Chapter 4
By breakfast the next morning, Mr. Collins knew nothing and sensed everything.
This made him dangerous. He could not interpret a silence, but he could make a great deal of noise around one.
"Our esteemed guests at Rosings were perhaps fatigued yesterday," he said, eyeing Elizabeth over his egg. "Mr. Darcy appeared most solemn at dinner. Lady Catherine, whose penetration is unequaled, remarked upon his gravity."
"Did she prescribe for it?" Elizabeth asked.
"Her ladyship advised moderation in all mental exertion."
"A remedy she has long practiced on behalf of others."
Charlotte coughed into her napkin.
Mr. Collins frowned, not because he understood but because he suspected understanding was occurring without him. "I am sure Mr. Darcy's mind is of a superior order."
"Then it can survive moderation."
After breakfast, Charlotte contrived an errand that required no errand at all and sent Elizabeth out before Mr. Collins could improve the silence further.
Elizabeth had not gone far along the lane beyond the parsonage before she saw Darcy waiting where the road narrowed near a stand of trees.
For one wild second she considered pretending not to see him.
Unfortunately, the lane contained no credible hiding place, and the nearest bush was insufficient for dignity.
He came toward her with a letter in his hand.
"Miss Elizabeth."
"Mr. Darcy."
He looked as if he had spent the night in argument with himself and both sides had lost. His coat was immaculate. His face was not.
"I have been walking in the grove some time in the hope of meeting you."
"The grove has been patient."
He accepted this without reply. The letter in his hand was thick, closely folded, and sealed. Elizabeth looked at it as one might look at a weapon whose owner insisted it was only a tool.
"I will not renew the sentiments which were so disgusting to you yesterday," he said.
Disgusting. He had chosen the word with care and pride, repeating her judgment to prove it had not wounded him. This, Elizabeth thought, was pride trying to make a wound look like dignity.
"This letter," he continued, "contains an explanation of my conduct in the matters you laid to my charge. I ask only that you read it."
"Only?"
His gaze sharpened.
"Forgive me," she said. "After yesterday, I distrust the word only from you. It tends to precede a considerable demand."
"I ask no answer."
"That is wise."
He held out the letter.
She took it. Their gloves touched. It was nothing. It was absurd that a mere brush of kid leather could unsettle her.
He bowed and walked away.
Elizabeth waited until he had turned the bend before breaking the seal. She told herself she would read calmly. She lied with admirable confidence.
The first part answered the charge about Wickham, which Darcy had drawn into the quarrel himself.
Here Darcy was severe, precise, and, most inconveniently, convincing.
He wrote of his father's affection for the young man, of provision made, of squandered opportunities, of a living refused and later demanded, of debts, falsehoods, and attempted elopement with Darcy's sister.
The sentences did not plead. They laid stones.
By the end of that portion Elizabeth felt the ground under one of her judgments give way.
She sat on a fallen trunk because her body required it, whatever her pride preferred.
Wickham had been charming. That was the worst of it. Not handsome, not agreeable, not unfortunate: charming. He had told his story so well that believing him had felt like generosity. Elizabeth had enjoyed despising Darcy with evidence that cost her nothing.
She forced herself on.
The second part concerned Jane.
Here the letter became more difficult, not because Darcy was less clear but because he was more himself.
He admitted to encouraging Bingley's departure.
He admitted to concealing Jane's presence in London.
He defended himself with observations of Jane's composure, objections to the Bennet family, and concern for his friend's happiness.
He conceded that his actions might have caused pain if his judgment had been mistaken, then explained at length why his judgment had not seemed mistaken at the time.
Elizabeth stood and walked as she read. The lane blurred, then sharpened. Birds made inconsiderate music. Somewhere, sheep existed without moral crisis.
She reached the end and began again.
By the third reading, her anger had changed shape. It had not lessened. It had become heavier.
Wickham was worse than she had believed. Darcy was better than she had accused in one matter and worse in another. He had not laughed at Jane. He had not acted from casual malice. He had acted from certainty.
Certainty was more respectable than malice and far more dangerous.
She returned to the parsonage late enough that Charlotte looked up from her work with concern.
"You missed Mr. Collins's account of Lady Catherine's poultry yard," Charlotte said. "It may be repeated if you require punishment."
Elizabeth held out the letter, then drew it back before Charlotte could take it.
Charlotte's gaze moved to the seal. "Is it private?"
"Everything is private until a man wants his version believed."
"Do you want me to read it?"
Elizabeth hesitated. She did not want to expose Darcy's sister, nor even Wickham's sins, to more eyes than necessary. Her anger had limits, and it was a relief to discover them. "No. But I want to say that I was wrong about one thing."
"Wickham?"
"Yes."
Charlotte nodded, not surprised. "He was very agreeable."
"That is becoming a suspicious quality."
"It often is."
Elizabeth sat. "But Darcy was wrong about Jane. Worse, he is still explaining why his mistake seemed reasonable."
"Men prefer mistakes that sound reasonable. Such mistakes leave a drawing room looking undisturbed."
Elizabeth drew the letter back into her lap. "He says he observed no sign of particular regard."
"From Jane?"
"Yes."
"Then he observed what he was suited to observe."
Elizabeth looked up.
Charlotte folded her sewing. "Your sister's gentleness is not emptiness. But a man looking for permission to object could mistake it for that."
That was the sentence Elizabeth had needed and dreaded.
"He also mentions my family," Elizabeth said.
"Naturally."
"Not cruelly."
"No. With men like Mr. Darcy, the cruelty lies in mistaking polite language for innocence."
Elizabeth laughed under her breath. "I begin to think you should write conduct books."
"No one would buy them. They would have to change."
That evening Elizabeth did not go to Rosings.
She claimed a headache. Mr. Collins was alarmed, offered to ask Lady Catherine whether headaches of the female constitution ought to be encouraged, and was prevented by Charlotte only through the urgent fiction that her ladyship must not be disturbed before dinner.
Alone, Elizabeth read Darcy's letter a fourth time.
There was a sentence near the middle of the second page that had not struck her fully before.
I did not suppose my private concerns, nor my opinion of the hazards surrounding Bingley's attachment, could travel beyond those whose judgment I trusted.
She stared at it.
There. Not an apology. A confession disguised as explanation.
He had trusted others with contempt. He had placed her family in conversation as a hazard. He had believed words spoken among equals did not travel downward to the people described. But words always traveled downward. That was their favorite direction.
Elizabeth took out her list and copied the sentence exactly.
Then she wrote beneath it:
Repair cannot be private if damage was public.
The truth of it settled over her with unexpected force.
She did not know whether Darcy would ever ask again. She did not know whether she wanted him to. But she knew, with the clarity of a woman who had spent too many years laughing at insults to keep from feeling them, that a private letter could not mend a public story.
He had written to her because he wanted to be understood.
Very well.
If Mr. Darcy wished to be understood, he could begin by understanding the rooms in which he had made his judgments sound reasonable.