Chapter 9
Darcy left for Rosings, mortified. Not for a moment had he imagined that Elizabeth would refuse him, and the manner of her refusal still rang in his ears, making him tremble with anger and humiliation.
He had believed that this day would at last prove a serene one; after months of wavering between marrying her and forgetting her for ever, the resolution taken that morning had been formed precisely in the terms he had afterwards confessed to her.
He loved her with his whole soul, yet her family was odious to him.
He had thought his honesty would be valued, but she had thought otherwise.
“What has happened?” cried the colonel, who was waiting at the gate. It was plain he had been watching for his cousin, and Darcy’s countenance betrayed not the faintest trace of satisfaction.
“She has said no!” Darcy replied shortly.
He was not accustomed to confidences, yet that morning, for the first time in his life, he had felt the need of counsel.
The colonel, without hesitation, had offered it—Miss Elizabeth Bennet was precisely the wife he had imagined by his cousin’s side at Pemberley.
“How did she say no?” asked the colonel, almost in disbelief, for he had been persuaded that Miss Bennet felt some regard for Mr Darcy.
“In the most direct manner possible, and without the least attempt at civility. I might even say that the vehemence of her refusal was not merely shocking—it was profoundly mortifying.”
“Good heavens!” exclaimed the colonel. “But why such vehemence? Miss Bennet is a young lady of excellent breeding—”
He stopped abruptly, checked by his cousin’s look and by the sight of Mr Collins approaching with an air of officious importance—the very man they least wished to see. Fortunately, he appeared to comprehend that he was not desired and soon continued his way alone, to their great relief.
“Look at that man,” said Darcy at length. “Can you believe he is her cousin? And I assure you, such is the whole of her family. That is what I told her—”
“You told her?” The colonel’s astonishment was unfeigned; he could hardly credit that Darcy had offered his hand while censuring her relations.
“I thought that honesty—”
“What honesty, Fitzwilliam? What do you mean?”
“I mean her mother, who had already planned poor Bingley’s marriage before he had even considered such a thing; her sister, who thought only of his fortune and could not even summon a smile for the man she wished to ensnare.”
“Then the story you told me was about Bingley and Miss Bennet?” The colonel coloured, mortified as he recalled the indiscretion he had committed the previous day.
“It is my fault,” he admitted. “I told her that you had saved a friend from an imprudent marriage.”
Darcy shook his head with vehemence. “Be easy. I told her the same myself, and without the least reserve, for I believed—and still believe—it was a just action.”
Matters were beginning to grow clearer. Though the colonel still felt some guilt, he now understood that his cousin had proposed to Miss Bennet, offering her his heart in exchange for her renunciation of her family—or something very like it.
“Well, but all is not lost—”
“Enough, Richard!” Darcy’s tone grew harsh. “Enough! I have done for ever with these follies of love and independent women in which I have lately believed. I require a wife from our own sphere—one who will not be dazzled by my fortune, who belongs to a family of sense and moderation.”
“And do you suppose you will find such a one in London? How often have we debated this question while observing the young ladies about us—how many times have you declared that you could never marry a woman like Lady Amelie or any of her kind?”
“They cannot all be like Lady Amelie…but my resolution is nearly made.”
Though the colonel sought to draw more from him, Darcy moved forward with determination and entered the hall at Rosings, where their conversation could not continue.
Yet the colonel was unwilling to let him withdraw without avowing his intentions, for he recalled a conversation they had once had in London, shortly before coming to Kent, when Darcy had told him that, in the end, he would marry Anne de Bourgh.
At that time, he had taken it for an idle remark; yet something now whispered that the resolution his cousin had spoken of was indeed this very one.
He compelled him to enter the library and there almost detained him by force. Standing with his back against the door, he implored him to speak his mind.
“I intend,” Darcy said with terrifying calmness, “to marry Anne.”
The sky seemed to fall upon the colonel.
There could be no greater folly. Anne was a sickly, withdrawn girl, wholly unequal to the position of Darcy’s wife.
If in London, he had believed his cousin jesting, he now perceived that his evident suffering might drive him to such an error.
Miss Bennet had been the proper match for him, yet she was not the only one; and rather than Anne de Bourgh, almost any young lady of their acquaintance would have been preferable.
“I entreat you, I implore you,” said the colonel, searching his cousin’s eyes but finding there nothing but indifference. “Let time pass. London is full of lively, charming, and wealthy girls from excellent families who would gladly marry you. Promise me you will do nothing rash.”
“Enough, Richard! I promise nothing. Cease this absurd drama. Marriage is no more than a contract.”
“It is not what you believed this morning—”
“This morning I was a fool whom I no longer recognise!”
“Only say you will reflect—”
Darcy laughed instead; yet the sound bore no trace of mirth—it was the cry of a wounded creature.
The colonel’s anxiety rose to an almost unbearable height.
“We are leaving in the morning!” he called after him.
Darcy was already mounting the stairs and merely lifted his hand in an indistinct gesture without turning.
It conveyed no meaning, yet unhappily, the colonel knew him too well—his obstinacy matched his pride—and as long as they remained under the same roof with Lady Catherine, he would not suffer him to propose to their cousin, Anne de Bourgh.
∞∞∞
Then he remembered Mr Collins, who had not stopped to speak with them, and suddenly understood.
The man was on a mission far more important than flattering Lady Catherine’s nephews.
He was eager to reveal to his benefactress what had passed at the Parsonage—the offer of marriage and Miss Bennet’s refusal—confident that, for such intelligence, he might be rewarded with half a smile.
The colonel could almost see Lady Catherine in her favourite armchair, dozing at that hour, yet instantly revived by the news, already preparing her offensive.
What moment could be more propitious than this, when Darcy lay defeated, struck down, with a pain in his heart impossible to disguise?
Her moment had at last arrived, and their aunt would know how to profit from her nephew’s weakness.
This marriage had been her dream since Anne’s birth, but since her husband’s death, it had grown into an obsession, for only through Darcy could she continue to rule over Rosings, which was, in truth, Anne’s inheritance.
Any other husband would have claimed his rights at once and obtained them despite all her opposition.
With Darcy, however, all was simple. Possessing an estate nearly two hundred miles away, he would never concern himself with imposing his authority in Kent.
He would be content to know her there, capable and devoted.
As the colonel walked towards his chamber, it even occurred to him that perhaps for this very reason she had raised Anne in such a manner—kept from air and society, maintaining her in that delicate, sickly state—only to ensure she would never marry.
But now matters stood otherwise, and the artful Lady Catherine must have felt it beyond doubt.
From that moment, his own purpose became clear: to prevent that marriage.
He refreshed himself in haste and descended.
To his satisfaction, he found Lady Catherine alone, and from his valet he learnt that Darcy had departed on horseback but a few minutes earlier.
For the present, matters were well, and he resolved to keep them so, even if it meant placing himself between Lady Catherine’s designs and Darcy until morning.
He dreaded the dinner—the meeting of the two—for although he had chosen the army, he was by nature a man of peace and conciliation, and he abhorred quarrels and angry arguments.
Yet, for once, Darcy’s fate was of greater importance.
His valet received a precise instruction—to watch for Mr Darcy’s return and to inform his master the instant he should descend into the drawing-room where Lady Catherine was seated.