Chapter 8 #3
Work had always been his escape. He’d been through it before.
Years earlier, Darcy had buried himself in his studies when he’d lost his family—first his sister and his mother and then his father as his paternal attentions waned and his health failed.
Once his father was gone and he’d learned fully and painfully how far apart his parents had drifted, Darcy had lost himself in casual affairs, heavy drinking, and careless attention to his name and legacy.
It was a brief misstep, but it was a time he couldn’t look back on without shame and regret.
He’d pulled himself back up by throwing himself into work.
Now, after all these years, work was all he had.
But it wasn’t enough, not now when he’d finally realized not only what his life was missing but that it—she—would remain forever elusive.
On Sunday, exhausted from his all-night musings and little fortified by the small snatches of restless sleep he’d managed, Darcy paced.
Coco, sprawled on the couch, watched him silently.
When he sat down, she nuzzled into his hand.
It was unbearably sweet—and unbearably painful—consolation.
He ran miles on the treadmill, hoping it would exhaust him and clear his mind.
He managed to fall asleep that night, knowing on Monday he had to face reality and prepare for an upcoming board meeting.
Instead, he woke up bleary-eyed and fighting a headache after a fitful night filled with dreams of angry green eyes and soft caressing hands.
How much worse could it get? Even his dreams were confusing and painful.
Darcy had no choice but to work, but feeling too emotionally drained to face the office, he stayed home to do it.
He found himself focusing less on e-mails and paperwork and more on channeling this new sense of desolation and loss.
Again, he mulled over everything he’d done wrong.
After spending years directing his attentions and talents on business deals and on his family’s properties and legacies, he’d met Elizabeth Bennet.
This sprite of a girl had laughed at him, teased him, listened to him…
and he’d fallen in love with her. And for her, it had been a lark, a joke.
He’d been a fool. She thought him stupid and arrogant.
She was wrong about some things, but she was right about his emotional intelligence.
He didn’t have a clue how to read her or understand her or make her want to understand him.
He was mortified that, while he’d operated under the illusion that she knew him, knew about him, and that a tentative bond had been forged between them, the truth was far harsher: she didn’t know him at all, and he hadn’t made the effort to see that or truly get to know her.
He wanted to be angry. Anger was easy. But as much as her words had hurt him, he’d lashed back cruelly.
“I don’t know why I ever thought we made sense.
” He was an ass. The things she believed of him were awful.
Her mistaken assumptions about him and his character hurt.
A lot. He’d wanted to correct those, but in his shock and mortification, he’d simply hit back. He’d hurt her too.
Tamping down his bruised feelings and the last vestiges of anger, Darcy put pen to paper. He had to deal with this now. He wouldn’t sink as low as he had in the past; Elizabeth deserved better. He would be a better man, even if she only saw it in his written words.
Dear Elizabeth,
I will endeavor to keep this letter brief, as brief as I now understand you wish our acquaintance to be.
You were angry and accused me of a number of things, and I need to explain myself and my actions.
I admit I am guilty of jumping to conclusions and thinking with my heart rather than my head.
As my feelings for you deepened, I allowed jealousy, confusion, and misguided reactions to cloud my judgment and my words. For that, I apologize.
I don’t know why you thought I rejected you or didn’t care about the events between us at Netherfield.
That night was an epiphany for me. That rawness of feeling and need was a first. I told you things I have rarely spoken about so openly: my parents, my sister, the accident.
It now seems you do not recollect all that we spoke about.
Again, my fault for taking advantage of your state—in pain and on painkillers—while I poured you wine.
It was selfish and irresponsible, as was my burdening you with my history and expecting your full recall and understanding.
Please know that, although I had a short period of stupidity in my life, and I did indeed experience the so-called walk of shame a few times, such regrettable behavior is years in the past. The few hours we spent together at Netherfield meant more to me than any of those occurrences.
I revealed nothing that night about another matter, but now, based on your friendship with George Wickham, I need to tell you the full story. Please, the details are painful and private, and I tell them to you in confidence.
I told you my father drank too much. It started after the car accident that killed my mother and my sister, Georgiana.
I stayed away at school, wishing to spend as little time as I could in that empty house, and he was alone and grieving.
What he didn’t know was that my mother had been having an affair with Jerome Wickham, George’s father, for nearly a year.
Would it have alleviated my father’s loss to know she had strayed? To know she loved him less than he loved her? I don’t know. I couldn’t chance it.
Three years after the accident, Jerome Wickham died.
George contacted me, threatening to enlighten my father about the affair.
He claimed to have love letters exchanged between his father and my mother as well as incriminating photos.
I saw one such letter; it was indeed her handwriting.
I paid him $10,000 for the letters and the pictures, and I demanded the negatives.
Not surprisingly, he held back some items and returned six months later, claiming to have found more.
I consulted with our family solicitors. My father was ill, and when we discovered it was terminal, I wanted nothing more than to keep him safely away from Wickham’s spurious claims. He maintained that, if I wouldn’t pay him, the tabloids would.
You must know about the British press—they live for scandals and dirty bits on famous people.
My father’s family is well known there, and they are zealous about privacy.
I wrote another check, and collected what Wickham claimed were the last pieces of evidence.
Until that night at the gallery, I’d had no contact with him for more than five years.
I’ve done what I can to keep this information private, even from my own family. I do not wish my mother’s memory to be tarnished among those who loved her. Even Richard, my closest confidant, is unaware.
I don’t know the depth of your acquaintance with the man, but I beg you to be careful.
This might sound arrogant, but Wickham now knows you know me, and for that reason alone, he might wish to hurt you and, by extension, me.
He hates me and blames my mother for his parents’ divorce and financial ruin.
I don’t worry for my own well-being, but I would hate to see you harmed. His word cannot be trusted.
As to the other charge you made: if I’ve cautioned Charles to be careful in his relationship with Jane, it isn’t because I question your sister’s feelings or intentions.
She is a thoughtful, kind person. In the years I’ve known Charles, he has flitted between girlfriends, some serious but mostly not.
He is generous with his friends, and he has my implicit trust as the best friend a man could ask for.
I’ve seen him hurt a few times—last summer left him especially burned.
Honestly, since he met Jane, Charles is the happiest I’ve ever seen him.
I’ve done little more than check in with him to ensure he isn’t putting his heart, or Jane’s, at risk in a rebound relationship.
Now, after seeing them together for nearly six months, I see that your sister truly is, as he says, ‘the One.’ They are beautifully matched.
One more thing. I apologize if I was overbearing about my dog and her dietary habits. She’s elderly, and she means a lot to me. I know you thought her name silly, but she was my sister’s puppy, and she is my last living link to Georgie.
Be well, Elizabeth. I hope you find happiness. I apologize for insulting you. We will likely meet again through Jane and Charles, but I promise to respect your wishes and keep my distance.
Sincerely,
Fitzwilliam (not Ferdinand) Darcy
It took only an hour for Elizabeth to run out of tissues.
She was stupid, impetuous, immature, and judgmental.
She’d known everything and remembered nothing.
She’d jumped to conclusions about two very different men and had thought George worthy of her time because he was charming and had access to people and information she needed.
Although she’d seen no sign that he was using her in return, Darcy’s history with him frightened her.
Her business with him was done, and she would move on.
But infinitely worse was that this smart, caring man with a terribly sad past had fallen in love with her and she had neglected to notice it.
Or rather, she’d misinterpreted nearly everything he said and did, and even though he was a lot less smooth than she’d assumed a British-American mega-millionaire would be, she was far worse.
She was stupid and narrow-minded. And alone, except for an empty box of tissues, a slice of leftover birthday cake, and some nearly dead wildflowers.
Oh, how fortunate he must feel to have escaped me.