CHAPTER 10 – Unacknowledged Truths
Elizabeth’s visit to the drawing room was not as brief as she had intended.
The chamber lay nearly dark; the night footman who usually tended the candles was nowhere in sight, and a single taper flickered on the mantel, casting long shadows across the furniture.
She groped about until she found the dreary volume she had abandoned earlier, but even holding it in her hand confirmed how little she wished to resume it.
The whole business of death and inheritance weighed too heavily upon her mind for such poor diversion.
A sound in the main hall made her pause.
Footsteps—slow, deliberate—echoed across the marble floor.
Relief fluttered through her; surely Mr. Darcy had quitted the library at last. Seizing the chance, she stepped out, only to glimpse Mrs. Jenkinson’s candle vanish round the landing of the staircase above her.
Shaking off the image, Elizabeth returned to her purpose.
Believing the library now deserted, she turned with quiet resolve towards the heavy door, intent on securing a more tolerable book.
She pushed the door open—and stopped short.
Mr. Darcy was still within. He stood by the fireplace in his shirtsleeves and waistcoat, a glass of port in hand, papers strewn across the desk behind him.
Firelight carved his features into shadow and severity, and the deep furrow of his brow spoke of a turmoil she had no wish to confront.
“Miss Bennet!” He straightened, his dark eyes fixed on her. “What are you doing here?”
“I… I came to obtain a book,” she stammered. “I am sorry if I disturbed you.”
For a moment he only stared, his brow still furrowed. Then, with visible effort, he became less taut. “No, not at all. Forgive me. It is I who should apologize for my ungracious welcome.”
Elizabeth shifted uneasily. “I think I had better return to my chambers.”
He walked towards her. Her heartbeat hammered inside her chest as the space between them narrowed.
“I hope the events of these past two days have not ruined your opinion of Rosings,” he said, his voice lower, more controlled. “Mrs. Collins will surely miss your company if you choose not to visit her again.”
Elizabeth replied with caution, her every sense alert. “And I shall miss her, should that happen. I do hope Mr. Collins finds a new living closer to her family.”
“I suppose that is proof of your attachment to Hertfordshire. Anything beyond Longbourn would appear too far for you.” He took another step forward. A smile ghosted across his lips, yet it still seemed edged with menace.
“Excuse me, sir, it is quite late, and I should like to retire.” She retreated, eager to create distance.
The crease between Mr. Darcy’s brows deepened. “Of course, forgive me. Allow me to accompany you. The halls are dark.”
“No!” She blurted out the word, unable to mask her alarm. Catching herself at once, she added in a more generous tone, “Pray, do not trouble yourself. I know the way.”
His face shifted, first to confusion, then to something unreadable. “You seem uneasy. Have I done something to offend you?”
“Not at all, sir.” She attempted a smile, though her pulse thudded painfully. “I am merely unsettled by all that has happened.”
“Of course. As we all are.” A new intensity was in his tone. “And yet, you seem frightened of me in particular. Why? Do you believe I had some part in my aunt’s death?”
“Why should I think that?” She gulped. The speed of his suspicion, the ease with which he leaned towards guilt made her even more distrustful.
He scoffed bitterly. “Fitzwilliam accused me outright. Was it your doing? Did you tell him you saw me in the gallery that night?”
“No!” Her throat tightened. “Pray. . . let me go, and I shall not speak of this conversation. I—”
“You do!” he murmured, more to himself than to her. “You truly believe I killed her.”
All she could do was shake her head, but his gaze held her fast, demanding more than denial.
He took a step back, a bitter laugh escaping him. “I see. It does not matter what I say, does it? Your judgement has already passed.”
Elizabeth swallowed hard, forcing herself to hold his gaze.
For the first time since Lady Catherine’s death, doubt gnawed at the edges of her certainty.
Had she been too hasty? Perhaps. And yet, her instincts warned her not to be easily swayed.
“I am sorry if I have offended you, sir. That was not my intention. But these past few days have been so strange—this terrible storm, your aunt’s death—and I am not accustomed to such events.
I fear they may have clouded my discernment. ”
She turned to go, but Mr. Darcy’s voice stopped her.
“What you saw is not what you think.”
Elizabeth froze, though she did not turn back. “I saw nothing of consequence.”
“Then why are you so affected by my presence?” His voice was almost pleading. “I believe I have earned the right to know, having been judged so unfairly.”
Her fingers curled at her sides. He was entreating her, urging her towards a confrontation she was not ready to face.
Slowly, Elizabeth turned around. She took a steadying breath, then spoke, each word deliberate, her gaze never leaving his.
“Your aunt. . . I know she was pressing you to marry Miss de Bourgh. I overheard your quarrel with her the night she died. She threatened to expose damaging information about your sister, letters I believe, if you did not yield to her demands.”
Mr. Darcy went still.
She had expected immediate protest—denial, perhaps even outrage. But instead, he was silent. When at last he spoke, his voice was quiet, restrained.
“Although it still pains me, I understand now where your suspicions lie. That might have been reason enough for anyone, but not for me. I am not a criminal. I did not kill my aunt.”
Elizabeth’s lips pressed into a thin line. In truth, to believe him innocent was her secret desire. This unnerved her. But his words alone were not enough.
He seemed to sense her hesitation. His jaw tightened, and for a moment it appeared as though he might let the matter drop.
“Miss Bennet, there are things about that night—about my aunt—that you do not yet know. If you are to judge me fairly, you must hear them.” His speech was measured, his gaze unflinching.
“Your good opinion means more to me than you might realize.”
Her better judgement urged her to go, yet some unspoken impulse—one she dared not acknowledge—held her fast. She lifted her chin. “All right, sir. I shall listen.”
“Thank you.” He smiled. “Pray, take a seat by the hearth.”
Mr. Darcy walked towards the fireplace and cast in a scoop of coal, prodding the embers until they flared to life. He lingered there, his gaze fixed on the glow, the light catching the hollows of his face. His appearance betrayed exhaustion.
“Perhaps I ought to start from the beginning,” he said after a long exhalation.
“When my father departed this life, my sister became Colonel Fitzwilliam’s ward as well as mine.
Last spring, I placed her at Ramsgate under the care of Mrs. Younge, the woman charged with her education, whom I then believed trustworthy.
But she was not. She was connected to an old family friend—a man whose character I now see as profoundly corrupt.
Without my knowledge, he followed thither with but one purpose: to ingratiate himself with Georgiana. ”
“And he succeeded, if I heard correctly.” Elizabeth ventured cautiously.
“Indeed.” Mr. Darcy’s voice was heavy with regret.
“My sister, Georgiana, was only fifteen—a tender age that might excuse her na?veté. Yet her heart retained the imprint of his childhood kindness, even as he proved both engaging and deceitful. With Mrs. Younge’s aid, he not only convinced her to fall in love but also attempted to persuade her to consent to an elopement. ”
“Yet it sounds as if they did not run away. Why, then, did your aunt hold this against you?”
“I travelled to Ramsgate to surprise Georgiana with a visit, but instead I met with a most unpleasant discovery. One day more, and it would have been too late. I was aghast, and acted as I thought best: I removed Georgiana at once to London, hoping to free her from that scoundrel’s influence.
During our journey she disclosed the entire truth: the secret letters, the unsupervised meetings.
Although her virtue was not taken, there was, perhaps, an element of impropriety, a cruel manipulation of her tender affections.
” His voice faltered, though he quickly recollected himself.
“Poor child, she wept so bitterly as she spoke.”
A pang of sympathy stirred in her at his sorrowful confession. Poor girl, indeed! No artifice could feign such grief; in that moment, he was not the proud gentleman who had slighted her in Hertfordshire, but a brother burdened by his own failure.
“And the letters? How did they come into your aunt’s possession?”
“I summoned that wretched man to my townhouse and demanded the letters. A bitter argument ensued, and I paid him two thousand pounds, convinced I was buying all the correspondence he exchanged with my sister. But he deceived me. I should have known better.” He released a breath thick with remorse. “I should have.”
“But how could you be sure you obtained them all?” The words escaped more like protest than censure, her heart rebelling against his self-reproach.
“I asked her,” Mr. Darcy replied, his tone pained, “but in her distress and shame, she could recall only fragments. Meanwhile, that villain retained letters exposing my sister’s most intimate feelings—then sold them to my aunt, whose unscrupulous nature he knew all too well.
” His gaze met hers, his anguish evident.
“That is why you saw me in the gallery last night. I ventured into my aunt’s rooms in a desperate bid to retrieve those letters and end our torment. ”
“You went into her rooms?” Elizabeth’s eyebrows rose.
The gentleman raked his hand through his hair.
“Even if I acquiesced to her wishes and married my cousin, Lady Catherine would hold those secrets against me for life. My actions, though inexcusable by any standard, were driven solely by the need to protect my sister’s honour. And, in a small way, my own happiness.”
“Did you find the letters?”
“No. I searched the entire dressing room and boudoir, but they were not there. So, I ventured into my aunt’s bedchamber. I feared she might awaken, yet knowing her fondness for sherry—often half a bottle or more—I assumed she would be too inebriated to notice my presence.”
He began pacing before the hearth, each step heavy during his recollection. At last, he stopped, pressing a fist to his mouth as pallor crept into his features. “I saw her,” he said quietly. “She lay there. . . dead, in a pool of her own blood.”
“Goodness gracious!” Elizabeth gasped, a hand flying to her chest.
“I was in utter shock,” he said, his voice shaking.
“I thought of waking my cousin, but I could never explain my presence there. He is aware of what happened in Ramsgate, including the letters I retrieved. But I had said nothing of the others my aunt possessed, or the threat she made to expose them. She only revealed that she had them during this visit—upon my arrival to the island. In my horror, I fled the room. . . and that is when I encountered you.”
“You looked so distressed, so ill! Now I see why.”
“I went directly to my rooms and waited there until I heard the maid’s screams. Those were the longest hours of my life.
” He paused, then added, voice low, eyes dark with the memory: “So now you know I did not kill my aunt. . . but I would be lying if I said I had never been tempted. God help me, I was.”
Elizabeth’s heart ached at his confession, feeling the full weight of his torment. For a long moment, silence stretched between them, heavy with unspoken grief and regret.
“This, madam,” Mr. Darcy said at last, “is a faithful account of all that transpired that dreadful night. I hope you will henceforth forgive any cruelty on my part where my aunt is concerned.”
“I do, sir,” Elizabeth offered a tremulous smile that belied the storm still whirling within her. “I do.”
He stared directly at her. “Then tell me: if the magistrate questions you, what shall you say? Will you report that you saw me that night?”
Elizabeth met his gaze, steady and clear. “I shall speak the truth. I will not harm you with conjecture, nor will I disclose anything that might endanger your sister’s name.”
Mr. Darcy’s stare lingered on her, filled with unspoken questions. “I am grateful for your sincerity, madam. But the truth is a double-edged sword.”
With that, silence returned, charged and unresolved, while both stood still, their thoughts suspended in the fragile space between past and consequence.