Chapter 25 Ardent and Vain
ARDENT AND VAIN
Charlotte and Mr. Collins were out when I returned. I brushed past the maid and ended in Charlotte’s drawing room, surrounded by embroidery hoops, neat skeins of thread, and a few woven ornaments hung on the walls.
I had cried myself out among the trees. Now I was calm but brittle, as if sealed with cracking varnish. My emotions had parched.
But my purpose was clear. I must cure Jane. Nothing else mattered.
I wrote a note ordering a carriage for tomorrow, traveling first to London then continuing to Longbourn. I sealed it and handed it to the maid, who gave a nervous curtsy and left to deliver it.
Then I stood, thinking.
Discard supposition and fancy. What did I know? Mary had found knowledge of this illness in our journal. The Scottish maid might have wisdom. Those, I would trust. But there was no reason to approach Mr. Darcy. Even if the idea were not abhorrent, the wyfe he treated had died.
The doorbell jingled, unanswered because the maid was out. It rang again. I did not move.
The sunlight shifted across Charlotte’s embroidery threads, their hues ordered to follow a rainbow.
The front door rattled as the maid returned. I heard her speak to someone outside. She entered the drawing room.
“Mr. Darcy, ma’am.”
He strode in on her heels without waiting to be acknowledged, and she left hurriedly.
His hair was disheveled, his hands clenched. He crossed the room twice, anxious or upset, his riding boots heavy on the floor.
My eyes followed him. This was the man who had harmed my sister. It was bizarre that he was present. Surely, he would recognize his mistake and leave.
He turned to me. “In vain I have struggled. It will not do. My feelings will not be repressed. You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you.”
“What?” I spoke simply because his words were incongruous. Preposterous.
“I cannot bear to continue my silence. I hoped that the danger of our union could dissuade me, but…” He gave a despairing laugh.
“Oh, I have tried! I see how draca worship you. Every dark memory cries that you must not be exposed to Pemberley. But the infatuated regard of those draca mirrors my own. I have tested myself by submerging in petty disgrace. I imagine your heartless, disporting father. Your mother scheming for marriage gold. But the degradation of my relations, the censure of society—even the mockery—is nothing to me. I love you. The sensation overwhelms anything I have experienced before. It is a glorious agony. Desperately, passionately, I ask that you end my torment, and consent to be my wyfe.”
My disbelief had become… blankness. Not surprise. Not anger. After all the emotion that had ravaged me, this was a farce, a pathetic play that failed to engage an iota of my belief. A tasteless display by a strutting actor with poor lines.
He was waiting, looking down at me from all that height.
“It is expected,” I said, “that an offer of marriage is met with civil appreciation, however unequally the avowed sentiments may be returned. If I could feel gratitude, I would thank you. But I cannot. You speak of torment. I had thought I would regret inflicting pain on anyone, but today, I am singularly uncaring. At least your suffering was unintended. I suppose that is my defense.”
Surprise or disbelief crossed his features, then he whitened with anger.
“Is this Wickham?” he said. “Has he drawn you into his evil?”
“Wickham?” I had not thought of him for weeks, other than worrying about his proximity to Lydia while she visited Brighton.
“You take an eager interest in that gentleman’s concerns!”
“I have not the slightest interest in Mr. Wickham. Or his concerns.”
Mr. Darcy’s lips sneered, the next moment he was puzzled, then he was angry again. His hand grabbed the mantelpiece, and ornaments rattled. “Then what? Why, with so little regret, am I rejected?”
There it was. His privilege, bare and obvious. To think that, once, I had almost been fooled. Hot anger climbed in my chest.
“Shall I remind you of the language of your declaration? We stand in your aunt’s estate financed by the misery of slaves, and you dare to disdain my relations? Pemberley itself has benefited from this moral corruption, and you declare me a disgrace? A degradation?”
“So you wish I flattered you? Concealed my struggles? But disguise of every sort is my abhorrence.”
“How strange, when you are so skilled at concealment. Have you not egregiously misled and betrayed me all these weeks?” He had the temerity to appear confused, and my anger erupted.
“Do you think any consideration would tempt me to accept the man who has ruined, perhaps forever, the happiness—indeed, the very life—of a most beloved sister?”
Realization dawned over his face, but he said nothing.
“Can you deny you have done it?” I repeated.
At last, he answered, “I have no wish to deny that I did everything in my power to separate my friend from your sister.”
“Your vanity astounds me. Did you think I would not discover the truth? Did you imagine the Darcy name would overwhelm my senses, or purge my love for my family? But I can guess the answer. The wealthy believe their money buys anything. You satisfy every selfish whim with your purse. Why not a wyfe?”
“And this is your criticism! With no knowledge of my family, or of my work—indeed, in ignorance of every aspect of my life—you condemn me as self-indulgent and decadent. But perhaps, if I had hidden the vile history of my fortune, you would have been comforted. Even though I have worked tirelessly to level that moral balance.” He stepped closer, rigid with anger.
“To think I admired—” He recoiled as if struck, although I stood unmoving, then his posture became entreating and his voice desperate.
“I admire your insistence on truth. You gave me the courage to challenge the dark pall of Pemberley.”
His intensity penetrated my anger. “What dark pall?”
He fell utterly still, his lips a fraction apart.
A breath passed, and another, and my fury broke free.
“Silence, again. Your scruple for truth is most one-sided. Scrutinize yourself, for your disdain is illuminating.” My voice rang out.
“What deficiencies condemn my sister and me? Lack of wealth? Insufficient influence? Those are superficial, egotistical concerns. They are beneath consideration for a gentleman, and they are inconsequential to me. As are you. Indeed, immediately upon our acquaintance, your arrogance, your conceit, and your selfish entitlement proved you were the last man in the world whom I would ever marry!”
There were inches between us. I stepped back, my shoulders rising and falling as if I had run a mile.
Mr. Darcy paled like death. My heart pounded my ribs.
When he spoke, his voice was cracked and pitted—brittle iron hammered flat. “You have said quite enough, madam. I perfectly comprehend your feelings. Forgive me for having taken up your time, and accept my best wishes for your health and happiness.”
He snapped a bow and left.