CHAPTER THIRTEEN #3
She found her voice at last, though it trembled with a indignation so fierce, it almost choked her.
“Love, Mr Darcy? You presume to speak to me of love? You, whose understanding of its most sacred bonds is so remarkably deficient? You, who would stand by, with such cold, unfeeling pride, and allow your own sister, your own flesh and blood, to be left to Mr Wickham — ”
“Wickham?” Darcy interjected coldly, his eyes suddenly sharp as flint, “What do you know of that gentleman?”
“My point, sir, is that she was a young, impressionable girl! Your sister! And you, her guardian, stood by and allowed her to be swept away — ”
“Allowed her?” he scoffed, a harsh, grating sound. “She chose to remain with him. She defied her family, her duty, every tenet of honour, to be with him. Is that to be termed a lack of intervention on my part? Or the inevitable consequence of her own disastrous judgement?”
“A judgement born of youthfulness!” Elizabeth cried, her own anger surging to meet his. “She is your sister! Did your precious honour not demand you find a way to protect her, even from her own missteps, rather than merely condemn her and then cast her out to the mercy of the world alone?”
“Protect her by condoning her scandal? By seeming to approve of her connection to that reprobate? There are principles, madam, that cannot be compromised. She made her choice.”
The sheer heartlessness of his words stole Elizabeth’s breath. This, then, was the man who claimed to love her.
And with that, her restraint regarding her own sister finally broke.
“And you, sir? Did you not then, with such breathtaking arrogance, methodically shatter the happiness of my own beloved sister by poisoning the heart of a good man against her?”
Darcy’s face now registered the dawning recognition of a different, and equally damning, accusation.
“Your sister’s situation was a matter of pragmatic considerations,” he began, his voice losing some of its earlier, absolute conviction.
Rather, a note of defensiveness, almost of discomfort, crept in as he continued, “Your mother’s single-minded pursuit of the match, coupled with the.
..vivacity of your younger sisters, left no room for doubt as to the family’s primary interests.
Beyond that, I had reason to believe your sister’s affections were not as deeply engaged — ”
“Indeed?” she cut in, her voice dangerously soft. “Let us put aside for a moment your unflattering assessment of my family. You must tell me, sir, how you came to have such remarkable insight into my sister’s heart. By what measure did you reach such a conclusion?”
Darcy seemed taken aback by the directness of her challenge. His tone had fully regained its former hauteur as he said, “My conclusions were based on careful observation.”
“A most careful observation of everything you wished to find fault with, I am certain. Then you saw nothing of the true affection between them, nothing of their genuine suitability for each other, nothing of the warmth and joy they found in each other’s company.
You saw only what you wished to see, judged by your own pride and disdain for the feelings of others.
And now you have the temerity to expect me to believe that your feelings for me – a woman you have consistently treated as an inferior, an irritant, a problem to be managed – are somehow sincere! ”
Darcy flinched.
“Or,” Elizabeth said acidly, “is your confession of love a desperate attempt to feign an affection you are clearly incapable of feeling, in some misguided, manipulative hope that it will conveniently unlock our combined powers and save this country? Is that the game now, Mr Darcy? Has silent contempt failed so spectacularly that now you must resort to the clumsy charade of a lover’s plea? ”
He drew in a sharp, audible breath. As his hands tightened, the very air around them crackled with suppressed, almost violent, magical energy.
The carriage wobbled precariously, as if buffeted by an invisible wind.
For a terrifying, heart-stopping moment, Elizabeth thought he might actually unleash his power, that the confines of the carriage itself might not withstand the force of his fury.
But then, with a visibly painful effort of will, Darcy reined it in, his face once more a mask of cold control.
“Your capacity for dramatic misinterpretation knows no bounds, madam,” he bit out, each word a sliver of ice, “My feelings, however unwelcome to you, are entirely genuine. I spoke not for my own sake, but for the sake of the Concordance, believing that honesty, however painful, was necessary. It appears I was gravely mistaken in that assessment. Rest assured I shall impose upon you no further.”
The carriage lumbered on, its soothing motion a mocking counterpoint to the violent emotions that raged within its confines. The silence that descended now was not merely heavy; it was toxic, filled with the acrid aftermath of their devastating, and perhaps, final, argument.
Darcy had turned away, his profile etched in stone, his hands clenched into white-knuckled fists on his knees, his earlier brief moment of vulnerability now encased once more in layers of icy pride and wounded resentment.
Elizabeth’s gaze returned to the window, but the landscape outside was a meaningless grey blur.
The initial shock of his words had given way to a satisfying rage.
But as that abated, she was left only with a deep, burning shame.
She had met his flawed sincerity with cruelty.
In her incivility and unfeeling disregard for the heart of another, she had just committed the same vices she had condemned in him.
The journey to Buxton, to the corrupted, dying ley line they were supposed to somehow, miraculously, heal, now seemed a descent into the deepest, darkest circles of hell.
Any hope now felt like a bitter, taunting joke.