Chapter 2
Like a white-hot flame, Elizabeth’s anger burned itself out abruptly, almost instantly, leaving her an empty shell.
For a few brief moments, all emotions were entirely absent.
She was fully devoid of anger, disappointment, hope, love, jealousy, passion, pride—anything at all.
She had finally, for once in her life, been able to say exactly what she wanted to say, exactly as she wanted to say it, in the full glory of her impeccable and caustic wit—but found the experience far less fulfilling than she expected.
Instead of pride and a feeling of righteous retribution in a set down well delivered, it made her feel small and vindictive.
Certainly, the man deserved everything she had delivered, but he did not deserve it from her, or in such an uncharitable manner.
She had burned herself out from the inside with her anger. The next moment she expected to either fall to the floor and curl into a ball, or run out the door screaming; either seemed equally likely.
Before choosing one of those alternatives, she glanced at Mr Darcy, and her breath drew in with a startling gasp, full of shock and dismay.
Long gone was the proud, disdainful, insufferable man she had seen half an hour before.
He was replaced by a ghost of a man who looked thoroughly defeated and destroyed.
His shoulders drooped; his elbows pulled together into his chest, nearly touching each other.
His back and neck were bent, his mouth turned down.
He shrunk back in the chair, much as she imagined she must have looked when she was afraid of him at the beginning of the exercise.
Worst of all was his face, and in particular his eyes.
His eyes were very expressive—why had she never noticed them before?
They showed the most abject misery. His usual stoic and indifferent mask was entirely gone, and every emotion was clearly written on his face for all to see.
The emotions she could read there were startling.
He alternated through a litany of all of the worst expressions she might imagine.
Fear—trepidation—shock—dismay—embarrassment—perhaps even self-loathing?
However, the one missing piece from the tableau was anger.
Where was his anger? How could a man hear such an awful, heartless display of vile temper without anger, without the need for retribution, without the need to escape?
He seemed a man completely broken, and in that moment, she did not know what she thought of him, but she knew that he was not a man who had earned such a rebuke.
Perhaps he required some reproof, but nothing like the abuse she had heaped upon his head.
He did not deserve paying the bill for all the frustrations of her own life.
If she were a heartless creature like Caroline Bingley, she would be mightily proud of how completely she had put together the worst possible sets of slights, insults, associations, and invectives—carefully aimed to produce the maximum effect in only a few minutes and under intense pressure.
She, however, was not Caroline Bingley, and could take no pleasure in another’s pain.
In fact, she was now filled with nearly unbearable shame.
How did she come to this point? What defect in her character could possibly explain such an unwarranted response?
Could she not hold her tongue for five more minutes, or moderate her anger just a little bit?
What had the man done to deserve such censure?
Certainly, he was proud and aloof, and he had clearly hurt her sister, but did he really deserve such a set-down?
Whether he deserved it or not, she desired that no human being should ever be subject to such a display from her.
She remembered something he had said a quarter hour before: ‘Until this moment, I never knew myself’.
She finally, thoroughly knew herself, and she was heartily ashamed of who she was.
In fact, she did not even like herself at that point.
Mr Darcy had asked her to help him become a better man.
His world had been turned upside down in a matter of a few minutes, from the complete expectation of her approbation to shock, anger, and dismay at her rejection, to a full assault on his character all within a quarter hour.
The natural reaction would be to storm out of the parsonage in anger, perhaps insist on her removal from the property—not to sit and ask questions and try to understand.
No longer blinded by anger, she became aware of what it must have cost him to make that request, and to persevere in his requests until she finally acquiesced.
What kind of a man would be willing to take such reproofs, and strive to improve himself?
If Mr Darcy was capable of such, could she possibly take her own reproofs to heart and try to make herself a better woman?
There was no question at all that she did not have any design on being the type of woman she had just shown herself to be.
She needed to correct her behaviour immediately, and try to correct some of the damage she had done.
Mr Darcy appeared ready to fall over, so she thought it incumbent upon her to pull him out of his shell enough that he could attend to the truth of what she said, without being destroyed by the invective.
It was a delicate operation, but if there was ever a time her courage needed to rise to the occasion, that was it.
Slowly, cautiously, Elizabeth went forward on the chair until her knees nearly touched Mr Darcy’s. She gently tried to coax him back to the land of the living. “Mr Darcy—Mr Darcy—Mr Darcy!”
He was still not responding, so she moved even farther forward until their knees were actually touching, and gently reached out to grasp his ungloved hands, and started again as gently as possible.
“Mr Darcy—please sir, I beg of you, disregard everything I just said. It was all said in the vilest of anger, and I cannot believe that I heaped such abominable abuse on you. No one deserves such censure, and I am heartily ashamed of myself. Please, sir, I know you can never forgive me, but please know that I am now completely mortified and would wish you to please forget the previous few minutes.”
Darcy was gradually collecting himself. His eyes lost the haunted and desperate look, but they were still filled with such intense pain it made her heart break.
“Elizabeth… ah… Miss Bennet. Pray pardon my use of your Christian name, which you have never given me leave to do, but I have long since thought of you that way and have a difficult time maintaining my manners in this situation.”
“Might we just for the next few minutes abandon propriety in favour of honesty?”
“That would be a privilege. I would be honoured if you might call me Fitzwilliam or William.”
This was progress for Elizabeth. She was still mortified at how angry she had been and listened intently when Mr Darcy—no—William started speaking.
“Pray do not censure yourself! What did you say that I did not deserve? Which of your reproofs, while delivered quite bitterly, were actually inaccurate? Do not let the mode of your address detract from the truth of your statements. I can now see that I have behaved most poorly indeed. I deserve all that censure and more. I was quite angry at first, then distressed, but now I can see the truth in your words. In fact, I suspect nothing but the strongest possible language would have broken through my pride to affect me. The same reproofs delivered with less force would probably have only resulted in my rage and bitterness, not my deep reflections. Let us not repine the method of your address. It was exactly as required.”
Elizabeth sighed in relief. She had been frightened she might either cause him to burn up in anger and lash out at her, or burn up with self-recrimination and lash out at himself. Here was a man capable of self-reflection, which she would never have expected based on their previous dealings.
“Mr Darcy—William—I will accept the wisdom of your words. Perhaps we can conclude this interview with less rancour and go our separate ways, but before we part might I ask you two questions?”
While he had been seriously wounded, he would recover and they might even be able to part as indifferent acquaintances—no, they would never be that, but they might at least avoid being mortal enemies.
She knew she would repeat the conversation in her mind and her dreams for months at the very least, and with very little satisfaction.
“I will answer any question you care to ask.”
“Colonel Fitzwilliam told me you separated Mr Bingley from my sister. At the time, I assumed it was done maliciously, but I am no longer quite so certain. The man I thought you were would not have listened to my words or tried to understand them to better himself. You surprised me. Might you explain your reasoning?”