Chapter 2.2
At the Parsonage, Elizabeth read the letter from Jane with a heavy heart.
Between the lines, she felt her sister’s sadness.
Four months in town with the Gardiners were not enough for Jane to forget Mr. Bingley.
His sisters never called on her again, nor did they issue any invitation to visit them.
All ties seemed now broken, just like Jane’s heart.
And whenever she saw Mr. Darcy, Elizabeth could not hide her resentment.
There was no doubt in her mind that Caroline and Louisa had conspired with Mr. Darcy to separate Mr. Bingley from Jane.
Their mutual interest must have been a relationship between Mr. Bingley and Miss Darcy—Caroline had declared that very clearly in her letters to Jane.
Or perhaps Mr. Darcy’s disdain for the Bennet family was enough to remove his friend from their vicinity.
She clearly remembered his contemptuous stares and supercilious frown while he watched her family at the Netherfield Ball. And even in Kent, either at Rosings or at the Parsonage, he looked at her with such a strange expression that always made her uncomfortable.
His arrival had been a most unpleasant surprise. Had she known he would visit his aunt at the same time, she would have postponed her visit to Charlotte. Being forced to treat him with courtesy only increased her frustration and grudge.
His aunt had complete power over the Collinses’ life and she could not confront Darcy as she would like to.
He was culpable, not only for Jane’s misery but also for ruining Mr. Wickham’s future and denying his dying father’s wish.
Nothing could excuse such a character, nor justify such horrible actions.
And apparently, he was allowed to do as he pleased.
“Charlotte, I shall go for a walk,” she said, to temper her irritation.
“I will go to the village with Mr. Collins. Maria will join us. Will you not mind being home alone?” Charlotte asked.
“No, not at all, I assure you. Quite the opposite. Once I return I will have time to write to Jane and Papa.”
“Good, I will buy you a new bonnet. Lady Catherine suggested it. She sent me word that Mr. Brown’s shop has some new merchandise from London.”
“I do not need a new bonnet, Charlotte,” she said, amused by her friend’s obedience toward the lady. Charlotte said something in reply, and Elizabeth was certain she would have a new bonnet anyway.
She took some of her usual paths. Since she had arrived in Kent, she rejoiced in long, solitary walks, but lately, they had been often interrupted by impromptu meetings with Mr. Darcy.
From the first such encounter, she had mentioned to him that she used to walk in those places, hoping he would avoid them.
And yet, the meetings occurred again. Fortunately, he rarely spoke more than a few polite words to her, but such unpleasant happenstance, even silent, were enough to ruin her disposition.
There was particularly a certain oak—old, large, impressive in its greatness, with thick branches and leaves that sheltered birds and other small creatures. Elizabeth used to sit and rest under its shadow, sometimes reading, or simply enjoying a few moments of tranquillity.
Even that special place was sometimes spoiled by Mr. Darcy, whom she found there several times.
Truth to be told, he did hurry to leave every time she happened upon him, but how it was possible that he chose the same place she favoured, was a mystery.
She suspected that he was doing it on purpose to annoy her and ruin her enjoyment.
Elizabeth looked around, pleased to hear the complete silence.
No unpleasant company was spotted around.
She took off her bonnet, then her shoes, and walked barefoot through the cool grass.
She stopped under the oak and sat. The smell of spring, the sounds hidden among the leaves, the sunshine breaking through the branches, enchanted her.
She breathed deeply, like she was trying to absorb nature inside herself.
Then she lay on the grass and closed her eyes, rejoicing in pure joy. After a while, she rose and stood with her back against the oak. She felt dizzy and needed a moment to recover. Eventually, she stood up and turned back, walking at a slow pace.
While she admired the flowers that gave colour to the greenery, she spotted some papers that had fallen in the tall grass, a short distance from the oak. She bent down to pick them up and arranged them carefully.
The sheets were covered with neat handwriting.
She was hesitant to look at them, but it was obvious that someone had lost them and they needed to be returned to their owner.
She glanced at them to spot a name or another indication of the author.
There was no name visible, so she turned to the last page and began to read.
First hesitantly, with some uneasiness, then with disbelief increasing her curiosity, and finally in complete shock, feeling appalled in the end.
I did not sleep but I dreamed of you again.
Your memory was so fresh and so vivid in my mind that any rest and peace evaded me—like any other night since last September.
Your image at the pianoforte, with the garnet cross shining on your white, soft skin, a couple of locks dancing on your temples while you played, smiled, teased me – invaded my soul.
I dreamed so many times of touching, caressing, smelling, tasting your skin, your hair, your lips.
My desire makes me tremble, while my mind scolds me every single moment and tells me it cannot be.
I left Hertfordshire to distance myself from you, and I found you here, in my aunt’s house. Could fate be more cruel and more generous at the same time?
Nothing has changed since last November, except my desires, my love, my regrets have grown stronger. And my jealousy.
Until I saw you with my cousin, watching you two so at ease, so well suited, so similar in manners – I never knew what jealousy meant. Since I arrived in Kent, I have felt the claw of envy every day. I long to be the only one to enjoy your nearness –although I know this cannot be.
While I am well aware that I cannot ask you to be mine, the thought that one day, another man will enjoy your love, will teach you about passion and pleasure, is like a burning knife cutting my head and my heart. And yet, I know it will happen.
I never felt a love so ardent before meeting you and I know for sure that I shall not feel it again. So my imagination is all that I have to keep me company while thinking of you. Fed by ardent love, it allows me to feel you, touch you, savour your intoxicating scent.
I have not slept for the last six months, but I do dream of you.
Your scent, your smiles, your glances, your laughter, your teasing – are always with me, either when you are close or far from me.
You were with me even when I was in London and you were at Longbourn.
You are never too far away to stir my senses and will never be close enough to grant me a taste of reality.
Breathless, her heart beating wildly, Elizabeth had to kneel down, as her strength evaded her.
She dropped the pile of papers, as her hands trembled too hard to hold anything.
She was so dizzy that she couldn’t see around her.
She struggled for air, her reason yelling that she had miscomprehended what she just read.
It could not be, it simply could not! There were no names, but it would have been unnecessary anyway.
All was plain—the writer and the object of his torment were painfully clear—too clear for her mind to reject them.
“It cannot be...it cannot be,” she repeated, as she tried to stand.
Mr. Darcy carried such outrageous thoughts of her? Such scandalous feelings? He spoke about ardent love? For her?
“It cannot be,” she repeated again, tears of shame in her eyes.
She was tempted to run away, but then stopped in panic.
She could not possibly leave the papers there, so anyone might find them.
The notion was dreadful and required immediate action.
But what to do with them? Returning them to Mr. Darcy was inconceivable.
She would die of shame to admit she had seen those letters.
She would die of shame to simply face the man again.
No, she would take the papers and burn them. At least the outrageous proof of the infamous revelations would disappear. NO, not disappear, as she would never be able to forget them. But they would remain unknown to any other soul.
How did he lose them? How could he be so careless with such an intimate and compromising object? How could he write such shameful words? How could he even feel such a way?
She hurried to collect the papers again when the sound of a horse running at a gallop startled her. She looked around, desperately wondering what to do. She suspected it was Mr. Darcy, but could not be certain. If it was someone else, they would pass by. If it was him, he would look for the papers.
So she put them back in the grass, covering them. If he looked for them, he would find them. Otherwise, they could not be seen by an ignorant rider.
Then she ran to hide behind a thick clump of bushes, a small distance away. There, she lay on the ground, careful to conceal her presence.
The rider arrived, stopped, and jumped down from the horse.
He first went near the oak, searching around with great perturbation.
Then he stepped through the grass, his head down, searching intently.
Eventually, he found the pile of papers, knelt and collected them.
His side was exposed to Elizabeth’s sight, so she could see Mr. Darcy brushing the dirt from the papers that betrayed his deepest secret.
Then he arranged the pile and put it inside his coat, mounted with the same haste, and the horse departed at a gallop.
Elizabeth, however, remained hidden for a long while. Her knees were still not strong enough to support her and the dizziness did not allow her to stand.
She finally gathered her strength and slowly, hesitantly, walked back to the Parsonage.
When she arrived, grateful that the Collinses were still out, she retired to her room.
She drank two cups of water, feeling that her lips were dry from thirst. Then she lay back on the bed, praying to fall asleep so she was not forced to think any more.