Part 2 #2
Despite Lady Catherine’s declaration that she would prevent the impertinent Miss Bennet from disturbing her nephew, Elizabeth and her relatives had dined at Rosings several times.
On every occasion, the colonel sat near her, attracted by her brightness and sweetness.
He enjoyed her conversation at the table, while Darcy was forced to entertain their aunt, glancing often to their seats.
After dinner, Richard would ask her to play for him, and when she acquiesced, he would accompany her to the pianoforte.
His cousin would whisper to her, and from his chair near the fire, which offered a clear view of the instrument, Darcy would feel an icy dread as he watched the colonel’s lips move close to her ear and her mouth curl up in a little smile of delight.
He tormented himself that Fitzwilliam could surely smell her sweet perfume, look upon her immaculate skin, and even brush her arm with his fingers when leaning over to turn the page.
On one such occasion, he could not stop his feet from carrying him forwards to join them, though he had not tried particularly hard.
The smile was still on her lips and in her eyes when she saw him approaching, and she spoke to him, even though their words were mostly teasing.
She challenged him and argued with him, engaging him in small battles of wit like she had when they had been together at Netherfield, but her smile was always there, though maybe a bit shyer; and it could only mean one thing.
She understood his attentions, knew his feelings, and expected him to say more.
His silence made her unsure and more reserved towards him than Fitzwilliam.
But the words that his heart screamed at him to voice, his mind obstructed, demanding he withhold them.
While he was torn, trapped between duty and desire, the colonel had no such qualms. He had much to say to everyone, including Lady Catherine, about how charming he found her.
His cousin declared that if he had the means, he would not hesitate to propose to Miss Elizabeth Bennet.
Lady Catherine was appalled and outraged, but Darcy became truly desperate.
Even if Elizabeth did prefer him, if he remained silent and his cousin proposed, she would very likely accept.
It would be a prudent choice for her, and she would perchance be content with her life.
But the thought that Elizabeth could marry the colonel—that she could marry anyone that was not him!
—was unbearable. To see her often, at family events, on his cousin’s arm, to know she was sharing her life and her bed with a man so close to him, to see her smiles and teasing directed at another made him, in turn, burn white hot or ice cold, rendering him dizzy and nauseous.
He knew his only chance and only choice was to speak to her, so he called on her again at the first opportunity and found her alone at the Parsonage.
But not even then could she speak more than a few polite words, and he found himself tongue tied, spellbound by her presence and the enormity of what he was on the cusp of doing.
He felt like a frustrated schoolboy, unable to express himself like an educated man who had lived in the world.
~~~~ ~~~~ ~~~~
Two days had passed since his pathetic attempt, and when Elizabeth’s party was invited to dine at Rosings again, he decided he would disregard the risks and seize the opportunity to sit next to her at the table and speak to her.
He seethed with barely restrained jealousy before dinner, as the colonel told him that he had met Elizabeth earlier, by chance, in the park, and had enjoyed a long, pleasant walk with her—something that Darcy had always yearned for yet never accomplished.
He filled his glass twice in expectation of her arrival, but when the party from the Parsonage entered, the figure Darcy had longed to see was not present.
Fortunately, Lady Catherine hurried to enquire as to the reason for her absence, and Mrs Collins explained that Elizabeth had a terrible headache and remained at home, preferring not to expose Lady Catherine and Miss de Bourgh to a potential cold.
Darcy did not wait to hear more. The opportunity seemed to be the answer to all his hopes and a gift—a nudge?
—granted by fate that should not be missed.
He walked quickly towards the Parsonage, his heart filled with the utmost joy and relief.
His hesitation and frustration were finally at an end.
His heart had won the long battle with his mind.
His love and his desire to finally express his deep affection were stronger than any duty.
With every step closer, he knew what he wanted and knew what he would do.
He had no doubts remaining. The surprise, joy, and gratitude on her beautiful face and the tears of happiness in her bright eyes would surely make his extended torment worth the while.
She would surely forgive him for the weeks of silence and turmoil, during which he had given her the impression he was toying with her affections.
He entered and found her alone in the parlour. She was pale and clearly not feeling well; she looked surprised, and he needed a little time to gather his thoughts and find the right words to address her.
Then, their eyes met, and he lost himself in hers. She licked her lips, in obvious anticipation, so he opened his heart and held it in his hands, offering it to her.
“In vain I have struggled. It will not do. You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you.” He heard himself revealing the tumult that had tortured him for six months.
She remained silent, wide eyed, completely still while he poured his very soul at her feet. Her lips parted, and her eyes seemed to throw sparks. And then, she began to speak…
~~~~ ~~~~ ~~~~
Darcy quit the Parsonage almost at a run, although his knees were weak and his steps unsteady.
Countless knives were stabbing at his temples, his eyes, his throat, and his chest, the pain taking his breath away.
Her words, her voice, her countenance, her eyes had thrown so much repulsion, disgust, and rage at him, burying all his wishes, all his hopes, all his dreams. Everything was dark within him, with no glimpse of light to guide him away from her.
He had been wrong. Utterly and completely wrong.
So far from reality that recovery seemed impossible.
She had not been aware of his feelings and certainly did not return or welcome them.
She despised him with all her being—with as much fervour as he loved her.
To him, she was the only woman in the world to whom he had ever professed love and to whom he had ever surrendered himself.
To her, he was the last man in the world she would consider marrying.
Her words spun in his mind as he hurried back to Rosings.
He could not see the path in front of him as his eyes were burning from the hot tears that he struggled to repress.
He had spoken of his adoration; she had accused him of all possible offences known to man!
She had accused him of more things than he could remember.
In the end, the reasons for her abhorrence did not matter.
Nor did it matter whether they were based on truths or lies.
She hated him for more reasons than he could count, and nothing would change that.
He arrived at Rosings, went straight to his room, and locked the door, asking his valet to ensure he would not be disturbed till morning.
He collapsed on the bed, throwing an arm over his eyes in an attempt to prevent seeing Elizabeth hurling accusations at him, but when that failed, he stood up and paced like a caged animal.
He had to leave the very next day; he could not bear seeing her again—or answering his aunt’s intrusive questions.
He must return to London immediately. He had betrayed his beliefs and neglected to apply his good judgment when he had decided to come to Rosings.
Now, he needed to remedy his errors by leaving immediately.
His disappointment and grief scalded him, and the scorching pain was amplified by his anger—towards himself, towards Wickham, even towards Elizabeth. Perhaps she did not deserve his love.
He remembered that day after Christmas when Georgiana had first informed him about Mr Collins’s marriage.
For a little while, he had feared that the clergyman might have proposed to Elizabeth and she had married him to protect her family from a life of poverty.
He still remembered the sharp pain in his chest, the horror as he imagined her bound to that ridiculous man for the rest of her life!
On further reflection, now he realised how selfish his thoughts had been. He had only been concerned with his own sentiments at the idea of her belonging to another—his distress, his torture, his pain. Not for a moment had he considered hers.
What a fool he had been and how little did he know Elizabeth! He had immediately assumed she would agree to marry a man she held in little regard in order to secure her future and her family’s.
That day, she had proved to him how great his misjudgment was.
He had offered her a fortune a hundred times larger than Mr Collins’s, a situation in life and connections a hundred times better than his, and he had offered her his hand and his entire being—a man with education and character, desirable as a gentleman, a friend, and a future husband, as people were wont to say.
Other people, perhaps, because Elizabeth had rejected everything he offered in the blink of an eye; she had reprimanded his manner of addressing her and said he was the last man in the world she could ever marry.
Everything he offered could ensure her and her family safety and comfort for the rest of their lives, but it was too little to compensate for her ill opinion of him and her abhorrence towards him.
He was prepared to offer her everything she needed, everything she wanted, but she wished for nothing from him.
And there was nothing he could do to change the situation, to take back his proposal, to dismiss his ardent love for her, or at least to diminish the knife that kept driving deeper into his chest, wounding him to his core.
No, that was not entirely true.
He could not change her feelings for him—he did not even consider doing so—but he could not live in the world and know that she thought so poorly of him.
There were matters on which he could defend himself.
It was his right and his duty to do so. He could not see her, nor speak to her, but he would write to her—and allow her to choose whether she would read his explanations or not.
Whether she believed him or not, he would never know, regardless.
He pulled out a small stack of paper from a drawer, mended his pen, and began to write—word after word, line after line, until he had two sheets quite covered by his close hand. He hesitated a moment, then continued on a third.
When he had finished, he was stunned to realise it was already morning. He looked at his time piece and noted on the letter, before he folded it: ‘Rosings, eight o’clock’.
Then he threw himself onto the bed to rest for a moment, his mind and body completely drained, struggling to breathe. After a short while, he gathered his wits enough to know that he needed to prepare an excuse for his precipitate departure.
He slid the letter into the pocket of his greatcoat, and as he did so, his fingers closed around another object. He pulled out the offending article and discovered the book he had purchased on Paternoster Row, two months ago.
Unbidden, the poet’s words came again.
Strange fits of passion I have known
And I will dare to tell…[3]
Inside the book was the card with the image of the red heart broken into four pieces. His own heart had been broken into many more pieces, each one small, with sharp edges—impossible to put back together.
The last man in the world … unjust, ungenerous …
arrogance, conceit, selfish disdain, immoveable dislike…
That was her opinion of him. Now that he knew it, he would never be able to forget it.
How would he carry the burden of his love now that he was aware of her hate?
What was he to do from that day on? He touched the card, gently, like a sad caress, and opened the flap to reveal what he had written in London.
The word ‘Alone’ singed him anew, leaving a scar deeper than ever before.
He took up the pen again and, with slow movements, as if declaring his own damnation, he wrote under the next flap, marking his own fate:
Ever alone.