Chapter 8 #3
Darcy left the Parsonage, marvelling that his feet were moving although he could not sense them.
He took one step after another, the grass brushing his legs, the wind touching his face.
His entire body was a cold stone over which he had no control.
He could not move; yet, he was walking. He could not feel; yet, an ache cut his chest. He could not think; yet countless thoughts flew into his mind as a blizzard that froze his brain.
Half an hour earlier, his feet, his mind, and his heart had flown across the park, happy and relieved with the decision he had finally made.
In the blink of an eye—a beat of the heart—he had understood that all his restraint and reluctance had been a waste of time.
The decision was easy: she was the right woman for him.
She was the one who would fill his life, the one who would complete him.
She was meant to be his; they were meant to be together.
So he went to propose to her, excited at the notion of being engaged by the end of the day.
Perhaps they could even travel to London altogether and meet her relatives.
He had entered the Parsonage, his soul filled with the anticipation of overwhelming happiness. And he left carrying the weight of astonishing and heart-breaking failure.
She rejected him. She told him how much she hated and despised him; she showed him what a fool he had been for months.
She had loathed him since the beginning of their acquaintance.
She abhorred his mere presence. She detested him as the lowest and most despicable of men.
He was the last man in the world to her—simple and clear.
He could scarcely recollect their fight.
So many terrible things had been said that he dared not remember them.
She rejected him with the same passion that had always charmed him.
She passionately hated him, and thus she repudiated him.
She accused him so harshly and blamed him for so many faults that it was not worth retaining them.
She put all the blame and all the flaws of the world on his shoulders.
How had he ever imagined she understood his admiration when she said he only looked at her to criticize and offend her? When had he done that? She called his proposal a charade and wondered whether he was mocking her. No indeed. He was mocking himself!
He had been so close to complete bliss, and losing it left him empty, devastated.
Nothing could ever fill his hollow soul.
He had passed close to felicity but missed it completely.
He had been wrong about everything related to her, just as he had likely been wrong about many other things in his life—something that, in his arrogance, he had never considered before.
Of all she accused him, he was not certain she had been right.
She was unjust and unfair. She knew nothing but had the boldness to judge him.
She was partial to Wickham; that was the reason.
But did that not speak clearly of her shallow nature?
Had he been wrong in admiring her character and wit too?
Was she only one of the countless weak-minded girls charmed by Wickham?
Had their relationship been more than he knew?
All was useless now. Everything ended before it even started.
She was further from him than she had ever been.
And he would likely never see her again—to the benefit of his sanity, but he could not bear to live in the same world and allow her to think so poorly of him.
Though he could not strive for her love nor even make her hate him less, he could at least abolish some of her accusations and show her he was not so worthy of contempt.
He determined to defend himself. But he must put everything on paper as he could not bear her disdainful glare ever again.
∞∞∞
Sitting by the window in Maria’s chamber, Elizabeth absently heard her friend chatting without meaning. The tumult of her mind grew every instant and was now painfully great. Her hands trembled, and she clasped them together.
She spotted the Collinses as they returned, and panic engulfed her at the thought of being caught up in another conversation.
“Maria dear, I shall go to my room now. If Charlotte returns, please tell her I have a terrible headache and I shall retire for the night before dinner. I shall see you all tomorrow morning.”
“Lizzy, are you well?”
“Yes, dear. And please—not a word about Mr Darcy.”
“Of course.”
Once in the hall with Maria’s door closed behind her and in the first moment of privacy since the most devastating argument of her life, tears flowed down her face.
She moved hesitantly to her room, unsteady on her feet.
From actual weakness, she sat down on the bed and cried, hoping tears would also wash away the burden on her chest.
She had to wipe her face and lie down on the bed, pulling the sheet over her as she heard footsteps.
She knew Charlotte would come to speak to her.
She also knew that she could not deny Darcy’s visit as one of the servants certainly had seen him.
Even more, she could not count on Maria’s discretion for more than a day.
As she expected, her friend entered with a gentle knock on the door.
“Lizzy, how are you feeling, dear? I checked on Maria, and she is better.”