Chapter 14 #2
Jane nodded as if approving of this answer.
“Such is why I did not tell you myself. I did not want you to send Mr Darcy away without giving him a proper chance, as I knew you would if you learnt the truth of what happened in the autumn. You were so ready to hate him over a single insult that I could not risk him suffering your wrath over injuring me. You would never have forgiven him for it.”
A pang struck Elizabeth firmly in the chest. “Do you truly believe my resentment to be so implacable? Am I so wretchedly unforgiving that you cannot be honest with me?”
Jane took up her hand and leant forwards, her countenance earnest. “Of course not. I only meant that your heart, like Mama’s, is fiercely loyal and not easily swayed.
Anyone fortunate enough to be loved by you can be assured of your undying devotion.
Mr Darcy, I believe, is eminently deserving of it, and I did not wish to rekindle your prejudice against him before he was allowed to prove it. ”
“How can you have such faith in him after what he did?”
“No one is perfect, Lizzy. Mr Darcy made a mistake.”
“A mistake? Jane, he intentionally divided you from the man you love!”
“And then he made amends, simply because it was the right thing to do. Everyone has flaws, everyone missteps—to err is human, after all. The mark of a good character does not lie in perfection but rather good intentions and a willingness to admit fault. Had Mr Darcy refused to acknowledge his mistake and never make any effort to correct it, he would, indeed, have been a villain. Instead, we only know of his malfeasance because he confessed it himself to Charles and urged him back towards me.”
Although Elizabeth had oft shaken her head at Jane’s propensity to overlook the sins of others, now she better understood her inclination to hope for the best in people.
It was less that she saw no wrong in their actions and more that she believed in the power of reformation.
Elizabeth could never be so magnanimous herself, what with people in the world like Mr Wickham, but perhaps she would do well to remember that a single—or even multiple—mistakes did not make someone unworthy of understanding and compassion.
“So you have…” Elizabeth paused to clear her tightening throat, “forgiven Mr Darcy?”
Jane nodded, a soft smile blooming across her face. “I have, completely.”
“And you believe I should?”
A sigh. “I cannot tell you what to do, nor should I. All I shall say is that you ought to think very carefully about whether his actions have irreparably damaged your opinion of him. If so, then you should send him away.”
Elizabeth’s heart seized, and she used her free hand to clutch at it.
“However,” Jane continued, her gaze soft and compassionate, “if you care for him enough to overlook his trespasses, if you cannot abide the notion of dismissing him forever, then you need to forgive. Forgive and commit yourself to thinking of the past not as it gives you pain but instead as it brings you pleasure.”
Jane squeezed her hand a final time and left her, promising to give Elizabeth’s excuses to their aunt and mother. Then she slipped out of the room, closing the door behind her.
Elizabeth lay back on the bed, staring at the canopy stretched above her, her thoughts projected onto its blank expanse.
Could she forgive him? Jane had made some excellent points, but the betrayal she had experienced did not disappear simply because her rational mind understood why he had done what he did.
She greatly feared, more than anything, that she could not trust him.
He swore he would never lie to her again, and he had seemed sincere, but…
An image of Darcy’s face as she had last seen it, twisted in anguished remorse, hovered before her mind’s eye, leading her to again clutch at her aching heart.
He had seemed so sorry, so pained, and her nose began to sting with building tears as she recalled it.
Knowing that he was out there in the world hurting, because of her, made her stomach churn.
Rolling onto her side, Elizabeth slipped her hand beneath the pillow, seeking the treasure she had hidden there. Her fingers brushed against the folded edge of Darcy’s valentine, and she breathed a sigh of relief at the contact.
She withdrew the small parcel and held it above her face, staring avidly at the heart printed across the front. Peeling back the layers, she looked inside. The words of admiration therein caused her to burst into tears once more.
The mantel clock ticked a steady rhythm, counting the minutes and hours since Elizabeth had banished Darcy from her sight.
According to its face, she had cast him out a mere six hours ago, though it felt simultaneously shorter and longer than that.
Shorter in that his world had broken apart in a shockingly small amount of time, longer in how he perceived his agony as never ending.
The only thing that helped, however slightly, was the numbing comfort of brandy, though even that had its limitations.
He hoped to slip into insensible sleep sooner rather than later, if only for a reprieve.
“She will forgive you eventually.”
Darcy rolled his head to the side so he could look more directly at his cousin, slouched in a matching chair across the low table between them.
Fitzwilliam’s eyes shone keenly in the semi-dark, glittering in the light cast by the low fire in the hearth.
He held a drink in his hand as well, though Darcy had not seen him take more than a sip or two since he poured it.
He seemed content to watch Darcy become foxed with a concerned wrinkle in his brow.
Belatedly, Darcy scoffed. “You do not know Elizabeth. She hated me for months over a single overheard comment I made the night we met. She will not easily forgive me for threatening the happiness of her most beloved sister.”
“That was only when you first knew her, Darce. Surely she has kinder feelings for you now, ones that will allow her to pardon you.”
“She might have tolerated my presence these past weeks, but I rather doubt her affection for me runs deeper than that. There was no time for anything else.” He threw back the last of his brandy and reached for the decanter.
Fitzwilliam moved it out of his reach, causing Darcy to nearly tumble out of his seat. “You do yourself a disservice, Cousin. Any woman would be pleased to have you.”
Darcy swiped at the decanter again, but Fitzwilliam held it aloft, and he was too dizzy to pursue it. Instead, he collapsed back into his chair and made a rude noise. “Elizabeth cares nothing for my fortune. ’S one of the things I love best about her.”
“I was not speaking of your fortune.” Fitzwilliam fixed him with a fierce look. “If Miss Elizabeth is half the woman you say she is, she will come round.”
“And if she does not?”
“Either she is not worthy of you after all—”
Although Darcy attempted to stumble to his feet and cuff his cousin about the head, he was not steady enough to accomplish the feat.
Fitzwilliam easily tipped him back into his chair as Darcy shouted, “Do not speak of her that way! Elizabeth is the cleverest, most generous, wonderful woman in the world. If she never forgives me, it is my own fault, not hers.”
“Let me finish, you drunken sot,” said Fitzwilliam, a chuckle rumbling through his chest. “Either she is not worthy of you after all, or she is worth fighting for. If the latter, then fight you must.”
“Fight,” Darcy repeated, feeling the word roll around on his tongue. “How?”
“Call on her again. Speak to her. And do not be afraid to get your knees a little dusty.”