Chapter Seven The Tipping Point
IN THE GRAND CANON of British military history, the Siege of Toulon paled in comparison to the Siege of Elizabeth Bennet.
Mr Fitzwilliam Darcy had spent the last fortnight watching Richard learn the names of all five Bennet sisters, discover the exact temperament of Sir William Lucas's favourite carriage horse, and declare himself a lifelong, passionate devotee of walking in the park regardless of precipitation.
Darcy was trapped in a four-walled purgatory of his own making, forced to watch the campaign unfold while his jaw clenched so tightly that he was in genuine danger of cracking a molar. And he was hemmed in on all sides by an impenetrable fortress of his own past blunders.
First, there was the Ghost of George Wickham.
One day, Darcy had managed to corner Elizabeth near the parsonage window, clearing his throat to offer a compliment on the local flora.
She had looked up at him with eyes the colour of a winter pond and provided a smile made of razor blades.
"The bluebells are lovely, Mr Darcy. One wonders how much joy they might bring to those less fortunate—say, a penniless lieutenant in the militia, unjustly cast adrift upon the unfeeling world?
" Darcy had swallowed his own tongue, nodded, and retreated to stand behind a wing chair.
Second, there was the Spectre of Charles Bingley.
On another day, he had attempted to assert his presence during a walk.
"The air is remarkably restorative today," Darcy noted.
"Indeed," Elizabeth replied, accepting a wild primrose from Richard.
"Though I find some things wither quite fast when removed to London.
Certain... fragile attachments, for instance.
Put a gentleman in Grosvenor Square, and his memory of Hertfordshire evaporates!
A fascinating medical phenomenon, do you not agree, Colonel?
" Richard had beamed, missing the undercurrents.
"Fascinating! Darcy, you have a house in Grosvenor Square—is your memory defective?
You do look a bit vacant around the eyes today, old man. "
Third, there was the Bounding Spaniel Problem.
In the bachelor wing of Rosings, Darcy had attempted to pull rank, reminding his cousin of his meagre six hundred a year.
Richard had gazed into his port as if it held the mysteries of the universe.
"Darcy... have you ever looked at the back of her neck when she turns to laugh at Maria Lucas?
I shall sell my commission. We will buy a cottage in Devonshire.
I will learn to shear sheep. She can read me the works of Mr Cowper while I churn the butter.
" To tell Richard to back off would crush the soul of the only relative Darcy actually liked.
Finally, there was the Gorgon. Every time Richard laughed too loudly, Lady Catherine's turban twitched like a dowsing rod. She would bark an order, and Darcy would dutifully march over to sit beside his cousin Anne—who looked at him with the solidarity of two hostages trapped in the same cellar.
The breaking point had arrived on Friday evening.
Elizabeth was at the Rosings pianoforte, playing a lively Scottish reel.
Richard was leaning against the wood, his eyes swimming with unhinged radiance, ready to compose a sonnet about a turnip patch.
Darcy stood by the fireplace, his teacup rattling on its saucer with the tink-tink-tink of a trapped moth.
"Do you know, Miss Elizabeth," Richard had said, "I have developed a theological interest in the parish of Meryton."
Elizabeth's fingers had faltered, a startled blush rushing to her cheeks. "I assure you, Colonel, the air in Meryton consists of nothing but gossip and damp."
"I love damp," Richard declared instantly. "It builds character."
CRACK.
Darcy had looked down at his right hand.
The 1774 Meissen porcelain teacup had fractured cleanly down the centre, depositing four ounces of lukewarm bohea into the cuff of his superfine coat, from which it dripped onto his boot.
Lady Catherine had shrieked. Richard had instantly whipped out a pristine silk handkerchief and leaned over the pianoforte to offer it to Darcy, making a joke about his clumsiness.
Darcy had stood there, watching the woman he loved smile at a man who was ready to trade a King's commission for a butter churner.
Now, an hour later, Darcy was in his bedchamber. The ruined coat was draped over a chair. Pimms was kneeling on the floor, efficiently pulling the tea-soaked boot from his master's foot.
"Pimms," Darcy said, his voice hollow. "I am losing my mind."
"A common affliction in this county, sir," Pimms replied, setting the boot aside. "Shall I fetch a cold compress or the writing desk?"
"The desk." Darcy stood up. The tea incident had settled something within him. He could not fight Richard's charm, and he could not immediately disprove Wickham's lies without exposing his sister's darkest secret. But there was one ghost he could exorcise.
He sat at the desk, uncorked the inkwell with a twist of his wrist, and pulled a sheet of paper towards him.
"I have been a fool, Pimms," Darcy muttered, his pen scratching furiously across the page. "I believed I was acting as a protector. I believed I was saving Bingley from an imprudent match, but I was acting as a tyrant, and Miss Elizabeth sees it. She sees it every time she lays eyes on me."
Pimms stood by the desk, holding a stick of red sealing wax. "An acknowledgement of error is the first step to recovery, sir."
Darcy wrote for an hour. It was the most difficult letter he had ever composed.
He confessed everything to Charles Bingley: his deliberate concealment of Jane Bennet's presence in London, his assumptions regarding her affections, and his own regret at having played a part in his friend's misery.
He commanded—no, he begged—Bingley to ride to Gracechurch Street the moment the letter arrived.
When he finally signed his name, his hand was aching. He folded the letter.
Pimms immediately stepped forward, lighting the candle and holding the wax over the flame. He let a crimson drop fall onto the fold, and Darcy pressed his signet ring into it as though he were sealing his own fate.
"Express to London, sir?" Pimms asked, slipping the letter into his pocket.
"Immediately," Darcy commanded, and exhaled. One spectre banished. But the ghost of Wickham, and the presence of the butter-churning Colonel, remained.
SATURDAY MORNING DAWNED with a mocking brightness.
Sir William and Maria were scheduled to depart for London following breakfast, leaving Elizabeth with only the Collinses for company.
Elizabeth would travel to London at a later date, and her uncle would make the travel arrangements.
Darcy knew this was his chance. With the paternal buffer removed, he might finally catch her alone on her morning walk and attempt to bridge the icy chasm between them.
He sprinted across Rosings Park, his long legs eating up the distance to the parsonage. He reached the modest front door and raised his hand to knock, but before his knuckles could strike the wood, the door swung inward.
"Mr Darcy! What a magnificent honour!"
Mr Collins stood in the vestibule, his eyes wide with sycophantic ecstasy. He immediately launched into a bow so deep that he nearly collided with the doorknob.
Darcy froze, his heart sinking. "Good morning, Mr Collins. Is Miss Elizabeth—"
"Miss Elizabeth has just stepped out, sir!
But do not let that deter you! Please, step into my humble abode!
" Collins retreated, sweeping his arm towards the narrow hallway as if presenting the Palace of Versailles.
"I was just this moment examining the sturdiness of the shelving over here, and who better to consult than the master of Pemberley? "
"I am afraid I cannot stay," Darcy began, taking a step backwards. "I wished to—"
"I beg of you, sir! It would be a crime against hospitality to let you depart without observing the joinery!"
Before Darcy could mount a defence, Mr Collins had darted forward, seized him by the elbow, and dragged him into the dim hallway.
"You see, Mr Darcy," Collins began, his voice taking on a reedy, reverent tone as he pointed to an ordinary wooden shelf holding a chipped vase, "the brackets here are crafted from local pine.
I had initially considered mirroring the breathtaking splendour of the Rosings dining parlour, but Lady Catherine—in her infinite wisdom—suggested that it might be too boastful for a clergyman's entryway. "
"Very wise," Darcy said tightly, his eyes darting frantically to the parlour window.
"Exactly, sir! Her Ladyship's mind is a fortress of propriety! She noted that pine, when properly polished with a mixture of beeswax and turpentine—a recipe she graciously dictated to my Charlotte—possesses a humility that is spiritual."
Darcy stopped listening. Through the slightly distorted glass of the parlour window, he had a clear view of the garden gate.
And there was Elizabeth. She was wearing a pale-yellow spencer, the ribbons of her bonnet fluttering in the breeze. She was walking slowly, looking down at a small book in her hands.
Darcy took a step nearer the window, ignoring Mr Collins, who was now waxing poetic about the load-bearing capacity of iron nails. If he left now, he could intercept her at the edge of the grove.
But just as Elizabeth reached the gate, a tall figure in a dark coat bounded into view. Richard.
Darcy's hands balled into fists at his sides.
He watched as Richard approached the gate, bowed, and said something that made Elizabeth look up.
Whatever Richard said, it was apparently charming, because she tipped her head back and laughed.
It was the kind of laugh that made her whole face radiant.
Richard leaned against the gatepost, at ease, his eyes fixed on her with adoration.
"—and so, I asked the carpenter, 'Will it hold a bust of the Prince Regent?'" Mr Collins droned on, tapping the shelf. "And he assured me it would! Though, of course, I would never place a bust higher than eye level, lest it seem presumptuous."
Darcy felt physically ill. He was trapped behind a pane of glass while the woman he loved was slipping further and further into the clutches of a man who knew how to make her smile.
He watched Richard point to the lane. Elizabeth nodded, closing her book. Richard offered his arm. She took it, her hand resting lightly on his sleeve. Together, they turned and began to walk down the path, disappearing behind a row of hawthorn bushes.
"Mr Darcy? Sir? Are you unwell? You look as though you have swallowed a wasp."
Darcy slowly turned his head away from the window, his expression returning to a stone mask. "I am well, Mr Collins. The shelves are adequate. I bid you good day."
Without waiting for a response, Darcy turned on his heel, threw open the door, and marched out of the parsonage, leaving the clergyman blinking at the pine brackets in confusion.
He did not follow them. He knew, with bitter certainty, that interrupting them now would only result in another disastrous comedy of errors. He would glare, Richard would jest, and Elizabeth would look at Darcy as if he were a simpleton.
He walked aimlessly along the perimeter of the estate, the cool spring breeze doing nothing to soothe the burning in his chest.
He thought of Richard. His cousin was a good man.
He was brave, he was loyal, and despite his frivolous exterior, he possessed an honourable heart.
If Richard truly intended to marry Elizabeth, he would treat her with respect and devotion.
He would make her laugh every day. He would not care about her embarrassing mother or her lack of fortune.
And I? Darcy thought, striking a tree trunk with his walking stick. I cared. I cared so much about my own consequence that I insulted her within an hour of our acquaintance. I tried to rip my friend away from her sister out of snobbery.
If he loved her—truly loved her—should he not step aside? Should he not allow Richard to sweep her off to a cottage in Devonshire to churn butter and be happy?
Darcy stopped walking, the sounds of the forest settling around him.
No.
It was not the prospect of losing her to Richard that made his blood run cold.
It was the prospect of Elizabeth walking through the rest of her life believing that Fitzwilliam Darcy was a cruel, vindictive monster.
If she married Richard, she would become family.
He would have to see her at weddings, at christenings, at Christmas dinners for the next forty years.
And every time she looked across the table at him, she would see the man who had supposedly thrown George Wickham into poverty out of spite.
Darcy closed his eyes, the memory of her icy glare at the pianoforte searing his mind.
He could bear a broken heart. He had survived the expectations of his lineage, the death of his parents, and the near-ruin of his little sister. He could survive being unloved.
But he could not survive being despised by Elizabeth Bennet. He could not allow her keen mind to be clouded by a liar's venom.
He opened his eyes, the swirl of jealousy and panic solidifying into clarity.
Wickham's lies were the true poison. And there was only one way to draw that poison out.
He would have to expose his deepest, most painful secret.
He would have to tell Elizabeth about Georgiana, about Ramsgate, and about Wickham's true, vile nature.
It was a risk. If she did not believe him, or if she betrayed the secret, his sister's reputation would be ruined.
But he knew Elizabeth, knew her integrity. She might despise him, but she was not cruel, and she was not a gossip.
Darcy adjusted the cuffs of his coat, his face setting with resolve. He no longer cared about Richard's tactical advantages or his own awkwardness. He no longer cared about Lady Catherine or the Bennet family connections.
He was going to find Elizabeth Bennet. He was going to stand before her, strip away every layer of his pride, and hand her the unvarnished truth. Even if it did not win her heart, it would clear his honour. And for a man who had spent two weeks spiritually screaming, honour was the only thing left.