Chapter 2 #2
His sister regarded him with growing understanding.“I feel I am missing a part of the tale. Pray, will you not tell me the truth? I am not a child, though my actions regarding Wickham might have shown you otherwise.”
He looked at his sister and sighed. She would soon have her coming out ball and join society, and in the not too distance future, she’d be wed. Perhaps his tale might serve as a cautionary one for her.
He nodded then. “There is more indeed. Miss Bennet and I…Well. I was fond of her. I went so far as to propose.”
He paused as his sister stared at him. Seeing himself compelled to give her more detail, he made a report on his true connection to Miss Elizabeth Bennet. One his sister listened to with a sly smile.
“I did not know you had such romantic aspirations.”
“I no longer do,” he replied.
“It sounds as though you still carry a torch for her.”
He shrugged. “Even if I do, she made it clear what she thought of me. No, I am afraid I cannot insert myself into their affairs.”
His sister nodded and did not press the matter further for which he was grateful.
After dinner, Darcy withdrew to his study once more. He attempted to read, but the volume of sermons he had selected proved useless. His mind returned again and again to that morning in April.
He had found Elizabeth walking alone near the parsonage. He had rehearsed his proposal a dozen times, certain of the words, confident in his reasoning. She would accept him. How could she not? He was offering her everything: security, position, wealth beyond anything she could hope for otherwise.
He had not considered that she might value her own self-respect above all those things.
You could not have made the offer of your hand in any possible way that would have tempted me to accept it.
The words still cut, even in memory. But they had been deserved. He saw that now. He had spoken to her with unforgiveable arrogance, had insulted her family even as he professed admiration for her. He had expected gratitude where he ought to have offered humility.
And when she had refused him, he had responded with wounded pride rather than understanding.
The letter he had put into her hands the following morning in the grove at Rosings had defended his actions regarding Bingley and Jane with self-righteous certainty, and had explained his treatment of Wickham without once acknowledging how his own reticence had allowed that villain to spread his lies unchallenged.
In short, he had behaved exactly as she had accused him of behaving. With pride and a total disregard for her feelings.
Darcy pressed his fingers to his temples. Elizabeth Bennet remained beyond his reach, and would be even more so now. A woman in mourning, facing displacement and poverty. Such a lady was hardly in a position to be approached by a gentleman she despised.
The clock struck ten. Darcy extinguished the candles and made his way to his chamber.
Sleep, when it finally came, was restless and fractured.
He dreamed of Hunsford, of Elizabeth's accusing gaze.
He dreamed of Longbourn shrouded in black crepe.
He dreamed of reaching for her hand and having her turn away.
Morning brought no relief. Darcy rose early and rode the bridle path in Hyde Park, as if physical exertion might somehow silence his thoughts. It did not.
The letter from Bingley included details of the funeral arrangements, relayed to him by the Hursts. Saturday next. Darcy calculated the journey time. He could be there in time. London was mere hours from Longbourn.
The impulse to go seized him immediately, followed just as swiftly by doubt.
Would his presence not cause her distress?
She had accused him of pride, of an ungentlemanlike disregard for the feelings of others.
To appear at her father's funeral when they had parted on such terms would be precisely the sort of presumption she had condemned.
He imagined arriving at the church, seeing her face when she recognised him amongst the mourners. Would she think him intrusive? Overbearing? Would his presence remind her of that dreadful proposal at the very moment when she ought to be focused on her grief?
No. He could not go. His attendance would serve only his own need to see her, to assure himself of her welfare. It would be selfish, thoughtless. All the things she had rightly accused him of being.
By the time he returned to the house, mud-splattered and exhausted, his decision was made. He would not attend the funeral. He would not write to express condolences. He would not insert himself into Elizabeth's grief in any visible way.
But neither could he dismiss the image of her facing an uncertain future, her father's protection lost, her home about to be taken from her.
The days that followed were amongst the longest of Darcy's life.
The funeral came and went. Darcy did not attend, though he thought of little else that entire day.
He imagined the service, the burial, the gathering afterwards.
He imagined Elizabeth's composure in the face of her grief, her return to Longbourn to face the grim task of preparing for displacement.
Bingley wrote again a week later. Mr Morris, Netherfield’s owner, had attended the funeral and provided Bingley with details.
According to him, the funeral had been well attended.
The Bennets were bearing up as well as could be expected.
The Scottish heir was expected within a month.
Miss Bennet looked pale and drawn. Rumour had it that Miss Elizabeth had taken charge of cataloguing the household, preparing for their removal.
That last detail made Darcy's chest tighten.
Elizabeth, cataloguing her own home for a stranger.
Sorting through her father's possessions, deciding what could be kept and what must be left behind.
Managing everything whilst her mother collapsed and her younger sisters failed to comprehend the magnitude of their situation.
He wanted, desperately, to do something.
But what? His interference had already caused sufficient harm.
His misguided attempts to separate Bingley from Jane had deprived Elizabeth's sister of the very protection that might have saved the family from destitution.
Had Bingley married Jane, as he ought to have been allowed to do, the Bennets would have had a secure future.
Instead, Darcy's pride had ensured they would face poverty and displacement.
The guilt sat heavy on his conscience, made worse by the knowledge that he had no means of making amends. Any assistance he might offer would be rejected, and rightly so. He had forfeited any claim to her good opinion, any right to concern himself with her welfare.
All he could do was wait, and wonder, and wish with bitter futility that things had been different between them.
The autumn afternoon faded into evening. Darcy remained at his desk long after the light had gone, staring into the darkness beyond the window. Somewhere to the south, Elizabeth Bennet was preparing to lose everything.
And he could do nothing but think of her, and regret all that he had cost her through his pride.