Chapter 10
Darcy sat at his desk and opened the ink bottle.
Perhaps he ought to have gone upstairs to change into dry clothes himself; he was still damp and rather cold from his excursion to assist Elizabeth.
He smiled wryly; she had not welcomed his attempts.
The perfect lady for him — what would he do with a simpering, helpless miss from Town?
And why had he not seen the rightness of their marriage earlier?
He shivered. But now he felt he knew what he needed to write, what he needed to say, he would brook no delay.
Dear Mrs. Darcy,
No! He crumpled up the sheet and threw it towards the waste paper basket.
My dear Elizabeth,
I find I cannot leave matters as they stand between us. I spoke clumsily earlier and fear I have now deepened the wound my own stupidity created.
He frowned. How could he best order his thoughts? There was so much he wished her to know.
Words always fail me when I most need them, so I put them here, hoping that what I write may reach you with more honesty than I managed face to face.
He might even send her this rough copy rather than write it more formally afterwards. Then she would read it sooner and his heart pounded in hope.
You are owed the complete truth, however it might condemn me. When Mrs Bennet cried compromise that night at Meryton and the crowd pressed round us, my only thought was that I must prevent scandal.
When I had seen your sister on the brink of ruin, I thought of Georgiana — and of the despair that might have been hers had not I arrived in time to prevent it. I could not stand by and watch another young woman destroyed by the same sort of man.
I feared your younger sister’s folly would drag you all into disgrace, and—coward that I was—I sought to shield myself from being forced into an attachment to her that I could not respect, due both to her unbridled behaviour as well for her youth.
He put his pen down and dropped his head into his hands in shame at the memory. Mrs. Bennet’s shriek echoed through his mind, the vision that of the staring faces. Then another memory intruded: Elizabeth’s expression, bewildered but refusing to cower in shame.
I believed that by offering for you I might avert the gossip and be safe from another alliance. It was a selfish act, and I have regretted it every hour since — but only because of the pain it occasioned you.
From the beginning I began to see the wonderful woman you are. I saw courage where I had presumed only temper, honour where I expected ambition. What began in fear has become something far stronger and far more humbling. You are the perfect wife for me, and an exemplary mistress of Pemberley.
He raised his head, his home was never entirely silent. From the other side of the door he could hear quiet sounds: servants moving purposefully, preparing for dinner, for refreshments, attending to the fires, for anything he might require. He turned back to his purpose.
If you have been wondering what happened back in Meryton … the servant whose presumption began it all was dismissed before I left the inn that night, and your father’s arrival and presence spared your sister’s name from further talk. There was no lasting harm.
But you have probably heard it all in letters from home. Forgive me, I know I am making little sense.
He put his pen down and stretched his fingers. There was more to say, but he wished to take care; he must not offend.
I acted from a sense of duty that has ruled me all my life. I did not stop to consider what the cost would be to you. For that, I can never atone.
The only one whose honour I truly injured was yours.
How had he never thought of her honour — or her pain or sadness at being sundered from all those she held dear?
I am mortified at my attitude and coldness towards you in the past months.
I pray that you can absolve me from the wretched manner of our beginning, and can believe that what I feel now is not duty but devotion — if you are able to do so, you will give peace to a heart long unworthy of you…
He looked at the last line. He had never considered that he might feel a devotion like this. How long had it been stealing up on him unawares?
You owe me nothing, Elizabeth. But if it eases you to know that you were never despised, never a duty endured, then I beg you to believe it.
From the earliest days of our marriage I have learned to respect you; I have admired your courage and your kindness, even when you could not bear to look at me.
Lately I have learned something far more dangerous — that your happiness has become the measure of mine.
I pray your forgiveness, and that you might trust me with your comfort and protection.
I vow to do all in my power to deserve that happiness, and to preserve it, from this day and for all our lives.
Yours ever
William
He sat back. In a few minutes, Elizabeth might be reading this. He glanced over it, determined to permit her to see his heart unguarded, not rewritten to remove all the emotion he felt.
But it was done. He folded it, before writing her name on the front. He was steadfast, his heart both anxious and hopeful together.
Then he lifted the stick to the flame; the wax softened, releasing that familiar perfume of resin and smoke — the scent of duty and habit. He sealed the letter with a sense of finality.
He could hardly think of his anguish if she still despised him after reading the truth. He knew he would deserve it, but prayed her generosity of heart would forgive him every transgression, and he would — somehow — earn her love.
He stood staring into the fire for long moments. As soon as the letter had left his hand, he would no longer have any chance to improve her opinion of his errors at the assembly further.
He exclaimed impatiently, turned and rang the bell. When the butler entered, Darcy nodded.
“Call the housekeeper, Mr. Jones, if you please.”
It was above five minutes before Mrs. Reynolds appeared apologetically. “I am sorry, Mr. Darcy. I was above stairs.”
“It is no matter.” Darcy brushed her reason off. “I would like you to deliver this note to Mrs. Darcy as soon as possible. I understand her still to be in her chambers?”
“Yes, sir.” The woman curtsied. “I will go at once.” Her gaze was understanding, and he turned away, embarrassed that she knew more than he wished her to.
But he was to blame for that as well. And she was exceedingly discreet. He paused, drew a breath to steady himself, and returned to the library to wait.
As he sat in the quiet room, with dusk just beginning to steal across the landscape, he wondered what she would think of what he had written. Would she think he ought to have spoken to her?
No; he must watch the fire and hope. He had a little under two hours before dinner would be called.
How uncomfortable that meal might be. He dismissed the thought. The problem of dinner could be solved when he knew if it needed to be. He closed his eyes. He must wait.