CHAPTER 11 – A Painful Admittance
Beyond a shadow of a doubt, this had been the most enlightening, yet most heart wrenching night of Elizabeth's life. Her conversation with Mr. Darcy had shown her a different side of him, a more compassionate one. But she also faced her own faults, ones she had not known she possessed.
“And this man, have you heard from him again?”
Mr. Darcy threw another scoop of coal into the fire. “Sadly, our paths crossed again last autumn.”
“Last autumn? But you were in Hertfordshire until. . .” Her voice trailed off as the dates aligned in her mind.
It was the 28th of November when Mr. Darcy had abruptly quit Netherfield—just two days after the ball.
Elizabeth had not recalled anything particular about his stay except for the strong antipathy she had for him at the time.
His prideful, disdainful attitude had been the foundation of her dislike, but it was Mr. Wickham’s account that thoroughly destroyed Mr. Darcy’s character in her eyes.
Mr. Wickham. The name sprang to mind, unbidden and undeniable—and with it, a sudden, chilling clarity.
Her conversations with Mr. Wickham were still fresh in her memory.
Could it be possible that the man Mr. Darcy was speaking of was the self-same officer she had met in Hertfordshire?
Mr. Wickham was an old friend of the family who had known Mr. Darcy since childhood.
He had even mentioned a connection with Lady Catherine and Miss Darcy.
It had to be Mr. Wickham.
Eyes wide with bewilderment, Elizabeth stared at Mr. Darcy as the realization struck her fully. His expression told her he knew exactly what she was thinking.
“Yes, Miss Bennet,” Mr. Darcy said, anticipating her question. “The man is Mr. Wickham.”
Elizabeth was in utter shock. “He. . . he has spoken so ill of you and your sister—he defamed you in the cruellest manner!”
“I know not which falsehoods he has imposed on you; I can only warn you not to believe one word he says. His character is most deceitful.”
“He claimed you denied him the living your father promised—that you withheld his inheritance and left him destitute!”
Mr. Darcy set the poker aside and slumped in the armchair across from hers.
“That is not true. Wickham never cared to take orders—he wanted money.
He asked for pecuniary compensation instead of the living, accepting the amount of three thousand pounds.
Together with the inheritance of one thousand pounds he received upon my father's death, he was left in an excellent monetary position. He told me his intention was to study the law, though the stated ambition was a mere pretence. How he lived, I cannot say, but about three years later, when he ran out of money, he came to me again to claim the position he had declined. I refused, of course, and he swore revenge. The next I heard of him was in Ramsgate.”
“Why did you not expose him while in Meryton?”
“His assertions never reached my ears; otherwise, I would have acted in consequence.”
“I never met anyone that duplicitous! His explanations were thorough; he was so convincing!” A cold weight settled in her stomach.
How easily had she been deceived! Mr. Wickham’s charming pretence, his carefully spun tales—she had believed them all without hesitation.
And now, the full force of her own misjudgement pressed upon her with humiliating clarity.
“You seemed to have taken eager interest in that gentleman's concerns,” Mr. Darcy said.
Elizabeth’s skin became heated and she lowered her gaze to her hands, ashamed of having encouraged the connection. “I must confess, I allowed myself to condole with his misfortunes without giving the matter deeper thought.”
“His misfortunes!” Mr. Darcy scoffed. “Yes, they have been great indeed.”
“I am so foolish!” She bit back the sting of shame.
“Do not blame yourself, madam. Detection was not in your power, and suspicion certainly is not in your nature. Well,” he added, with a hint of irony, “at least not in his case.”
His final remark, though lightly delivered, made her face grow warm again. They fell into silence, both absorbed in the weight of recent revelations. Only the gentle crackle of the fire and the erratic whistling of the wind at the window disturbed the stillness.
After a moment, Mr. Darcy said, “You must be eager to leave the island as soon as may be.”
“Indeed! All I wish is to return home. My sister Jane's spirits have been low lately, and I long to see her.”
“Is anything the matter with her?”
The gentleman’s participation in the separation of Jane and Mr. Bingley was a matter that had preoccupied Elizabeth, one she was eager to clarify.
“Yes. Yes, there is. For some time, I believed Mr. Bingley was persuaded to quit Netherfield because of his attachment to my sister Jane. This assumption was confirmed only two days ago by Colonel Fitzwilliam when he mentioned that you had been the principal cause of separating a young couple during your stay in Hertfordshire. I could only presume he referred to Mr. Bingley and Jane. Having misjudged your character once before, I must ask, have I been mistaken yet again?”
“No, madam, you have not. I did everything within my power to separate your sister from my friend.”
Her insides clenched. “May I ask why?”
“I believed your sister to be indifferent to my friend’s attentions.”
She looked at him, startled. Such calm! Such certainty! Utterly infuriating.
“Indifferent! And what, if you do not mind me asking, has driven you to form such a nonsensical conclusion?”
Mr. Darcy frowned and his posture stiffened in a way that told her he had taken offence.
“My own observations, which I believed to be impartial and objective. Bingley paid her every possible attention, but your sister did not seem to encourage him with any participation of sentiment. I was preserving him from disappointment.”
“Jane rarely shows her feelings to anyone, not even to me! Since Mr. Bingley's departure, my sister has been immersed in a misery of the acutest kind!” Elizabeth said, her anger mounting. Was he too proud to admit fault?
It was his time to colour. He was pensive for a moment and replied quietly, almost reluctantly. “I must have been in error then. You certainly know your sister better than I.”
“So, their separation is not, in any way, related to her want of fortune or her poor connections?”
“The want of connection is not so great an evil in Bingley’s case as. . .” He broke off. “There were other reasons.”
“What reasons?”
Apparently affronted by her questioning, his approach reverted to the arrogant gentleman she met in Hertfordshire. “The same causes for repugnance that prevented me from. . .”
Their gazes locked, and she waited for him to finish his sentence. He did not. Mr. Darcy rose abruptly and walked over to the fireplace. He took the poker and once again poured his indignation into the coals, scattering sparks and embers in every direction.
“What reasons, sir?” She pressed on.
He turned around and shrugged his shoulders, facing her squarely. “Some occurrences regarding your family that happened during the ball and. . . other times.”
“Such as?” Vexation prickled her voice.
“The poor manners so frequently exhibited by your mother, your younger sisters, and even your father, at times,” his chin lifted with that familiar hauteur.
After a pause in which he appeared to reflect his last words, he added, “In all fairness, I should add that you and Miss Bennet I must exclude from this censure. Your deportment has always been impeccable. Pardon me if my words caused you pain, but you deserve my sincerity, and I am obliged to give it to you.”
Her jaw slacked. In a trice, she looked away, unable to endure the sight of him. A tremor shivered through her frame, as an ominous silence stretched, broken only when the grandfather clock chimed three.
“I should retire. Good night, sir,” she said at last, her spirit pierced by his final words. What a regrettable time for him to say such a thing! Just when she had begun to master her former abhorrence of him, he proved he abhorred everything connected to her.
She rose, but as she took the first step, he reached for her hand, gently, almost timidly.
“Miss Elizabeth,” he stood before her. You must allow me to say what I have long kept unsaid.
I have struggled in vain—these feelings have warred within me for months.
But I can no longer deny the truth. From the very beginning of our acquaintance, against all reason, against even my better judgement, I have admired you. ”
His countenance held the certainty of a man who did not anticipate refusal. She narrowed her eyes.
“I know this is neither the time nor the place, but I cannot keep silent any longer. Elizabeth, I love—”
The door burst open, startling them both.
“Mr. Darcy, sir!” A footman’s voice rang with urgency, shattering the moment.
“Ferguson, what is it?” Mr. Darcy snapped, clearly vexed by the interruption.
“There has been an accident. . .” The man called Ferguson glanced between Elizabeth and the gentleman. “Mrs. Jenkinson has fallen. From the staircase.”
Mr. Darcy’s brow darkened. “Is she injured?”
The servant shifted uneasily. Even in her confusion, Elizabeth could tell he would not speak further in her presence.
“Where is she?” Mr. Darcy asked more urgently now.
“Downstairs, sir. In the round tower.”
Mr. Darcy turned to Elizabeth. “Miss Bennet, I fear we must postpone this conversation until I have seen to the matter.”
She nodded, too stunned to speak. Not only had she just discovered depths to Mr. Darcy she had never suspected—his admiration, his internal struggle—but she had also heard him confess, however unintentionally, both his regard and his disdain.
For her. For her family. For everything that made her who she was.
“Allow me to accompany you back to your rooms.”
They left the room and climbed up the stairs, followed by the footman.
Mr. Darcy hesitated when they reached her door. “Miss Bennet,” he said. “If you do not find it inconvenient, I should like to ask you to stay in Miss Lucas’s room tonight. I should be more at ease knowing you are not on your own.”
“Aye, sir. Allow me to first gather a few things from my chambers.”
“I shall wait here. I should rather not have you wandering this house alone.”
She hurried into her room took only a moment to gather a bundle of clothes. Mr. Darcy attended her to Maria's room and waited until the door opened.
“Lizzy!” It was Charlotte who answered. “Where have you been? We knocked at your door and. . .” The parson's wife realized Elizabeth was not alone, and clutched her night robe more tightly across her chest. “Mr. Darcy, sir. I am sorry, I did not see you.”
“Charlotte,” Elizabeth said, “Mr. Darcy suggested I should stay here.”
“Of course, come in.” She grabbed Elizabeth's arm and pulled her into the room.