Chapter 1.3
Darcy’s unexpected and violent reaction was a complete shock to Elizabeth—and a frightening one. His rage was so evident that, for a moment, she was afraid he would physically harm her.
She followed his movements, not daring to meet his eyes. What could make him react in such a way? She forced herself to remember her exact words and determine what might have affected him so completely.
His pacing did not cease. The blanket was falling from his shoulders, but he did not seem to notice. He appeared oblivious to anything except his thoughts—and his anger. The pleasant gentleman with whom she had recently been so delighted had disappeared.
He was so attentive, so considerate towards me, and I somehow offended him deeply. But what did I say? I must apologise—but for what?
Elizabeth’s opinion of Darcy had drastically altered in the last few hours.
She had appreciated his efforts to make amends for his previous behaviour and to demonstrate an easiness that was not characteristic of him—or of the Mr Darcy she had thought she knew until that morning.
Moreover, she was grateful for the kindness and protectiveness he had shown in his dealings with her.
He tried diligently to make their horrific situation as bearable and easy as possible under the circumstances.
Nevertheless, she could not truly know him well in such a short time.
He had tried to infuse more civility into his manners, but he was still a complete stranger to her.
Her remorse for the offence she had apparently given was still mixed with fear.
She was trapped alone with him and could not be sure what to expect.
Allowing her eyes to rest on him, she was unable to understand everything she read in his face, but one thing was clear and impossible to ignore: grief and intense pain had changed his entire countenance.
She knew she should do something; she needed to do something. She could not bear the thought of his thinking ill of her.
Even a few days ago when his manners were proud and unpleasant and her opinion of him low, she would have acted to amend the pain involuntarily inflicted on him and—more importantly—on his young sister.
It was her mistake, and she had to find a way to fix it, though it meant she must face his anger.
“Mr Darcy,” she said softly. He did not respond; in fact, he seemed not to hear her. Elizabeth got up from the armchair and drew near him. He stopped and looked at her—a stern, icy look she recognised from the early days of their acquaintance.
“Sir, please allow me to apologise for everything I have just said. I beg you to believe that it was only an unthinking jest meant to release the tension of our conversation. Your openness caused me momentarily to forget propriety. I cannot express enough my regret for the offence I unwittingly gave to you and your sister. You must believe me, sir, that offending you was not my intention. How could I intentionally insult someone I do not even know?”
Elizabeth felt a lump form in her throat and tears sting her eyes.
She was unaccustomed to begging, but she desperately wanted him to believe her.
She searched his face and her eyes held his, attempting to plead her case.
He might be unable to believe her words, but he must see the sincerity in her eyes.
She was much closer to him, and the blankets that covered her had slipped, exposing her neck and shoulders.
Her feet were bare on the cold floor, and the repentance that saddened her face made her appear helpless and vulnerable.
Darcy was torn between a desire to wrap his arms around her and an impulse to flee and never see her again. How could she have believed Wickham?
Clearly, her intention was not to offend.
As she said, their open and easy manners had made her forget the proper rules of behaviour.
The comments about Georgiana in all probability had slipped innocently from her lips.
But the thought of her chatting with Wickham about him and his sister or laughing with him…
such impropriety of behaviour could not be forgotten so easily—or forgiven.
What a disappointment! Above everything, a tremendous sense of guilt overcame Darcy as he remembered Georgiana’s sweet face—hurt, disappointed, and tearful.
He looked down at Elizabeth, her face lifted to his, waiting for him to say something.
She was trembling, perhaps from the cold, perhaps from other causes, but clearly affected by their disagreement.
Seeing her like that was too much for him to bear.
The remorse in her eyes seemed so sincere that he could not refuse her.
He hated himself for it—for the weakness he felt for her and for everything this country girl had done to him, his character, and his personality in the last month—but at that moment he could not allow her to suffer any longer.
“Miss Bennet, I must apologise for my ungentlemanly reaction. I know I must have appeared a savage to you. Please forgive me. I have no other excuse than my protective nature and my affection for my sister.”
“I am the one who owes you an apology, and please believe me—”
“Come—let us go back near the fire. You are cold.” He put an arm around her shoulders and guided her to her chair.
After helping her resume her seat, he wrapped the blanket more securely around her shoulders, trying not to notice that, as he did so, their fingers touched briefly. After assuring her comfort, he took his place in his own chair, steadily holding her gaze. They spoke in unison.
“Mr Darcy, I—”
“Miss Bennet, I—I am sorry, please continue.”
“No, please, sir, I have nothing important to say.”
“I ask your forgiveness if my words cause you further pain, but I beg you to be very careful in Mr Wickham’s presence and not to give credit to everything he might do or say.”
Elizabeth’s astonishment increased at this change of topic, and she was not sure she took his meaning correctly.
“Mr Wickham? What do you mean, sir?” she exclaimed. Then recovering a little, she continued, “I thank you for your advice. I am sure it was kindly meant. But I cannot quite understand how Mr Wickham could be involved in our present conversation?”
“Miss Bennet, I know that he was your source of information regarding both myself and my sister. Truth to tell, I never would have thought him capable of spreading such words about Georgiana. God knows what he might have said and to how many other people…”
His last words were voiced almost in a whisper, and Elizabeth could hardly hear them, but she immediately realised that his response had been caused by a misunderstanding. Because of her thoughtless, frivolous remark, he had assumed Mr Wickham had told her something that could harm his sister!
She felt relieved. Now that she understood the reason for his strange reaction, she knew what to do. Of course, that only gave rise to many other unanswered questions and thoughts about Mr Wickham, Miss Darcy, and Mr Darcy himself. What could Mr Wickham possibly have to say about such a young lady?
However, it was not the proper time to let herself be overwhelmed by those questions. She needed all her self-confidence and determination to say what needed to be said.
She leaned towards him, coming even closer, and looked daringly into his eyes as she began. “Sir, earlier you accorded me praise that was largely undeserved. May I speak to you frankly?”
“Of course, Miss Bennet. I should not want it any other way.”
“Thank you. As I already confessed to you, Mr Wickham did tell me of your past dealings with him and of what he considered your unfair treatment of him—and I must confess I believed him.”
She paused for a moment on seeing a deep furrow suddenly appear between his brows. He began to play with his signet ring as she continued her confession.
“I never, not once, did as you implied I should have done. I did not ask for proofs or witnesses. I never bothered to consider rationally what he told me. I was not in the slightest as intelligent or wise as your compliments would indicate.” She averted her gaze and blushed crimson.
“Mr Wickham’s countenance, voice, and manner established him at once in the possession of many virtues, and I gave him full credit for them. ”
His countenance became even more severe as his jealousy of Wickham increased. He stared at her in disbelief, almost shocked by her words. Why is she telling me this? Does she enjoy torturing me? How can she be so cruel and so…unladylike as to tell me directly that she likes the scoundrel?
“I do not know whether Mr Wickham told me the truth or not. I do not know whether I was wrong to trust him and form a favourable opinion of him. I have no reason to doubt his words or his intentions.”
Darcy was beyond the limits of his patience. He could not keep his eyes on her, nor could he tear them away. He simply could not tolerate any more, and he was about to rise from his chair when her voice and tentative touch on his arm stopped him.
“What I do know is this: after all the unexpected things I have discovered, I shall reconsider everything I have been told in the last few days, and I hope to reach a better understanding of Mr Wickham’s character—and yours.”
She smiled, but his face remained severe, waiting for her next words.
“But Mr Wickham said not a word about Miss Darcy until the moment I asked him about her. We did talk about your sister, but the fault was mine more than his, and I am full of remorse for having indulged myself in that sort of conversation. I beg you to believe me that the only unfavourable thing Mr Wickham mentioned regarding Miss Darcy was the fact that she is very much like yourself in the matter of pride.”