Chapter 14 Sorrow and Regret
by Melissa Anne
Hunsford Parsonage, Kent
This sense of familiarity was strange, yet she could not help feeling as though she had already lived through it all before. She sat alone in the drawing room in Mr Collins’s parsonage in Hunsford, Jane’s letters around her, when Mr Darcy’s arrival started her.
“How are you, Miss Bennet?” Mr Darcy asked, his expression surprisingly sympathetic. “I hope you feel a little better now.”
“I am well enough, Mr Darcy. The cook made me some tea.”
Plainly agitated, he scarcely acknowledged her words. He sat only to stand again and began pacing the room. Something in the motion was familiar. Indeed, she found herself watching his progress with growing fascination, wondering if she could anticipate his movements.
As on previous visits, he stood before the fireplace, resting his hand on the mantel, then raking his other hand through his hair. By the time he finally blurted out his declaration, Elizabeth had the oddest certainty that she already knew the words to come.
“My feelings for you cannot be repressed. You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you.”
In her dreams—or what she thought must be dreams, strange as they were—she had listened without a word, so astonished by his declaration as he recounted his struggles, his certainty about the obstacles they would suffer, and his disapproval of her family.
Now, she wondered whether she might wake from this strange dream.
Holding her hand out in protest, she forced him to stay his words.
She had little desire to wound his pride, and while there had been a few slight alterations from her last dream, there had not been enough to make her wish to accept his proposal again, regardless of delivery. After all, it had only been a dream.
Perhaps, if she answered him with some gentleness instead, she might wake from this dream.
“Mr Darcy, I must stop you,” she said softly, her voice touched with sorrow.
“You say you love me, and though I cannot return your feelings, I do not doubt your sincerity. Indeed, I am not insensible of the compliment of your candour. Until recently, I thought you disliked me. Therefore, I certainly do not feel I can love you. For your sake, as much as mine, I must beg you not to press this subject further.”
Her chest ached at the pain mingled with wounded pride that flickered in his eyes.
Though she could not return his regard, neither could she feel triumph at his discomfiture.
Facing the earnestness of words, Elizabeth hoped that her refusal carried some measure of regret.
She wished, for her peace of mind, that he might find affection elsewhere—someone better suited to him, who could return such devotion, and who might meet his expectations for fortune and connexions.
Darcy furrowed his brow in astonishment. “What led you to believe that I disliked you?”
She shrugged. “It has been obvious that you hold a low opinion of my family. I saw the manner in which you regarded us in Hertfordshire, and I overheard what you said of me at the assembly, even before we had been introduced.”
Elizabeth could see the conflict written in his mien: his wounded pride mixed with some affection. A tinge of shame crept to his cheeks, despite his composure. Yet she continued:
“Your opinion of all my neighbours was plain, and little has changed since. I also know of your influence in separating your friend from my sister, and of your conviction that there were, as you phrased it, ‘strong objections’ to the lady in question. What I cannot reconcile is how you can claim to love me while holding such poor thoughts of all those most dear to me.”
They both fell silent after her words. His lips pressed together, and he turned his gaze aside, and she almost wished she had not spoken so plainly. Although her compassion was stirred, she knew she could not speak anything but the truth. To offer him false comfort would have been far crueller.
“I do not say these things to wound you, Mr Darcy,” she added. “I only wish you to understand how your words and actions appear to others—to me. Perhaps you did not mean them as they were received, but the effect remains, and it is one I cannot ignore.”
At last, he spoke, his voice low and halting, lifting his eyes to meet hers. “You are…not mistaken. I have spoken and acted most uncharitably ever since I met you in Hertfordshire.”
She could see contrition in his appearance.
He hesitated for several moments, speaking slowly and hesitantly when he finally found the words to say. “I will not deny what you have said about how I regarded the people there. Perhaps I was too ready to judge. If I have caused you pain, I regret it—though I know my regret may avail little now.”
Once again, quiet enveloped them, each lost in their own thoughts.
Elizabeth wondered, just a little, if perhaps Mr Darcy was suffering from a similar problem to she herself was having, and if these strange dreams were not, perhaps, shared somehow, or at least being experienced by both of them in some fashion.
Just as Elizabeth believed Mr Darcy would withdraw entirely, he surprised her, asking rather abruptly: “Does Miss Bennet remain dejected by my friend’s departure?”
“She does indeed. She travelled to London just after the new year and called upon his sisters, hoping to renew the acquaintance. They received her with little welcome, which did not surprise me, given their behaviour in Hertfordshire. But Jane had believed them to be her friends, and she was astonished when they claimed they had never received any of her letters. Aside from one note from Miss Bingley—written immediately after leaving Netherfield, where she implied that Mr Bingley was courting your sister—Jane has heard nothing from them since that unfortunate visit.”
“Miss Bingley implied what?” Mr Darcy demanded, his anger flashing as he visibly struggled to command himself.
Elizabeth’s pulse quickened at the intensity in his manner, and she grew concerned that she had said too much, not having expected his vehemence.
Still, she shrugged as she continued. “When Miss Bingley wrote to my sister after closing Netherfield, she mentioned that Mr Bingley would spend a great deal of time this winter with you and your sister. She suggested that her brother courted Miss Darcy and said she hoped to one day call her sister.” She gave him a knowing glance, and he flushed ever so slightly, whether in anger or mortification, she could not say.
“Of course, Jane was distressed by such an implication. Although I counselled her not to believe it, when Mr Bingley neither returned to Hertfordshire nor acknowledged her call in London, she could not help but be convinced that his sisters had spoken the truth.”
“My sister is not yet out,” Mr Darcy snapped, but then it seemed he recalled the rest of her words, for he groaned and dropped his face into his hands. “I did not think your sister cared for Bingley.”
The honesty of his confession did little to cool Elizabeth’s ire, though she forced herself to take several calming breaths before replying.
“What possible grounds did you have for believing you could discern Jane’s feelings for your friend?
” she asked, her voice sharper than she intended.
“If she was as mercenary as you think, would not some in our neighbourhood have set their sights upon you as a possible husband? Did you not notice, Mr Darcy, that neither my mother nor any other lady in the neighbourhood pressed their daughters in your direction? I certainly made no effort to gain your good opinion.”
She paused for a breath, trying to calm herself before she spoke again.
“Yes, we had all heard of your ten thousand a year, but even that was little inducement to risk encouraging their daughters towards a man who so plainly disliked us all. Regardless of your reputed wealth, even Mama has her pride.”
Nothing she had said was untrue, yet the silence pressed heavily between them. Darcy stilled, his eyes fixed upon her with an intensity that unsettled her, but she determined not to squirm under its weight.
His shoulders fell—so unlike his usual confident posture—that Elizabeth could not help but look at him more carefully and notice the lines etched across his brow.
“I admit, I had not considered that,” he said, sounding almost shaken by the realisation.
“Until Sir William remarked upon it during our dance, I had not noticed my friend’s preference for your sister.
He spoke of their marriage as though it were certain, and so I observed them that night, believing myself impartial.
Bingley was obviously enamoured with her, for he is often enamoured with a lovely lady, but I could detect no obvious feeling on her part.
Still, I must acknowledge the truth of your words.
I thought to spare my friend from disappointment.
Perhaps it was not my place, but he has long relied on my advice.
To think that I urged him away from your sister, if her heart was engaged… I have wronged her greatly.”
Elizabeth felt a pang. Although she could not excuse the harm done, neither could she take any pleasure in seeing him so repentant.
His pride—so formidable in every previous encounter—seemed stripped away, leaving behind a man almost vulnerable.
She forced herself to remain steady, recollecting that compassion must not give way to indulgence.
With somewhat less vehemence, Elizabeth made her other objection to his proposal. “What about how you have treated Mr Wickham? How can you defend your actions in that case?”
Darcy seemed to study his boots intently for a moment, and Elizabeth noticed he seemed to clench his fists before slowly releasing them. When he looked up, Elizabeth saw his pain written across his countenance, but also a determination she had never seen before. Finally, he spoke.