Chapter 9
CHAPTER NINE
W hen Saturday arrived, even the overcast morning did not diminish Elizabeth’s excitement. When the sunshine came out and rendered the sky cloudless, she began to anticipate Mr Darcy’s imminent arrival, and Miss de Bourgh’s, of course.
Mr Collins called Elizabeth into his small study to remind her to behave and to outline the diverse and countless glowing qualities of the grand Miss Anne de Bourgh. She found herself unable to make eye contact with him, and during his long-winded speech, decided to occupy her mind with a thorough evaluation of the room.
The room was as poorly kept as Mr Collins himself. Dusty old tomes lined the walls, evidently untouched by the current resident. Ink spills on the top of his desk illustrated either a compulsion towards clumsiness when writing his sermons or an inattentive maid.
“...and you must not forget the superiority of her blood line...”
She continued to nod and smile, keeping her mouth shut, all while feigning interest in her cousin’s speech about the heiress of Rosings Park.
While wandering about the room, her eyes were drawn to familiar handwriting in an open letter that sat upon his desk. Her father had written to Mr Collins? Elizabeth tried to appear attentive to her cousin’s rambling harangue while clandestinely examining the letter to see if it were truly from her father, who was a self-proclaimed negligent correspondent. She could only imagine what devious bits of humour lay within—and what a long letter it appeared to be! Leaning a bit farther, without directing attention to herself, she observed with some surprise that the salutation was ‘My dearest Lizzy’.
She was so surprised by the appearance of her own name that she confirmed it not once but many times, even going so far as to blatantly bend over his desk and eventually to hold it up to him and interrupt his speech.
“Perhaps, sir, instead of speaking to me about virtuous behaviour, you might explain how a letter written by my father and addressed to me is in your possession.” She spoke evenly despite the angry flush that heated her cheeks. “Nay, not simply in your possession, but unsealed and lying open on your desk, and therefore, presumably read .”
Mr Collins flushed as well, but far from chastened, he went on the attack. “Give me that!” He grabbed the letter out of her hands. “I shall decide what reading is appropriate in my home.”
“A letter from my father is hardly to be compared to deciding whether the nature of a book is appropriate. You must give that to me! ”
“Must I?” His voice got louder, and he rose to his full height to loom over Elizabeth. “I am master of this house, and master of you while you reside here. You have not shown yourself to be of good judgment and upright character—”
“I beg your pardon!”
“Lady Catherine herself was informed of your behaving in a manner that was not ladylike and advised me to correct it while you reside under my roof. She insisted that it was my duty to nudge back that which was going awry.”
“Informed of unladylike behaviour! By whom? I may be under your roof, but you have no authority over me.” Elizabeth’s thoughts immediately turned to Mr Darcy. He would come and remove her—she was sure of it. If only he were here now!
Right then Charlotte opened the door. She exchanged a glance with her husband and then looked self-righteously at Elizabeth before saying, “Whatever have you done now, Eliza?”
“What have I done?” Elizabeth asked, incredulously. “I found a letter addressed to me from my father on your husband’s desk— opened ! Your husband is reading my personal correspondence.”
And Charlotte, incredibly, replied quietly, “It is his house, Elizabeth, and anything that enters into it is within his purview.”
She sounded as if she spoke by rote, repeating the words that no doubt she had heard often. Elizabeth could scarcely form a thought through the astonishment which beset her.
“That is not true. My own father has not examined—”
“Your father has allowed you too much liberty,” Charlotte replied sharply. From the corner of her eye, Elizabeth saw Mr Collins nod approvingly.
“I beg your pardon! ”
“You always were a selfish creature, Elizabeth. Why you could not simply visit your dear cousin and enjoy our hospitality with a semblance of gratitude and maturity, I shall never know.”
Elizabeth was astonished by the aloof, cold response from her once-dear friend. Mr Collins appeared distinctly satisfied with his wife and repeated smugly, “My wife is correct. Cousin, you must learn gratitude and humility and forget these wild ways your father has allowed you.”
Wild ways? Since when is reading a letter wild? The thrum of her temper surged along with her rapid heartbeat until she was nearly out of breath. She had stayed in Kent for Charlotte, wanting to know what was happening in her home and wishing to see what she could do to help her; but it was clear that Charlotte had chosen her path.
It took all the patience and poise within her to accept this. In a remarkably steady voice, enunciating each word, she said, “Do not ever call me ‘cousin’ again. You are no longer my family. I shall no longer recognise you. You need not be in my presence another minute.” She said these things to Mr Collins but took the time to give Charlotte one last meaningful, pleading look—which went unanswered. “Please give my excuses to Miss de Bourgh.”
Elizabeth grabbed only her bonnet before tearing out of the house. She was always agile and quick on her feet, but in her desperation to move as far away from the Hunsford parsonage as possible, she had quite lost her bearings. She stopped after some time to put her hands on her knees and draw in a deep cleansing breath, willing her racing pulse to slow, and wishing the heat on her face would be cooled.
She moved to lean against a large, old oak tree, employing the shade of the branches to catch her breath and take in her surroundings. Once she oriented herself, her feet moved her forward before her mind caught up, taking her at breakneck speed down the familiar path.
Darcy was all anticipation as he drove the phaeton towards the parsonage. Anne, in turn, appeared to be struggling against laughter. His intentions, his eagerness, must be so obvious, but he found himself uncaring. According to Fitzwilliam, she had been an apt pupil all week, and she likely thought this scheduled morning of instruction an amusing ruse. Nonetheless, he was thankful that she had invited Miss Elizabeth.
“I fear you have gone distracted, Darcy. Perhaps you should have let me drive.”
“I was under the impression this outing was to be a learning experience for the ladies?”
“As you wish,” she replied, “But I shall remind you that I went out on my own just yesterday. While you were busy inspecting the empty tenant dwellings these last two days, Fitzwilliam has been instructing me. He thought I was ready.”
“You know your mother’s opinions regarding the necessity of diligent practice to attain proficiency at any skill,” Darcy replied drily.
Anne murmured an inaudible response towards the passing scenery.
Darcy drew the phaeton up in front of the parsonage and hopped down, handing the reins to Anne and tipping his hat to Mrs Collins as she rushed out to meet them. The lady was twisting her hands in front of her and greeted them with a trembling voice and shaky curtsey, unable to meet their eyes. “It appears that Eliza has gone off on one of her rambles and must have lost track of time. I did remind her of her engagement this morning. I am sure she will be saddened to learn she missed you.”
Mr Collins had arrived during his wife’s speech and added eagerly, “As I am sure you agree, I shall tell my cousin that it would be best if she kept to herself here at the parsonage for the remainder of her visit. She is unused to and quite unsuited for your noble attentions. She is wholly unaccustomed to the elevated society we enjoy here in Kent. I shall be sure to remind her about the consequences of offending you both.”
Her husband’s speech seemed to embolden Charlotte, who became more certain of herself. “Please allow me once again to apologise, on behalf of myself and my dearest husband. It will not happen again. She will not be given the opportunity.”
Darcy was confused by their abruptness and before he could respond, the couple was already returning into their home.
Darcy watched them go, his eyes narrowed. Disappointment coursed through him but more than that—anger. Had they lied outright? Where was Elizabeth? Could she be in some danger? He would not have believed it possible, but in light of what Elizabeth told him before of Mr Collins’s behaviour, perhaps it was.
“What are you thinking, Darcy?” Anne called from her perch.
“Am I so obvious?”
Anne replied to that with a mischievous grin, then asked, “You are concerned for Miss Bennet?”
Darcy, disconcerted by Anne’s directness, said, “It is unlike her to be late or to forget an engagement.”
“Perhaps you should look for her and be sure she is not injured somewhere.” Anne recalled herself then and said, “Of course, that would be the responsibility of Mr Collins, would it not?”
Darcy shot her a droll glance. “Neither Mr Collins nor his wife seemed to think anything amiss. But for me...” He looked off towards the forest.
“Go and seek her,” Anne said. “I shall return to the house.” At his look, she added, “You said yourself I was quite the apt pupil. It is a short distance, and I shall do perfectly well, I am sure.”
Darcy nodded, and then watched as she set off, driving very well indeed. He then secured his hat, took note of his surroundings, and began stalking towards the nearby wood. At the very least, he knew he needed to find Miss Elizabeth and discover what kept her from their outing. No matter what the Collinses believed, he did not think it was by choice that she had missed their excursion.
He tried to recall what he last said to her. Perhaps she did not want to join us after all? No. She was quite clear in her interest. His feet kept moving, one boot in front of the other—to her. His pace quickened as his agitation grew.
His thoughts were a tangle of emotions—all revolving around her. He had long realised he was drawn to her—happier with her—even with her teasing nature that often discomposed him, but now the depth of his devotion, coupled with the extent of his concern for her, made his wishes perfectly clear to him. My duty, my family, my sister—I have always done what was right and what was expected, but I cannot deny Elizabeth anything. I want her to have all that I have to give—all my worldly treasures—for my family to be her family, my sister to be her sister, my children to be her children.
The revelation nearly stopped his forward movement. I love her. He loved Elizabeth Bennet of Longbourn in Hertfordshire, and he wanted to marry her, to be with her, to care for her always. No one else would ever take the place as mistress of Pemberley with the same wisdom and grace. No—Elizabeth was clearly the partner he longed for, the equal he had not thought possible. When had he begun to think of her as merely Elizabeth ?
He had an abrupt notion of where to find her— she must be in our glade.
To be betrayed by a friend was surely one of life’s greatest pains. The tumult of her mind coupled with the agitation of her spirits meant that Elizabeth arrived at her destination faster than she had anticipated. She must have been running—and she surely looked wild! Her heart felt like it was breaking. How could I be so wrong about a dear friend? She had known Mr Collins was an imbecile long before her visit and had deduced from her correspondence that Charlotte was altered, but she never imagined such a breach of loyalty and friendship.
Her friendship was a thing of the past, and Elizabeth steeled herself to find strength for the rest of the wretched visit, for she knew well enough she would not be packing up her things and abandoning Kent early. How would she explain her sudden departure and abrupt appearance in London to her family? Would Mr Collins even permit her to arrange travel?
Elizabeth had known grief before. She had mourned the death of a beloved grandmother and cried alongside Longbourn’s tenants during hardships. But not this—this felt so different. None of her previous experiences compared to this turmoil—this pointed and personal betrayal .
Was this keen meanness years in the making? Or had it been the whim of a moment? Had her entire friendship with Charlotte been a ruse?
Elizabeth considered what she knew. Mr Collins was a controlling, overbearing man who clearly grasped at any shred of authority he could. He held terribly little power in the world, even less with Lady Catherine at the helm of his church, his words, and the running of his home. She could imagine two explanations equally likely for his behaviour—either he deplored his loss of control in all aspects of his life and thus ruled with an iron fist over the women under his power; or he was simply cruel. Perhaps it was a little of both.
It was a juxtaposition of two extraordinarily different men—the Mr Collins who had visited Longbourn and Mr Collins of Kent. One was a babbling, self-serving idiot, but the other was completely punishing. How her father would laugh at her if she wrote a letter explaining the Collinses’ current behaviour! He would consider it the greatest of comedy and thank her for the fine joke—and, in all likelihood, ask if the basis of the characters outlined were drawn upon from sheer boredom or madness. She could hear him now, telling her to take up novel-writing to relieve her wild imagination!
But how had Mr Collins exacted such a swift and complete control over Charlotte? Was it merely his words or were there actions as well? While she would not wish his cruelty on anyone, she resolved that her friend was reacting to his viciousness. It appeared Charlotte, once her most reasonable and sensible friend, had been reduced to a bitter woman full of spite.
While considering Charlotte’s deceit, Elizabeth was distressed to admit to her growing knowledge of the strong appearance of duplicity in the natures of all people. Even Mr Darcy had recently shown her such an honest and kind nature—a fine, handsome figure who was attentive, gentle, and caring. But she also knew another Mr Darcy—one who was arrogant and proud; one who most certainly reduced his childhood friend, Mr Wickham, to near poverty and—she was fairly sure—one who had pushed Mr Bingley away from Jane. He could be insufferable as easily as he could be kind, it seemed. How was she to trust anyone?
She paced back and forth, her discomposure growing with each step. She had long considered herself a student of character yet Charlotte, known to her since birth, had become a stranger to her in the space of a few months. Her cousin, stupid as he was, was capable of being two wholly different persons in one setting versus another. If she could not even understand those two, how could she even hope to understand a man like Mr Darcy? To reconcile all this behaviour that was perfectly contrary to her previous understanding of him?
And, why has this become about Mr Darcy? She wondered. I am upset about Charlotte—why does this man persist in invading my thoughts? She pulled her bonnet off and pointed her face to the sun. She hoped the rays would calm her and provide her strength. As it had always done, nature began to soothe her.
After some time, Elizabeth heard movement in the brush and turned to look, to see what it might be. Taking in the tall, striking form of Mr Darcy, she coloured and felt her ire begin to flood through her entire being. Why did he have to appear here now? He looked so handsome and greeted her with gentle concern.
“You cannot know how relieved I am to see you are not injured. I was very alarmed when the Collinses told me you could not go driving with us. I am afraid I feared the worst.”
His kindliness so hard on the heels of her confusion made her tremble. Bravely, she said, “It is none of your concern, Mr Darcy.”
He strode directly to her, standing closer than was strictly appropriate. “I would be happy to make it my concern.” His eyes searched her face, and she responded by averting hers.
His imposing stance—so close and protective—nearly broke her. She pressed her lips together tightly to ward off tears and turned her head to hide her face.
His defensive stance softened, and he lowered his voice to speak more softly, leaning into her. “Whatever has happened, please allow me to help.”
She knew in that moment she could reach for him, and he would reach back. She was sure he would calm her—but could she trust him? His changeable nature might be just as ruinous as Charlotte’s! Could she depend upon anyone in this world? Elizabeth might find it entertaining to be contrary in order to amuse her company, but in matters of the heart, she required constancy.
“I have long believed myself discerning and have valued my ability to read others’ characters, particularly those I have known my entire life. In my vanity, I believed I was worthy of true friendship. It is a bitter thing to find yourself surrounded by people of such duplicitous manners. I wish I had never travelled to Kent. There is not one person here I can trust.”
“Not one?” He looked hurt and stepped closer, “I hope you know you may trust me.”
“How can I? No, you sir have confused me most of all.”
“Have I?” He reached out to touch her arm, and she withdrew. He retreated just as quickly. “What reason have you to distrust me? If I have provoked you in some way—if, if I have alarmed you...”
Her anger, her distress on this morning were not founded upon Mr Darcy’s actions or character, yet he was here and he was asking her questions. When else might she have the opportunity to understand him? He had, at the ball at Netherfield, refused her the chance to sketch his character. Perhaps he would answer for it now.
She straightened to her full height, raising her chin to look him in the eye, and steeled herself for a denial. “Mr Darcy, here, in Kent, you have been all kindness to me, all concern for my well-being and my equanimity. A true friend, I might say. However, please tell me how I may trust the man who ruined, perhaps forever, the happiness of a most beloved sister?”
His astonishment was clear, and he coloured in response—a flash of his true emotions. She saw him replace the concern with an immediate defensiveness, and so she continued, “What motive can you have to be a party to that breach? Even if you were not the primary instigator, I am certain you did not act in her defence.”
Still astonished, he hesitated. “Yes.” Clearing his throat, he continued, “I will not deny my part. Bingley may have believed himself in love, but that distinction is rather unremarkable. The material reason I endorsed his departure was that your sister appeared unattached. I watched them most particularly and did not perceive in her a deep regard for my friend.”
He took a step back, and hesitantly resumed his speech, “I was aware that Bingley’s attention to your sister had given rise to a general expectation of their marriage. I did not want to see him made a fool. For him to marry her without shared affection—”
“You thought her indifferent?” she interrupted.
“Yes. I did not wish for a marriage of unequal affection for my friend. ”
She was not satisfied, but she understood. He was wrong, but if he had been right, she could agree that she would not wish for an unequal love for her sister either. He was not the first to point out Jane’s appearance of indifference. Her sister’s serene manners and reserved nature did not often permit others to perceive her thoughts or feelings.
Even with Mr Darcy’s participation, Mr Bingley did, in fact, make his own decisions. If what she was learning was true, it was Mr Bingley’s indecisive nature and uncertainty that truly separated the two. At least in Mr Darcy’s decision-making, he was confident. His truth might be painful, but he did not put on airs to simply ease her comfort.
This still did not explain his general disdain for the people of Meryton or his officious treatment of the good-natured and charming Mr Wickham. He left the man nearly impoverished and forced to join the militia when a respectable living had been entrusted to him by Mr Darcy’s own father.
“You are good to your friends and do not hesitate to involve yourself in their concerns.” Elizabeth bit her lip a moment before adding, “I suppose I might be more alarmed by how you treat those who are not your friends.”
“Who do you see that I have mistreated? What do you accuse me of?”
“Did I not have a very plain view of your disdain for strangers at our first meeting when you refused to dance with me and insulted my appearance?”
His eyes were wild, searching for the truth. She felt a sort of pity that he was having trouble recalling what she was referring to.
“You heard me at the assembly?” he finally asked.
She nodded, and he was shocked into silence, eyes wide and mouth hanging open. “And what of Mr Wickham? ”
“Wickham?” he repeated, clearly abhorring to hear even the name. He took a step backwards.
“How am I to reconcile the man you are here in Hunsford with the man I long decided to dislike? Your character was revealed to me by Mr Wickham many months ago. Yes, I would say you are very good to your friends but woe to the man that you have decided is no longer worthy of your consideration!”
“You take an eager interest in that gentleman’s concerns,” Mr Darcy retorted. “It should not surprise me—many young ladies have been taken in by his charm.”
“His charm!” She huffed. “It is not his charm that made me feel pity for him! You have reduced him to his current state of poverty, yet you feel no concern for his misfortunes!”
“His misfortunes!” he spat. “His misfortunes have been earned by his actions! George Wickham was a favourite of my father. Our fathers greatly respected one another—his being the steward at Pemberley. George was my father’s godson, and we were raised like brothers.”
He began pacing while he told a long, detailed story of a childhood friend turned spiteful rival. It was the most Elizabeth had ever heard him speak, and she knew instantly that not everyone was afforded this vulnerable, effusive version of Mr Darcy. She felt the honour of receiving his confidences in parallel to her great dismay at learning of Mr Wickham’s numerous misdeeds.
She was appalled to learn that Mr Wickham resigned all claim to the living promised by Mr Darcy’s father in favour of three thousand pounds. To think he persuaded all of Meryton to think Mr Darcy a monster! He elaborated, sharing a long list of scandalous inclinations seeming to bring him pain to simply utter—debts, cruelty, dishonour.
Mr Darcy was brief on the subjects that should not be heard by young ladies, but she could not misunderstand his meaning—Mr Wickham’s history included seducing vulnerable ladies. She was aware of this type of behaviour but would hardly expect it from someone she had admired.
She was struck by the realisation that Mr Darcy retained the support and friendship of many honourable people, while Mr Wickham had only his amiability and lovely words to recommend him. That she had put more trust in Mr Wickham’s capriciousness than the obvious superiority of Mr Darcy, including weeks of gentle kindness directed at her, was alarming!
How could she have been livid at the deceit and duality of those around her when she herself spat her disapprobation of Mr Darcy to anyone who would listen in Hertfordshire and then sought his kind attentions once in Kent! This final thought depleted her of all control.
She cried outright, “I could not have been more blind! My prejudice. My ignorance. Until this moment, I never knew myself. How vain I must be to fall for his slick charms and decide, without proof, that he was a victim in the worst sense. Forgive me, though little I deserve it—I was a willing contributor in his plan to slander you across Hertfordshire.” She covered her face with her hands, feeling the great shame of it all.
Mr Darcy was directly in front of her in an instant. He put his hands on her shoulders, earnestly offering, “Do not blame yourself for believing him.”
It was devastating to realise how unreliable her own discernment was. She had been blind to Mr Wickham’s behaviour and gave credence to his every word. Indeed, she especially enjoyed criticising Mr Darcy with him and furthering his complaints to any willing listener in Hertfordshire. Her behaviour had been disgraceful. She believed Wickham because he gave her attention and satisfied her vanity. Mr Darcy, who met her with honesty and disinterest, she deemed untrustworthy. She withheld her respect because he wounded her pride. How could she ever trust herself again?
Sobs choked her, disorienting her thoughts and words, and robbing her of her breath. “You have no idea what I have done, what I have said…I thought...my dearest friend would aptly agree…could not understand…duplicity…conceited and selfish.” Elizabeth was shocked to feel his fingers squeeze gently on her shoulders, pulling her closer.
Her sobs were also combined with the shocking reaction her body was having to his close contact. She was unused to being touched by a man. She should not be allowing such liberties, but Elizabeth was so desperate for comfort after weeks of being cautious, even secluded. And although she had not been willing to admit it to herself, his presence had become a safe haven for her. Her sobs and uneven breathing continued as he pulled her head to rest on his shoulder. Her hands came down from her face into tight fists against his chest.
When her breathing once again slowed, he stepped back just enough to tip her chin up and ask if she was well. She nodded.
There was a quiet, unspoken understanding as they stared into each other’s eyes. While her crying ceased, her heart was beating fast and her breath coming quickly, in anticipation of what, she was not certain, but she was comforted by the fact that he seemed equally affected. And without warning, his arms wrapped around her back, and his lips were on hers.
He kissed her gently at first, tempting her slowly, teaching her how to move against his mouth. She was at once tentative and eager. The distance between them felt too great. Her fists resting against his chest relaxed and made their way up to his neck, effectively removing what little space remained between them. Warm hands stroked her back and brought comfort.
His fingers slowly made their way to twist through the curls that had escaped their pins at the nape of her neck—a thumb trailed a blaze of heat from her hairline down her neck and across her collar. She instinctively gasped and threw her head back as his mouth moved to follow the same trail and settled into soft kisses on her shoulder.
Her eyes flew open, taking in the sight of him in this state of abandon—this vulnerability she had never seen in him—this leap from his generally controlled manner to this distinctly passionate man. When he brought his mouth back to her, she surprised even herself by opening hers for exploration, and what followed ignited her even more. How was it possible to feel so much and then continue to build upon what you thought was the limit?
A wave of heat moved through her body, bringing confidence in her movements. His lips were so soft and his kiss so completely overwhelming. Removing one hand from the back of his neck, she traced his chin, the line of his jaw, his neck. She could feel his pulse beating as quickly as her own. A muffled sound escaped his mouth and drove her to stop her attentions.
He moved to bestow a long kiss upon her forehead and whispered against her skin, “Forgive me, Elizabeth. I should not have—”
She twisted her fingers in his hair and looked him deep in his eyes—she was not sorry, and she was not afraid of what had just occurred. She was only disappointed the moment had passed, so she allowed their broken connexion to transpire slowly, continuing to caress the back of his neck, then his shoulder, and down to his chest as she slowly backed away—never breaking eye contact. “Please do not apologise, sir.”
“Fitzwilliam,” he said hoarsely.
She gasped. “The colonel?” She quickly looked over her shoulder for his cousin. When she did not see him, she turned back to Mr Darcy. “Where?”
After a moment of silence, Mr Darcy broke into hearty laughter and she, rendered giddy by the release of all the contrariety of emotion she had experienced in the last half an hour, joined him.
“My name,” he said, somewhere in the midst of it all. “My name is Fitzwilliam.”
“I see,” she said, suddenly aware of their precarious position. If his dishevelled appearance was any indication of her own, she would do better to return to the parsonage promptly. “That is...well, I am glad to know your cousin is not lurking about then. But...I should perhaps leave you now.”
“Leave me? But...” He paused and then admitted, “Yes, it might be for the best.”
With that, Elizabeth made her way down the lane, turning back only once to see him watching her silently. She kept her face neutral until she turned back towards the path, only then allowing a glowing smile to overtake her.