Chapter Thirty-Three #2
You may recall how abruptly I quitted London. After an attack on my person by one whom Fiennes had wronged, I removed to Longbourn, where I have remained these four years. This, sir, is a faithful narrative of all my dealings with my husband.
You assume, Mr Darcy, that I do not entertain the attentions of another gentleman because I must have deeply loved my husband.
In truth, it is because I did not love him.
I was a prisoner in my own home. My every action was scrutinised, my faults carefully catalogued.
I was never permitted to forget my shortcomings.
He strove to fashion me into his ideal of perfection.
He praised humility as the highest female virtue and turned every sign of spirit into proof of wilfulness.
My individuality was smothered—he insisted I think as he thought, admire what he admired, and disdained every trace of independence as unseemly in a wife.
At only sixteen, what defence had I against a man who owned me and could do as he pleased, provided he did not take my life?
I learned to measure my words by the cast of his eye, to read his humour before I dared to speak.
He terrorised me at every turn, and when he was gone, I buried it all, determined to recall the past only when its remembrance might afford me pleasure—of which there was little, I assure you. But I can see now how mistaken I was.
And so, I come to the consequences of my choices.
Darcy, I love you. Never have I felt such affection for any man, for what I bore my husband was the complete opposite.
Yet, I cannot accept you—not now, not yet.
I am not whole, and I fear the harm that might ensue if I entered a life with you before I had found myself once more.
The years have passed, and I have drifted with them, content to let experience fester unexamined.
It was badly done, I now understand, and I must make my peace with it before I can look forward.
Forgive me, sir, for the pain this letter must bring.
I will not ask you to wait; that would be unjust, for I cannot say when—or whether—I shall be ready.
Suzanne’s happiness gives me hope, for she has found in Mr Blythe the perfect gentleman—her equal in every respect.
I can only hope I have not lost my own through my long silence.
I shall attempt to place this letter in your hands before the day ends. Dawn approaches, and I am too restless to sleep.
Yours forever,
Elizabeth
When he finished, he read it again. His hands tightened on the pages.
Never had he so despised a man he had merely met once.
That Fiennes should treat anyone, but especially Elizabeth, in such a manner was abhorrent.
The fiend had clawed his way from obscurity only to use his cunning for cruelty.
It sickened him. To twist intelligence into instruments of torment—to prey upon a young girl’s innocence and a father’s trust—such depravity defied comprehension.
Rage threatened to rise, yet he forced it down; the man was beyond all punishment now, and anger could not mend what she had endured.
In Fiennes he beheld the corruption of everything honour was meant to protect, and it strengthened his resolve that Elizabeth should never again be subject to any man’s pride—even his own.
Understanding dawned, and many small observations from the past weeks fell into place.
“Suzanne,” he murmured. “Lady Westland’s first husband.
” Everything was suddenly clear—Elizabeth’s fear, her reticence, her mistrust. She had not loved Fiennes but loathed him.
He had, as the letter said, terrorised her.
That she had escaped so soon was a miracle; yet the scars remained, and now, in her own trembling words, he saw why she had recoiled from him at every unwitting offence.
Shame touched him as he recalled his own missteps, his proud impatience, the moments when he might have frightened where he meant only to admire.
Yet one passage shone like a beacon amidst her pain. I love you. The simple words steadied him. “I love you, too, Elizabeth,” he whispered, tracing the line with his thumb, as though by touching it he might somehow ease her sorrow.
He had thought himself a man of understanding, yet her words had revealed how little he had truly comprehended of a woman’s endurance.
That she could emerge from such suffering with gentleness still intact humbled him.
It was not pity he felt, but reverence, and a fierce determination to prove himself worthy of the love she had so tentatively offered.
What would she do now? She had written of facing her demons. Would she permit him to stand beside her, or would his presence hinder her recovery? Slowly, he read the letter a third time. She had absolved him of all obligation—of duty, of honour—and told him she understood if he could not wait.
Patience had never been his virtue; his nature was one of action, decision, command. But for her, he would learn restraint. If waiting was the only service he might render, he would wait as steadfastly as any soldier at his post.
But there could be no question of leaving her. For years he had sought a woman of her worth, only to be blessed at last with the chance to win her heart. I will not throw away what Providence has granted, he vowed. She is worth waiting for.
Had he not done so already?
Still lost in thought, Darcy folded the letter and placed it carefully in his breast pocket.
Mounting with the aid of a nearby stump, he turned Thor back towards Netherfield.
The sun stood high now; the morning frost had melted to dew, beading on the grass and leaving the air cool and fresh.
His boots were damp and his legs were cold, though he hardly noticed, so intent was he focused on his thoughts.
On reaching Netherfield, he gave the reins to the waiting groom with orders for Thor’s care, then went into the house to his chambers.
He had always believed love a quiet, rational affection, governed by honour and choice. Now he knew it to be something nobler and far more perilous—a force that demanded surrender as much as strength.
A sense of calm resolve settled upon him, and once his valet had withdrawn, Darcy crossed to his writing desk, drew forth a sheet of paper, and began to compose his reply.
Netherfield Park, Hertfordshire
27 November 1811
Dearest Elizabeth,
I will wait for you, my love, for as long as it takes.
Though it pains me to do so, I sense that your progress would be swifter were I not present to cloud your thoughts.
When my obligations to Bingley are fulfilled, I shall return to my home and await your word.
Our love is worth waiting for—dearest, loveliest Elizabeth.
Yours, with sincere affection,
Fitzwilliam Darcy
He sanded and sealed the missive before summoning his man.
“See that this is delivered to Mrs Fiennes—and to no other,” he said firmly.
How he longed to place the note in her hands himself.
Yet love compelled him to act in her best interest, and he feared he might not withstand the temptation to fall at her feet were he to deliver it in person.
And so, as the servant departed, he crossed to the window.
She had taught him, without intending it, the rarest of lessons—that true devotion seeks not possession but peace for the one beloved.
Though he could not see it, he knew Longbourn lay hidden amongst the distant trees.
His heart would remain there with her until she either returned it or accepted it fully.