Part 1 #3
To hear it declared that he had allied himself with Bingley’s sisters to conspire against the man did not sit well with Darcy. The very mention of his involvement disconcerted and mortified him. It was the truth, but it sounded far more distasteful when spoken aloud.
“Mrs Hurst, Miss Bingley, I see no need for any interference on my part. I have already expressed my opinion to your brother, and I trust I did it for his benefit, with only his happiness in mind. But I have no intention of lying to him if he asks me about Miss Bennet.”
“Whether she is in Hertfordshire or London, she is equally unsuitable for him! You agreed on that. I hope you have not changed your mind.”
“I have not, but disguise of any sort is my abhorrence, and—I repeat—if he asks me a question, I shall only respond with the truth. Now, you must excuse me. I have an appointment at my club, and I am already late.”
He dismissed them with little consideration and even less politeness, but he did not blame them any more than he blamed himself. His intentions might have been honourable and loyal, but his actions towards his friend had not been entirely commendable.
Two days after the Bingley sisters’ visit, Darcy was still struggling with his conscience.
Bingley had called on him, but his cousin Colonel Fitzwilliam had been present, so there had been no opportunity for a discussion regarding Miss Jane Bennet.
Besides, he could not conclusively decide what to do.
Telling Bingley about Miss Bennet’s presence in town meant to betray the sisters’ trust, which was not strictly gentlemanlike either.
There was also another thought that would not go away, as much as he tried to make it vanish.
He wondered whether Elizabeth was in town too.
She was likely not, or else Miss Bennet would have mentioned something to Miss Bingley.
But perhaps she had, and Miss Bingley had deceived him too, as she had done with her brother, concealing the other visitor.
Perhaps Miss Bingley still held a grudge against Elizabeth since he had been indiscreet about his admiration for her fine eyes.
A lovely Apparition, sent
To be a moment’s ornament;
Her eyes as stars of Twilight fair; [2]
On the third day, after breakfast, curiosity overruled his sleep-deprived wisdom, and he decided to see with his own eyes.
So, to Gracechurch Street he travelled. The journey across London was tedious, and the movement of the carriage made his head spin and his doubts increase.
What did he mean to accomplish? What did it matter if she was there?
What would he do? Nothing had changed since he had last seen her; he was still in love with her against his will and against his better judgment, and she was still unsuited to taking the place once occupied by his mother.
A friendship with her was unthinkable, and seeing her would only deepen his wound.
That was the reason he had left Hertfordshire in the first place; why was he so unreasonable as to expose himself to the danger he had struggled to avoid?
What kind of self-destructive impulse pushed him to act?
He glanced through the window absently, an icy grip in his chest. Could it be that he had left Hertfordshire not to protect Bingley but to protect himself?
What if his examination of Miss Bennet’s feelings for his friend had been influenced by his own desperate wish for peace?
What if he had forcibly separated Bingley from Miss Bennet, fearing that their marriage would condemn him to enduring Elizabeth’s presence for the rest of his life?
Could he have been so selfish, so weak, so cowardly, so disdainful of the feelings of both Bingley and Miss Bennet as to trade his friend’s happiness for his own relative peace?
No, that was not possible! He had observed Miss Bennet’s gestures, smiles, and words carefully, and he was certain that her feelings, while amiable, were lacking in the affection that marked Bingley’s.
He had noticed nothing that revealed a peculiar partiality for his friend, and he was persuaded that Miss Bennet would behave in the same manner with any man boasting fortune enough to assure her family’s future.
The coach stopped, and his driver informed him they had reached the address.
He did not alight but waited, observing the area from the carriage windows.
There were a few houses, handsome and well-maintained, and he easily identified the one that held his interest. Frozen in indecision, he sat until he felt the cold seeping into his bones.
Eventually, he spotted Miss Jane Bennet with a servant girl and four young children, crossing the road with loud, joyful cries.
They entered the house, and as the door closed behind them, it signalled to Darcy that it was time to leave.
Very likely, Elizabeth was not at her uncle’s house, and he had no business being there, regardless.
The carriage rumbled on for a few minutes, hardly making any progress, and he began to feel listless. He was cold and warm at the same time, breathing heavily. He asked the coachman to stop, and he climbed down, declaring he preferred to walk and requesting the carriage follow him.
He ambled at a slow pace, paying little attention to the bustle of the city.
He was cold, but the fresh air was better than being inside the carriage.
He walked mindlessly for a short while, not noticing where he was going, heedless of the busy streets and the people hurrying about their business.
He passed the church of St Mary Woolnoth and crossed the crowded junction in front of the Bank of England long before his carriage.
Soon after, he passed Queen Street, striding in the direction of Paternoster Row.
Ironically, he knew this part of the city well, though admittedly he usually traversed its streets in a vehicle.
What would Miss Bingley say if she knew of his knowledge of Cheapside?
Soon, he was passing familiar shop-window after shop-window of stationers and booksellers.
The thought crossed his mind that Elizabeth would enjoy being there.
She was a great reader, even though she had denied it, he told himself, feeling the smile on his lips.
How wonderful it would be if she were there, her hand lightly resting on his arm as they walked together from shop to shop, searching for books to her liking, discussing their different literary tastes.
But she was far away, and he was alone, walking by himself, thinking of her.
Eventually, the books in several windows he passed caught his interest. He looked with more attention and entered one shop, then another, without purchasing anything.
In the third establishment, his eye was taken by a volume of poetry that Elizabeth had been reading at Netherfield, on the evening when they had discussed the accomplishments of ladies.
The fourth edition of ‘Lyrical Ballads’, if he was not mistaken.
He had the first edition of Mr Wordsworth and Mr Coleridge’s collection in his libraries, both at Pemberley and in London, but, driven by a strange impulse, he decided to purchase another copy.
[…] her laughter light
Is ringing in my ears [3]
The lines rang in his memory.
Almost unwittingly, his fingers began leafing through the book. In his impatience, he could not find the stanza, but the overwhelming feeling of need would not leave him. He longed to read those words again and planned to do so in the carriage on the way home.
As he held the book and was ready to pay for his purchase, his eyes fell on a display near the counter.
It held several cards, artfully presented to attract the eye of the customer.
Belatedly, he recalled that he had seen similar in other shops.
Cards to send to one’s sweetheart on St Valentine’s Day!
They were not particularly remarkable, all claiming inflamed sentiments among drawings of flowers and hearts, but his attention was immediately engaged by a handmade puzzle card, on the face of which some romantic verse had been discreetly written around a large, red heart.
The card had been cleverly folded, so that the heart in the centre could be opened by lifting one of four flaps, each revealing an empty side for a personal message to be added.
He held it first with amused interest, then a weight pressed on his chest, taking his breath away.
That card, cut into quarters, was the image of his broken heart.
He set it atop the book and purchased both, finally returning to his carriage, which had fought its way through the busy streets and was waiting for him.
It was already late, and he wished to be home in time for dinner with his sister.
That evening, he felt even more restless than usual.
The colonel joined them, and together with Georgiana and Mrs Annesley, they had a pleasant time.
But neither his cousin’s jokes nor his sister’s music managed to calm the increasing agitation within him.
When his cousin finally left and his sister retired, Darcy went to his rooms, changed for the night with minimal help from his valet, and dismissed him.
Only then did he pull the book from its wrapping and set the card aside.
He turned the pages, seeking the verses that had so discomposed him, only to understand, disappointed, that Mr Wordsworth had left them out of that edition.
He then studied the card, taking in the image of the whole heart, then breaking it by unfolding the quarters, then folding them again, and repeating the moves over and over, as though in a trance.
His heart was broken too, but the only person who could glue the pieces back together was far away—which had been his choice, his decision.
He would have to learn to live with that decision, and with his broken heart; the loneliness in his soul would likely not disappear, regardless of how many people were around him.
In the end, he put the card on top of the book, brushed his fingers over it, and unfolded one of the quarters of the heart. Then, taking up his pen, he wrote on it what he felt with all his being.
Alone.