Chapter 11
ELIZABETH
The first kiss changed everything without resolving anything.
I realized this as I reread Charlotte's letter, which had arrived that very morning.
She had written from Hunsford on two sheets filled to the margins.
The vegetable garden. A disagreement with the sexton.
Lady Catherine insisting on having a bench moved.
Then, in the last line, slipped beneath a remark about late frosts: “You still haven’t told me if you like him.
You told me he was fair, that he was generous, and that he gave you a key.
That isn’t the same thing, Lizzy, and you know it better than I do. ”
Charlotte had married Mr Collins for a house.
She was the only person in the world I couldn’t lie to about this.
I desired my husband. I could no longer hide this truth behind curiosity or inexperience.
His mouth had taught me in a few minutes what my body already knew: I wanted his closeness, his hands, the firm warmth of him against me.
I wanted to understand what made him stop with that ragged breath and that almost pained look.
But desire was not love.
I repeated this distinction to myself with a persistence that made it less convincing each day.
After the library, Fitzwilliam did not attempt to kiss me again for two days.
He was attentive with an exasperating rigor.
He accompanied me through the gardens, consulted me on the menus for a reception, introduced me to neighboring families, offered me a collection of poems he had heard my father mention.
In the evening, he bowed over my hand and returned to his room.
The connecting door remained closed.
I began to detest it.
On the third day, a letter from Jane arrived.
Mr Bingley had asked for her hand. My father had consented. My mother had nearly fainted, then remembered that two married daughters were better than one and demanded wine to celebrate.
I ran to Fitzwilliam’s study without waiting for a servant to announce me.
He rose as soon as I entered.
“What’s happened?”
“Jane is engaged.”
The tension left his face.
“To Bingley?”
“Unless a second very wealthy man has reappeared at Netherfield.”
He smiled.
I crossed the room and threw myself into his arms.
The gesture surprised us both.
His hands settled on my back, cautiously at first, then more firmly when I didn’t pull away.
“She’s happy,” I said against his shoulder. “She writes that she no longer believed it possible to be this happy.”
“I’m glad.”
“It’s thanks to you.”
“It’s in spite of me.”
I drew back just enough to see his face.
“You corrected your mistake.”
“Part of it.”
Something in his tone caught my attention.
“What other part?”
He released me slowly and moved behind his desk. His hesitation reminded me of the Meryton road, before he had spoken to me of Georgiana.
“Sit down, Elizabeth.”
“That request never precedes anything pleasant.”
“No.”
I took my seat.
He remained standing near the window.
“When Miss Bennet went to London last winter, she tried to see Bingley’s sisters.”
“I know.”
“Bingley, however, knew nothing of her presence.”
I stopped breathing.
“How could he not know?”
Fitzwilliam turned toward me.
“Because I didn’t tell him.”
The joy of a few minutes earlier shattered.
“You knew Jane was in London.”
“Yes.”
“You let her wait for a visit that could never come.”
“Yes.”
“And you watched your friend suffer without telling him she was only a few streets away?”
“I was convinced I was protecting his future.”
I stood.
“Your conviction has a remarkable tendency to make others suffer.”
He did not defend himself.
“I know.”
This simple response defused some of my anger, which only irritated me more.
“Why confess it to me now?”
“Because your opinion of me must be founded on what I truly am, not on the most convenient version of my faults. The truth is more serious.”
“You could have kept silent. Jane is happy, Mr Bingley is returning, no one would have known.”
“I would have known.”
I walked to the fireplace.
“So you demand my forgiveness to ease your conscience?”
“I demand nothing. I want your opinion of me to be founded on what I truly am, even if that truth costs me the esteem I am still trying to earn.”
What he was fighting to win.
My trust.
He stood before me without pride, without trying to make his action nobler than it had been.
The man from Hunsford would have defended his judgment until he accused me of failing to understand the responsibilities of his rank.
This one gave me a weapon that could wound him because he preferred to risk my esteem rather than win it through an illusion.
“Jane suffered,” I said.
“I know.”
“I resented you even before I knew the whole truth.”
“I know that too.”
“You are exasperating.”
“I have never been reproached for it so gently.”
I gave him a stern look.
“Do not try to make me laugh.”
“I would not dare.”
His mouth betrayed the effort he was making to remain serious.
I turned away, but a smile crept over me despite myself.
“I do not forgive you yet.”
“I accept that.”
“I will probably forgive you eventually.”
“I hope so.”
“And I cannot pretend that all my distrust has vanished simply because you chose honesty.”
This time, he barely paled.
“I accept that as well.”
I immediately regretted the needless cruelty of my words.
“Fitzwilliam…”
“No. You have the right to say it.”
He lowered his eyes to the papers on his desk.
I understood that my husband, so self-possessed before the world, had learned to accept wounds from me that he no longer returned.
I walked around the desk.
“Look at me.”
He obeyed.
I placed a hand on his cheek.
His face changed beneath my touch. All his restraint became visible precisely because it threatened to give way.
“I do not forgive you yet for making Jane suffer,” I repeated. “But I thank you for giving me the truth when silence would have served you better.”
“Elizabeth.”
“And I regret that last remark.”
“It was sincere.”
I did not respond immediately.
Because I wanted to show him that his frankness had not been in vain without letting desire erase my anger.
I rose onto my toes and briefly pressed my lips to his.
It was the first kiss I had initiated entirely, and I broke it before it could become something more.
He remained still. His hands settled at my waist without drawing me closer.
“I will not take this kiss as forgiveness,” he murmured.
“Good. It is not.”
“But may I still hope?”
I held his gaze.
“Yes.”
A knock sounded at the door before we could find more words.
“Sir?” called the steward’s voice.
We separated. The knock came again.
“Enter,” he said in a perfectly controlled voice.
The steward seemed to notice nothing, but I left the study with my face burning.
In the corridor, I brought my fingers to my lips, touched by the restraint he had just chosen.
I had not forgiven Fitzwilliam.
I had kissed Fitzwilliam without yet forgiving him, and he had accepted that distinction.