Chapter 4 #2
“No? ‘In spite of my family,’ I believe you said. ‘Despite every rational objection.’” She smiled thinly. “What poetry. You have insulted nearly every person I hold dear, and you expect me to thank you for it.”
Darcy’s hands curled at his sides. “My feelings are sincere. Do you not feel the honor—or, at very least, the comfort—of knowing the strength of my regard in order to overcome such formidable obstacles?”
“You speak of affection, Mr. Darcy, but your words reek of condescension. And worse still, worse than your pride, is the damage you have already done to those I love.”
“I spoke only what is true,” he said stiffly. “You cannot pretend your family has no—”
“Do not dare finish that sentence,” she hissed.
Her voice rising, she added, “You have separated my sister from the only man who has ever shown her true affection, and not just admired her for her beauty. You have caused her to suffer. You have interfered—without invitation, without justification—and you have the audacity to stand before me and ask for my hand in the same breath.”
He looked as though she had slapped him. Perhaps she had. Not with her hand, but with the truth. Her fingers itched to make contact with his face.
“I did what I thought was best,” he said hoarsely. “Bingley—he—”
“Was in love with her,” Elizabeth said. “And you knew it.”
They stared at one another, the fire hissing between them.
“You hate me,” he said.
“I did not before,” she said, “but now I cannot help but wish you had never been born.”
She turned away, gripping the edge of the mantel as if to steady herself.
Behind her, the silence was deafening. Outside, a bird trilled in the hedge. The fire snapped once in the grate.
But there were no footsteps. No words.
Then the door opened and closed again.
Elizabeth stood still for a long moment, then let out a breath through her nose. Her hands were cold. She pressed them to her skirts and sat slowly back down in the chair by the fire.
He had proposed. With all the gravity of a man bestowing a title.
And now he was gone.
She stared into the flames, too furious to be triumphant.
∞∞∞
Darcy scarcely knew how he reached the gate leaving the parsonage.
The lane was thick with frost, but he felt none of it. His gloves were on, his greatcoat buttoned, but his whole body felt raw, exposed, like the wind had sliced straight through his ribs and stolen the breath from his chest.
She had refused him.
Not with hesitation. Not even with regret.
Flatly. Completely. As if the very idea of becoming his wife was offensive.
“I cannot help but wish you had never been born.”
He flinched again at the memory. Those words would echo for a long while, he suspected.
Each step toward Rosings felt heavier than the last. He was not certain how long he had wandered the park’s outer edge before the house came into view.
The windows glowed with candlelight, the scent of roast goose wafted faintly on the night air.
Somewhere within, the silver was being polished, the punch set out.
Lady Catherine believed in formality—even at Christmas.
Christmas. His steps slowed. This was supposed to be a happy time of year, filled with goodwill and cheer.
And yet the woman he loved despised him.
He swallowed hard and climbed the steps to Rosings’ front door. The footman at the door opened it quickly, and Darcy stepped inside, shoulders hunched against the warmth.
“Mr. Darcy, sir—Lady Catherine requests your presence at once.”
Darcy gritted his teeth. Of course she does.
He passed his hat and gloves to the servant with numb fingers. “Inform her that I am indisposed.”
“Sir?”
“A headache,” he said sharply. “And a matter of business that requires my attention. I will not be coming down.”
The man blinked. “Yes, sir.”
Darcy turned without waiting and climbed the stairs two at a time, not stopping until he reached the sanctuary of his bedchamber.
Once the door was shut and locked behind him, he leaned back against it, letting the weight of the silence settle over him.
It was Christmas Eve.
He had thought—he had truly believed—that this night would mark the beginning of his life with her. That she would say yes. That he would write to Georgiana with joyful news. That he would finally feel… settled.
Instead, he felt hollow. Like he had been carved out.
It was worse than Ramsgate.
That moment—that other moment—had been terror and fury. A nightmare. But this? This was… personal. This was rejection. He had opened his heart—awkwardly, yes, and perhaps not with the finesse of a practiced courtier—but openly nonetheless.
And she had thrown it back in his face.
With a trembling hand, he rang for his valet to bring up a tray, then crossed to his writing desk and pulled out paper and ink.
If she had misunderstood him—if she had judged him wrongly—it was not too late to set it right. He had been too blunt. Too proud. The fault, if he were being honest, might partly be his.
He uncapped the ink and began.
Miss Bennet,
You must allow me to explain—
He stopped. Crossed it out.
You have, perhaps, been misled—
No. Too condescending.
My intentions were honorable—
He crumpled the sheet and threw it into the fire.
Another. Another attempt.
Too cold. Too desperate. Too angry.
He wrote until his hand cramped, until the hearth was glowing with the ash of failed confessions. Page after page blackened and burned, curling at the edges like scorched petals.
At last, he shoved back from the desk and stood, breathing heavily.
Ink would not suffice. That much was clear. She may even refuse to read it. Refusal, it seemed, was in her nature.
Very well, I shall know how to act.
As the words would not come to his pen, then he would speak to her once more. Calmly. Firmly. As a gentleman.
She would see sense—she must. She would be made to understand how deeply she had wronged him. How ungrateful and rash her judgment had been.
She would regret it. He was certain of it.
He sat heavily on the edge of the bed, chest still heaving with the last embers of humiliation.
Tomorrow, then.
He would speak to her tomorrow.
And when she finally saw her error, he would forgive her.
Eventually.
∞∞∞
Darcy had not expected to sleep.
He lay for hours staring at the ceiling, his mind a snarl of wounded pride and gnawing confusion. Her words rang repeatedly in his ears—not just the refusal, but everything that followed.
You speak of affection, Mr. Darcy, but your words reek of condescension…
You separated my sister from the only man who ever showed her real affection…
I wish you had never been born.
He told himself she was wrong. She had misunderstood. She had misjudged him.
And yet—he had no peace. When sleep finally came, it came poorly.
Darcy awoke the following morning, on Christmas Day, with a start.
He was drenched in a cold sweat, his heart hammering against his ribs.
For a moment he could not tell where he was—the dim winter light filtering through heavy curtains, the faint scent of coal smoke, the muffled clatter of servants below.
He pressed a hand to his eyes. The dreams still clung to him like cobwebs.
In one, Bingley had stood before him in the drawing room at Netherfield, eyes blank, his usual warmth gone. “You have ruined my life,” he had said, over and over, each repetition flat and expressionless. Jane had appeared behind him, pale and thin, eyes full of accusation and sorrow.
“Why would you do this to me?” she had whispered.
Then Georgiana—sweet Georgiana—crying out to him from Ramsgate, but instead of relief at his arrival, she only lamented his coming. You think you know best,” she had sobbed. “You always say you know best. You never let us choose. Without you, I should have been free—"
Anne was next to appear before him. “My solitude is all your fault, Darcy. If not for you, my mother would have allowed me the freedom to marry as I pleased.”
And then his father, stern and distant, seated in the library at Pemberley. “You have ruined all of them, Fitzwilliam. Oh, why must I have had such a son?”
At the end of it all, Elizabeth. Not mocking this time. Not furious. Only standing at a distance, her eyes dark and sorrowful. “Everyone would be happier if you had never been born.”
He had woken with a strangled sound and found himself alone, the embers of the fire dying low.
Now the light was gray, seeping around the edges of the curtains. His head ached. His mouth was dry. Every attempt at righteous indignation from the night before had withered; the pages he had consigned to the fire seemed childish, his vow to “set her straight” absurd.
He sat up slowly, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. His cravat hung limp over the chair where he had thrown it. He stared at it for a long time, feeling oddly hollow.
Perhaps she is right, he thought dully. Perhaps I am nothing but a meddler. Perhaps I ruin everything I touch. Bingley. Georgiana. Cousin Anne. Even… even Elizabeth.
He rubbed a hand over his face.
It was Christmas morning. He should have been at Pemberley or at Matlock with Georgiana, presenting gifts and seeing her smile. Instead, he sat alone in a cold room at Rosings, unwanted, unloved, and rejected.
Maybe it would be better if I had never been born.
The thought startled him, but it stayed.
He stood abruptly and crossed to the window, pushing aside the heavy curtain. Outside, the fields were blanketed in snow. A weak sun struggled through clouds, sending pale shafts of light across the white expanse. The hedgerows stood like dark stitches against a seam of silver.
He needed air.