Chapter 2
From a distance, she observed him gulp from a glass several times, then set it down only to refill it moments later. He wore only his trousers and a shirt and was pacing the room in apparent agitation.
He looked angry — what man in his position would not be after the harsh accusations thrown at him?
Even if he deserved it, what man would admit it, especially one as proud and arrogant?
His anguish and offended pride had probably already turned into rage and resentment against her.
About that, there was nothing she could do.
But she at least should not intrude upon his privacy; she had to leave immediately and discreetly.
Being seen by a servant — or even worse, by the man himself — was not a chance she could take; the thought of it was mortifying.
But despite her intentions, her body did not obey, and she remained hidden in the shadows, watching spellbound as he sat down heavily at a desk, took up a pen, and began to write.
His profile was illuminated by the candle’s flame, and she stared at him with more intensity than ever before.
There he was — an unpleasant, arrogant, proud man, of great consequence but little feeling or kindness, who had recently declared he loved her ardently and requested her hand in marriage. Is it possible? she wondered again.
How long she sat there, Elizabeth could not say — minutes that stretched into an eternity of silent observation. Only when he at last extinguished the candle, plunging the room into darkness, did she turn her attention towards the other room where the light was still bright.
It was easy for her to recognise the figure of Anne de Bourgh, taking a few steps around the chamber, then approaching the window. For a moment, Elizabeth thought the lady was gazing precisely in her direction, but she could not have been spotted in the dark.
Why was Miss de Bourgh still awake? Was she ill? Or did some sort of turmoil prevent her from sleeping? Did she entertain hopes that she would marry her cousin?
If that was the case, Mr. Darcy was cruel proposing to Elizabeth! If she had accepted, such an event would have hurt Miss de Bourgh deeply and probably worsened her already poor health.
Was Mr. Darcy as careless with his cousin’s feelings as he was with those of his childhood friend Mr. Wickham?
Elizabeth finally stood and made her way back towards the parsonage, her mind a storm of conflicting feelings.
She glanced back one more time — the room where she had observed Mr. Darcy was still dark, but Miss de Bourgh remained standing by the window in the still-lit chamber.
Then, Elizabeth gave a gasp of fright as the young lady’s body suddenly fell, disappearing from sight.
Stunned, her first impulse was to run towards the manor, then she saw two more figures in the lit room — maids — and realised the lady had fainted inside the chamber.
She could not make out what was happening, but she remained still for a few more minutes, until, reluctantly, her heart pounding with new and old tormenting feelings and thoughts, she turned once again and retraced her steps to the parsonage.
She entered the house, grateful not to encounter anyone as she did so, and hurried to her chamber. What had she just witnessed? How angry was Mr. Darcy? How ill was Anne de Bourgh?
The night passed painfully slowly, every hour bringing Elizabeth more torment.
She met the dawn with relief, as if the daylight could clear some of the burden she was carrying.
For the first time, she anticipated Mr. Collins waking up and visiting Rosings; perhaps he would return with news about Miss de Bourgh.
Would Mr. Darcy leave that very day or stay longer? Why would she even care? She should have no interest in his affairs and would certainly do everything in her power to avoid meeting him again.
It was still early, and Elizabeth’s patience had long been exhausted. So she left the house once again, hoping for a calming stroll before she joined the family at breakfast.
This time, she set out in the opposite direction. She would avoid Rosings at any cost and instead chose one of her favourite paths to a pleasant and solitary grove.
The sunlight timidly touched her face, while she paid attention to her feet. The grass was slippery, and the last thing she needed was to fall.
She finally reached her destination, but only a moment later, her breath caught, and she turned back in haste. There, in a secluded spot, was Mr. Darcy himself. He of all people!
He called out to her, and she had no choice but to stop in response and turn again to face him.
He stepped closer, appearing as composed as ever, though dark circles surrounded his eyes.
The agitation she had witnessed the previous night seemed to have disappeared, and the resentment he must surely feel was well concealed beneath his proper manners.
Embarrassed, though she knew she had no reason to be — after all, she had done nothing wrong — she looked at him, heat flooding her cheeks. He spoke with quiet determination, his voice low and steady.
“Miss Bennet, I was hoping to meet you here. I beg you will do me the honour of accepting this letter.”
He extended it to her, but Elizabeth only stared at it, motionless. A letter for her? Could it be the one he had been writing the previous night?
“Please,” he repeated. “I assure you it contains nothing to distress you further, unless you find distressing my share of the truth in regard to our disagreement from yesterday.”
Her fingers closed around the letter reluctantly, their eyes meeting for a brief, unsettling moment.
“I thank you, sir. As distressing as it might be, the truth is always worth learning.”
“Indeed. The truth — based on facts and proof, not falsehoods meant to conceal reality. Please read the letter, if you will. I ask nothing more, and I shall not bother you any longer.”
With that, he bowed and departed, leaving Elizabeth alone with the letter and a heart in greater turmoil than before.
For a moment, she was tempted to ask him whether Miss de Bourgh was well, but that would have been a silly error on her part.
He might not have even seen his cousin that morning.
Then again, if a tragedy had occurred, he would have found out and certainly would not have come in search of her.
Undoubtedly, it was the letter she had seen him writing the previous night. So it was meant for her. He had taken the trouble to write it; he had put all that effort into it. Was it so important to him that she read it?
What did he mean by falsehoods? Was it another attempt to sully Mr. Wickham’s name? With his usual arrogance, Mr. Darcy had mentioned facts and proof. Would she find them in that letter?
She unfolded the pages with trembling hands and began to read, every word increasing her turmoil even more. She read the letter once, twice, thrice, pacing the grove as the revelations contained in it became a weight pressing upon her chest and taking her breath away.
This, madam, is a faithful narrative of every event in which we have been concerned together…
Those words echoed in Elizabeth’s head as she made her way back to the parsonage, fighting a sudden weakness that slowed her steps and hastened the beating of her heart.
When he had handed her the letter, she had not known what to expect; but the revelation within it exceeded even her imagination.
Mr. Darcy had no scruples in laying horrible accusations against Mr. Wickham, which she knew could not be true.
If they were, it meant Mr. Wickham was the worst sort of scoundrel, who had deliberately deceived everyone in Meryton and intentionally lied to her.
She could not have been such a complete fool as to trust a dishonourable person and call him her friend, could she?
And in regard to Jane, Mr. Darcy had explained he believed her feelings for Mr. Bingley were not genuine or strong.
How could he know? He had only spoken to Jane a few times.
His arrogance and self-sufficiency made him believe he had the right to decide the fate of others.
Just as Colonel Fitzwilliam had said, nobody liked being right, or having his judgments deferred to, more than Mr. Darcy.
Elizabeth held the evidence in her hand that Mr. Bingley had left Netherfield because of the lack of decorum displayed by her family. No, that was not entirely true; the main reason was Mr. Darcy’s selfish actions and his arrogant assumption that Jane did not love his friend.
Mr. Darcy, the man who presumed she, Elizabeth Bennet, held him in regard and would welcome his proposal, dared to judge Jane’s feelings for Mr. Bingley!
What laughable irony! He must feel quite silly about his poor understanding of character!
But Elizabeth had to admit that Jane’s heart was not easy to read; even Charlotte, who had known the Bennets since infancy, had said as much.
To a stranger, Jane’s restrained nature might be misleading.
But in any case, one should not intervene in such important matters if one wished to be deemed a gentleman!
After all, Mr. Darcy’s heart and mind were not easy to read either!
In some ways, he resembled Jane, except Jane was ten times kinder, prettier, and sweeter.
And Mr. Wickham was ten times more amiable and pleasant than Mr. Darcy. How could he be the villain Mr. Darcy described?
But then again, why would Mr. Darcy invent such a dreadful story involving his sister?
Everybody who knew him agreed that he was an excellent, loving, and loyal brother, and her own observations confirmed it.
He and his sister had lost their parents when Miss Darcy was very young, and she probably regarded him both as a father and a brother.
Would he fabricate a story about her attempted elopement?
Surely not — that was beyond any doubt. Besides, he had suggested she appeal to Colonel Fitzwilliam to confirm his testimony.
So — was it true? Had Mr. Wickham truly planned to elope with the daughter of his beloved godfather?
He had told Elizabeth he had not seen Miss Darcy in many years and that she had grown up to be very much like her brother.
So he must have deliberately lied to her.
And what a horrible lie! How dare he? And how could she have believed him so easily?
By the time she entered the parsonage, Elizabeth’s soul and mind were a tumult of strong opposing feelings engaged in a painful fight.
She hurried to her room to change for breakfast, locking the door behind her.
Mr. Darcy was certainly a proud, arrogant, unpleasant sort of man.
But Mr. Wickham was nothing but a scoundrel with no principles, no honour, no dignity, no loyalty, and no decency.
Once she admitted a portion of the story might be true, the rest of it quickly invaded Elizabeth, like a wave drowning all her previous misconceptions.
She, Elizabeth Bennet, was a simpleton, a silly, impressible woman with no wit or wisdom, unable to separate the truth from deceit.
She deserved to be called out for her silliness; she deserved to be ridiculed and reprimanded. But there was nobody to deliver the deserved punishment as she would never reveal the contents of Mr. Darcy’s letter to any living soul.
The mere fact that, despite their quarrel and her accusations, Mr. Darcy had trusted her enough to reveal his sister’s story was a reason for gratitude but also shame and pain for Elizabeth.
She did not deserve such consideration, and she would certainly not have trusted Mr. Darcy if their situations were reversed.
Perhaps, despite his numerous faults, he was a better person than she, after all. He should congratulate himself on her rejection since such a simpleton like Elizabeth Bennet did not deserve to become Mrs. Darcy.
Angry with herself, hurt by the letter’s contents, frustrated by her sister losing her happiness so unfairly, Elizabeth changed her gown with unsteady hands. It was still rather early; she had not been summoned for breakfast yet, so she impulsively pulled out a piece of paper and began to write.
Mr. Darcy,
This is a letter I never imagined I would write and one that you will never read; it is not meant to be sent, just to hold together my present feelings, which are impossible to temper.
As you would probably assume, my tumult was caused by the truth you so generously revealed to me and for which I am deeply thankful.
The confidence you granted me is received with humble gratitude, and please rest assured, you will have no reason to regret it.
I strongly disagree with your judgment regarding my sister, and I consider this to be an error that has deeply harmed the lives of two lovely people who deserve nothing but happiness.
However, my own errors of judgment were greater, so I have no right to blame others before I blame myself.
While other errors might be remedied if there is goodwill, I am certain I shall never forgive or forget mine.
I am ashamed to admit how little wit, wisdom, and even common sense I possessed when the circumstances demanded them the most.
Whilst I am sure I was correct in some of my statements, several things that I declared yesterday with ridiculous certitude will forever mortify me…
“Eliza! Are you there? What are you doing? Are you unwell?”
The repeated knock on the door and Charlotte’s panicked voice startled Elizabeth.
“I am here. Just a moment, please.”
She hastily folded the letter she had been writing and hurried to open the door.