire impertinently about his absence, and he could not bear to face Richard's knowing smile.
Without missing a step, he turned toward the side of the house. Here, hidden behind the trailing ivy, was a door only a few knew about. From the entrance by the garden, it led to a staircase which opened out on the second floor in a linen closet. He and Richard had discovered it as boys and had delighted in the freedom it gave them from their aunt's strident voice and constant criticism.
Darcy had not used the secret entrance in many years, and it took him a few moments to find the exact location. Eventually he was successful, and he slipped into the house and up the rickety staircase. Now safe from detection, he closed the door and crept down the hall to his own room.
When the door shut behind him, he suddenly found himself at a loss. What am I to do now? The night was young--he doubted dinner was even over.
Slowly, almost mechanically, Darcy removed his jacket and cravat, but he still felt constricted. He slipped his fingers through the buttons of his waistcoat and allowed the garment to slide down his arms till he could catch it and place it over a chair. His fine linen shirt choked him, and he undid the tie at his throat. Finally comfortable, he crossed the room to the window.
His room overlooked the lane, and in the gathering twilight he could just make out the carriage leaving the estate, presumably returning the Collinses to their home. What will Elizabeth tell her friend regarding tonight? he wondered. He cringed at the thought of being an object of gossip, or worse, pity, at the Parsonage, and firmly resolved to leave on Saturday as planned, in order to avoid meeting any of them again.
The admission of one thought of Elizabeth triggered a flood, and soon the memory of her every word overwhelmed him. He had been so sure of her acceptance. Her entire demeanor over the last two weeks seemed to welcome him. Now aware of her true feelings toward him, however, he saw her actions toward him in a very different light.
Darcy groaned and poured a brandy, which he drank quickly. He poured a second and set the glass down on the small table by the window before he sank into the chair beside it.
"I have every reason in the world to think ill of you..."
Where did I go wrong? Darcy shoved his hands through his hair and pulled, as if the pain would ease the ache in his heart.
How long Darcy sat like that, he did not know. It was full dark when he finally looked up, and he realized he had not lit a candle when he entered the room. He felt over to the bureau and found a candle and matches by the silvery light of the moon. He struck the match and watched, mesmerized, as the flames burned through the wood toward his fingers. He blew it out just in time and struck another. This time he remembered his purpose, and a moment later, he carried the candle back to his seat.
Despite his best intentions, his mind continually strayed to Elizabeth's words and manner when she refused his suit. "Had you behaved in a more gentlemanlike manner..."
With a
sudden shock, Darcy realized she had compared him unfavorably to George Wickham. Wickham, a gentleman? He snorted. That, above all things, is ridiculous. When I think of what he would have done to Georgiana if I had not arrived in time...
The possible implication of Elizabeth's approbation of Wickham struck Darcy, and he nearly dropped the candle. "Is that knave to insinuate himself with all the women I love?" The word hung in the air for a moment, paining him further, but he pushed the emotion aside.
"At least I can warn Elizabeth of his true nature," he finally decided. Darcy sat down at his desk and took out a piece of paper and his pen and ink. He considered for a moment, with the tip poised above the blank white paper, that she might wonder at first if he sought a different answer to his earlier question, and thus he began:
Be not alarmed, Madam, on receiving this letter, by the apprehension of its containing any repetition of those sentiments, or renewal of those offers, which were last night so disgusting to you. I write without any intention of paining you, or humbling myself, by dwelling on wishes, which for the happiness of both, cannot be too soon forgotten; and the effort which the formation and the perusal of this letter must occasion should have been spared, had not my character required it to be written and read. You must, therefore, pardon the freedom with which I demand your attention; your feelings, I know will bestow it unwillingly, but I demand it of your justice.
Two offences of a very different nature...
His rebuttal of her accusations regarding her sister and Bingley came easily. On one point only did Darcy stop to consider: he had thought that Miss Bennet felt only a passing interest for his friend; clearly, from what her sister had said this evening, that was not true. It was possible that he could be right and her sister wrong, but that seemed unlikely. If he had been wrong on this count, he would apologize, but he had seen no evidence to the contrary, and even Bingley had been convinced when Darcy had expressed his doubts to him; thus, he felt justified in what his beliefs had been, despite the fact that they were now proven inaccurate.
Darcy did not scruple to conceal his true objections to the marriage. He had seen Elizabeth's mortification in the face of her family's improprieties often enough that he trusted her understanding. In his mind's eye he saw her humiliation in reading these words, and affection for her crept back into his breast for the first time since her refusal.
Pardon me. - It pains me to offend you. But amidst your concern for the defects of your nearest relations, and your displeasure at this representation of them, let it give you consolation to consider that to have conducted yourselves so as to avoid any share of the like censure is praise no less generally bestowed on you and your eldest sister, than it is honorable to the sense and disposition of both...
With a few quick strokes of the pen, Darcy laid out the whole of his part in the affair, much of which he surmised from her words she had already ascertained. That he had separated them he acknowledged with no more sense of shame than he had borne this evening when she had questioned him in the matter. That he had contrived to keep her sister's presence in town a secret from Bingley he now admitted, with the confession that this perhaps was beneath him.
Darcy stopped here to blot the ink from his pen. "Perhaps?" he muttered. "That is the worst kind of hypocrisy--to claim in one moment that I abhor disguise of any kind, and then to claim in the next that falsehood has a place, if it is done with kind intentions."
It was the first time in many years Darcy had seen his own actions in this light. Though still unashamed of his actions, this inkling of humility softened his words as he turned his attentions to the matter of George Wickham.
Darcy set his pen down and pinched the bridge of his nose. A dull ache grew behind his eyes, and he wished for nothing more than to lie down on his bed and sleep away the twenty-four hours or more until they were to leave Rosings, but he could not. He must explain the truth of Wickham's nature to Elizabeth.
"But what can I say here that she will believe?" Darcy sipped his brandy. "Wickham is above all things a masterful storyteller; how many times did he escape punishment when we were boys?" Clearly Elizabeth had been drawn in by his tales and would scorn any attempt on Darcy's part to cast aspersions on his character.
Though every inch of family duty within him protested, Darcy knew the only way she might believe him was if he explained the depths of Wickham's depravity. He had heard a hint of partiality in her voice when she spoke of Wickham; indeed, he had called her on it and she had not denied it. If, by telling her of Wickham's dealings with Georgiana, he could prevent something similar from happening to her, he knew his sister would forgive him for breaking her confidence.
With respect to that other, more weighty accusation, of having injured Mr. Wickham, I can only refute it by laying before you the whole of his connection with my family.
Darcy took great care not to hide any of the details from her, knowing that if he seemed to prevaricate, it would only lend truth to Wickham's lies. He did not even conceal his own father's preference for his godson, though that pained him. It was a truth Wickham loved to brag on; he was sure Elizabeth had heard of it. He allowed the full truth of his father's care, up to and including the desire that a living should be provided for Wickham, should he indicate a wish to take orders.
Though he could not be sure, he suspected this was the first place where his rendering of the events differed from his rival's. From Elizabeth's words, he gathered that he had been accused of withholding that living from him, in fact of going against his own father's will for no reason beyond petty jealousy. He now explained the truth to her--a truth for which he had no one to corroborate, but which he could easily prove with access to his own bankbook from which the draft had been written.
When he reached the deepest point of Wickham's perfidy, the words came more slowly. Telling the story brought back all the emotions he had felt at the time, from anger and fear to guilt that he was unable to protect his sister against profligates such as Wickham. It was his responsibility as her elder brother to keep her safe, and he had failed--or near enough that he considered it a failure.
But last summer he was again most painfully obtruded on my notice. I must now mention a circumstance which I would wish to forget myself, and which no obligation less than the present should induce me to unfold to any human being. Having said thus much, I feel no doubt of your secrecy.
Darcy stared at the words and dipped his pen back in the ink to continue on. When he would have shied away from painful details, the thought of Wickham worming his way into Elizabeth's affections forced him to dig deeper, to reveal truths he had not considered himself.
He did owe the truth of the affair to Georgiana. She had shown more wisdom than he gave her credit for. And if her affectionate heart had led her to trust a man not worthy of her notice, was that not preferable to Miss Bingley's slyness? The pen drew the bitterness from his heart, and when he reached the end of the letter, he could even feel charity toward Elizabeth.
He closed by suggesting she verify the letter's contents with Richard, much as he deplored the thought that his words might not be believed.
...And that there may be some possibility of consulting him, I shall endeavor to find some opportunity of putting this letter in your hands in the course of the morning. I will only add, God bless you.
Fitzwilliam Darcy
Chapter Twenty-three
Darcy set the pen down on the table and examined the letter. He had kept his handwriting small, but still it took two sheets of paper. Perhaps I should read over it to make sure of my phrasing. He shook his head and folded the two sheets together and placed it inside an envelope. He probably should, but he would not. The sooner this letter was in Elizabeth's hand, the better.
A knock at his door startled him and he nearly fell over in his chair. "Who is it?"
The door opened to admit Richard. "I came to see how you fared..." His jaw dropped when he took in Darcy's ragged appearance. "Good Lord, William, what happened
? When you did not come down for tea, I assumed you had gone to propose... and when you did not return for dinner, I believed you had found a more pleasant way to occupy your time."
Darcy flinched. "Your first assumption was correct."
Richard frowned. "You do not mean to say she refused you?"
Darcy glanced down at the envelope in his hand. "As it happens, Richard, not only did she refuse me, she did so in terms so strong that I felt I must be allowed to answer for myself."
Richard crossed his arms and leaned against the doorframe. "Should you not do the lady the honor of accepting her answer, however distasteful it is to you?"
"Not when that answer contains a defense of George Wickham."
Richard drew himself up, an immediate scowl on his face and a curse on his tongue. "What can she know of that blackguard?"
"A great deal, in fact. I did not tell you that he was a member of the local militia when we were lately in Hertfordshire." Darcy shrugged. "I must own that his presence in the country certainly contributed much to my own desire to quit it."