Chapter Four
The letter remained hidden in Elizabeth’s pocket throughout the short journey back to the parsonage, though she was conscious of the outline of it pressing lightly upon her thigh.
Mr Collins spoke without pause about Lady Catherine’s ball and declared with sincerity that the occasion would undoubtedly be remembered long after every person present had gone to their reward.
Charlotte made the occasional vague reply but Elizabeth ignored him completely, her face turned towards the window.
She did not see the scenery beyond; her mind was entirely consumed with the folded pages beneath her skirts.
She had accepted a letter from Mr Darcy, an act so inappropriate and foolhardy that part of her wished to consign the missive directly to the fire.
She would not. Curiosity was a powerful motivator and she could not imagine what it would say.
Was it simply to be a hardening of the sentiments he had expressed that were so disgusting to her?
Then why go to the trouble of sharing it at all?
She ran her fingers over the pages. It seemed far too substantial for a simple apology.
Whatever he had written, it would not alter what had passed between them.
Nothing he could say would alter her opinion that he was a proud and disagreeable sort of man who thought himself above his station.
There was no Charlotte-Collins-approved method of post-marital training that would relieve him of his most basic traits.
And even if he was slightly more feeling than she had given him credit for, it could not change her feelings or response to him.
Beside her, Charlotte shifted slightly and said softly, "You have been very quiet."
Elizabeth looked at her and fixed a bright smile upon her face. "I am perfectly well. I have merely been indoors for too much of this fine afternoon, and I think a walk would do me good."
Mr Collins broke off and regarded her with dismay. "Cousin, can you have forgotten my noble patroness’s warning against excessive walking? Lady Catherine spoke most particularly on the subject, and I should be deeply concerned if you were to disregard such wise and kindly meant advice."
"Of course," Elizabeth said with a solemn inclination of her head.
"I shall take only the slightest turn around the garden for the air.
" She had no intention of taking a slight turn, nor of remaining in the garden any longer than it took to cross it. There was a pretty wooded spot half a mile from the vicarage where she might read in peace, and she knew Mr Collins would soon be far too occupied with putting Lady Catherine’s latest pronouncements into effect to pay the least attention to her movements.
The carriage had barely drawn to a halt before Mr Collins was out of it and hurrying towards the house, already calling for the gardener.
His tight footsteps moved at such a steady clip that it sounded as though a small horse were trotting along the garden path.
By the time Elizabeth and Charlotte entered the hall, he had begun issuing instructions about the hedge.
Elizabeth reached for her warmer walking pelisse before Charlotte could suggest tea or any other quiet indoor activity. The letter seemed to have grown heavier during the journey, and she was desperate to be alone with it.
"You will not be long?" Charlotte asked, giving her a look that suggested she knew perfectly well Elizabeth had no intention of circling the garden.
"Not long enough to cause any permanent injury to my looks," Elizabeth said with a wan smile. "I promise I shall not be long. I only need a little solitude to clear my head."
Elizabeth walked so quickly that she imagined Lady Catherine having a fit over the damage she might be doing to her complexion.
She forced her hands to remain at her sides, although the urge to break the seal and read as she hurried away from the parsonage was almost unbearable.
Eventually, she reached a wooded copse where bluebells lay like a soft blue blanket beneath the dappled spring sunshine.
She sat upon a broad fallen log and, with a deep breath, took out the letter.
Her name was written across the front in Mr Darcy’s firm hand.
Miss Elizabeth Bennet. She traced the edge of the paper with her thumb, unsure now that it lay openly in her hands if she had the resolve to open it.
She let out a hollow laugh at her timidity—a trait she had not thought she possessed.
It was only a letter, and whatever he had written could not be more unpleasant than the things he had already said to her face.
Elizabeth broke the seal and unfolded the pages.
Miss Elizabeth,
Do not be alarmed that I address you again. I have no intention of renewing the wishes which I now understand disgusted you. I expressed myself badly and said things that were unforgivable. I am sorry.
She paused and read the paragraph again.
The last sentence was marked deeply into the paper, so that she felt some of his anguish through the page.
She would not have thought him capable of apology, but there it was, completely unvarnished on the page.
And the wording—disgusted. She had the word in her own mind but here it felt so harsh to be needlessly cruel.
She was angry at him to be sure, but he did not truly disgust her. She continued.
You accused me yesterday of two offences which have greatly influenced your opinion of my character. I must insist that you read my account of both before deciding whether your judgement was just.
Elizabeth’s brows rose. Even while attempting to defend himself, Mr Darcy could not resist telling her what she must do. "How very generous of you," she murmured, shifting the pages in her hand.
The next line removed all amusement. With regard to Mr Wickham—
Mr Darcy began with an account of his father’s affection for Mr Wickham’s family and the advantages that affection had secured for the son.
Much of it was already familiar. Mr Wickham had told her that he was raised alongside Mr Darcy and treated almost as another child of Pemberley.
The agreement between their accounts reassured her, until she reached the matter of the living.
After my father’s death, Mr Wickham informed me that he no longer wished to enter the church and would rather study the law. He therefore surrendered all claim to the living at Kympton in return for three thousand pounds.
Elizabeth stared at the page. Three thousand pounds. Mr Wickham had never mentioned any payment. He had spoken of the living as though it had been stolen from him without compensation and bestowed elsewhere because of Mr Darcy’s resentful nature.
She returned to the sentence, but the words did not change.
Mr Darcy went on to explain that the money had been spent within three years.
When the living later became vacant, Mr Wickham returned and demanded it, claiming that his circumstances had altered and that the late Mr Darcy’s wishes should still bind his son.
Elizabeth lowered the letter to her lap.
It was possible that Mr Darcy lied, for he had every reason to defend himself and none to protect Mr Wickham.
For all the faults she had laid at his door, however, she had never thought him dishonest, and his account was so precise that it could not easily be dismissed.
He gave sums and circumstances which might be verified, while the handsome Lieutenant Wickham had offered little beyond injured feeling and a tale of wrongdoing fit for a tragic novel.
She thought of Mr Wickham at her Aunt’s house in Meryton, leaning towards her with his easy smile and speaking of the deepest grievance of his life before they had been acquainted for the length of a card game.
At the time, she had admired his openness.
Now she found herself wondering why any gentleman would share so private a history with a woman he had only just met.
She lifted the letter again and read on.
There is a further matter which I would not reveal were it not necessary to show you the true nature of his character which is vengeful and ill-principled.
Last summer, while my sister was staying at Ramsgate under the care of Mrs Younge, Mr Wickham renewed his acquaintance with her.
Mrs Younge, who it became apparent was Wickham’s confederate, assisted in bringing them together and concealed their meetings from me.
Georgiana was only fifteen and had known him all her life, so had little reason to doubt his professions.
He intended to elope with her to secure her fortune of thirty thousand pounds.
I arrived by chance before they could leave, and she confessed everything to me.
She still carries heavy scars from the event of that summer.
Elizabeth gasped aloud. That poor, poor girl.
She had imagined Miss Darcy proud and cold because Mr Wickham had described her so, never once suspecting that the young woman he spoke of with such resentment had nearly been ruined by him.
Was he truly so dangerous? The thought made Elizabeth feel sick.
Lydia was only a little older and possessed no more sense where handsome officers were concerned.
She had often laughed at her youngest sister’s foolishness, but there was nothing amusing in imagining how easily such foolishness might be exploited.
The letter went on.
With regard to Bingley and your sister, I will not apologise for believing that I acted to protect a friend.
His attachment was clear, while Miss Bennet’s feelings appeared far less certain, and I feared he would give his whole heart where only mild affection was returned.
I now accept that it was not my place to make that judgement for him.
This is one charge for which I may attempt to atone, although I fear it may already be too late for my efforts to succeed.
Elizabeth felt her emotions swing wildly.
A moment earlier she had pitied him, imagining the horror of discovering his young sister under the power of such a man.
Now he wrote of ruining Jane’s happiness as though he had neglected to settle an overdue bill and might correct the matter on a whim.
Did he realise he was master only of Pemberley and not the world at large?
She turned the page, only one paragraph remained.
As for yesterday, I expressed myself badly and gave you every reason to think me arrogant and unkind.
I cannot regret loving you, but I deeply regret that I spoke of your family and situation in a manner which caused you pain and made my declaration offensive.
You were right to refuse me. I shall not trouble you with the subject again, though I hope you may one day believe that my feelings, however poorly expressed, were sincere.
Your servant,
F. Darcy
Elizabeth pressed the letter to her heart. Who was this man? This vexing, proud and unexpectedly sensitive man who had wounded her so deeply and now written with such honesty?
I cannot regret loving you.
The words did not tell her that his feelings had ended, but everything that followed sounded like a farewell.
He would not trouble her again. Had her cruel refusal destroyed every hope he had once held, and why did the thought leave her feeling so hollow inside?
Tears began to slip down her cheeks as she turned back to the first page and began to read again.