by C. P. Odom
She sat in agitated reflection for upwards of fifteen minutes while Darcy remained motionless in his chair. Her tears died away, and she tried to pull her thoughts together, but as she struggled to determine what she could possibly say, the sound of Lady Catherine’s carriage announced the return of the party from Rosings.
“Please , sir, I beg leave to go to my room,” she said in agitation.
“Miss Bennet —”
“Please do not, sir,” Elizabeth said in desperation. “I cannot speak of this; I must have time to think!”
“Will you walk with me in the morning?” Darcy asked. He could not believe the pleading tone in his voice. He had never uttered such in his life before that moment, and it stung his pride, but after the intensity of the past hour, he could not leave the matter unresolved. “Can we not talk further then after you have refreshed your spirit by rest?”
Elizabeth did indeed need the healing balm of sleep; however, her inner turmoil was so great that she feared sleep would not come early that night if at all. Nevertheless, in desperation to quit the room, she nodded in agreement though the tears again flowed from her eyes.
At that moment, the door to the parlour opened to admit Mr. Collins, followed by his wife. Both Darcy and Elizabeth jumped to their feet, and Mr. Collins’s mouth gaped in shock as he beheld the two distressed occupants in the room. Two servants were also visible in the hall, peering through the doorway. Mr. Collins looked from Elizabeth’s tearful face to Darcy’s grim, stony expression, and he was completely at a loss of what to say. Elizabeth, unequal to face any further observations, whether by her cousin or her friend, uttered a low, “Please excuse me,” and hurried away to her room.
Darcy bowed stiffly. “Mrs. Collins, Mr. Collins, I must beg your pardon. I had not realized how long I had stayed. I must bid you good evening,” and, bowing once more, he quickly departed.
Mr. Collins looked at his wife in confusion. He did not know what to say, but he did know what to do. He would ask for Lady Catherine’s advice on the morrow.
Chapter 3
Thursday, April 9, 1812
After reaching the sanctuary of her room, Elizabeth cried for a full half-hour, sobbing out the emotions that had been loosed by Mr. Darcy’s proposal and its aftermath. She did not try to think; what she had experienced had been too emotionally charged to bear any scrutiny just yet. Instead, she gave vent to all the feelings that threatened to strangle her, instinctively letting the poisons drain out. She had finally cried herself out, and she was sitting up in her bed, her eyes still puffy and reddened, when there came a soft knock at the door. When she did not respond, the knock was repeated, and this time the door opened and Charlotte peered inside.
“Lizzy?” she asked, the concern in her voice evident, “Are you ill? Is your headache worse? Can I be of help?”
“No, Charlotte,” Elizabeth said, “I am not ill, though my headache is not gone. I am just distressed. I will be well after I have a chance to rest.”
Entering the room, Charlotte closed the door and crossed to sit on the bed by Elizabeth. “Lizzy, you have been crying. What is the matter? Did you quarrel with Mr. Darcy?”
“There was a quarrel, right enough, Charlotte,” Elizabeth laughed bitterly, “but it was not quarrelling that has made me cry; my own foolishness and stupidity are the source of my tears.”
“Are you sure, Lizzy? Mr. Collins is very upset. The servants were quite disturbed when we arrived home. They reported loud voices and crying from the parlour, but none dared to enter to see whether anything was wrong. And Lady Catherine was most displeased with Mr. Darcy’s sudden departure from Rosings. She would not stop speaking of it, and then we find him here in my drawing room with you.”
Charlotte paused, looking carefully at her friend before leaning forward and taking her hand. “My husband,” she said in a low voice, “fears that Mr. Darcy must have made advances to you and reduced you to tears.”
Elizabeth could not stop a sharp, bitter laugh. “My cousin has once again displayed his unerring instinct for reaching the wrong conclusion, Charlotte. Mr. Darcy made no improper advances of any kind. His behaviour was most correct.”
“Then what, Lizzy? What could have upset you so?”
Seeing that there was no avoiding Charlotte’s question, Elizabeth decided she could not lie to her oldest and best friend.
“Charlotte, will you promise to keep what I tell you secret — not even to tell your husband? I know that is much to ask, but I cannot talk of this if there is a chance it might spread beyond the two of us.”
Charlotte was troubled, but at length she agreed, and Elizabeth looked down at the bed.
“Mr. Darcy came to . . . to make me an offer of marriage.”
“See, I told you, Lizzy,” Charlotte said happily, squeezing her friend’s hand.
“You were right, Charlotte,” Elizabeth said wryly, “but not in the way you think. Congratulations are not in order. I do not want to marry Mr. Darcy. I refused him.”
“You did not!” Charlotte exclaimed in horror.
“But I did. Oh, his proposal was really most moving, almost poetic, in fact. It caught me completely by surprise, but my previous opinion was completely against him, both because of his arrogant behaviour, because of Jane, and because of his abuse of Wickham. I quite definitely refused him.”
“And that was what made you cry?”
“No, what made me cry was what came after that, after he pressed me for the reasons for my refusal. I tried to avoid answering, but when he persisted, I was more than happy to provide the details of my objections. I challenged him to defend himself as I was sure he could not, but I was wrong. He spoke long in his defence, and it was hard to listen at first; I was so angry. But I did listen to him, and then . . . then I found that my very clever assignment of blame was based more on my own mistaken prejudice than on real cause. His previous behaviour may have been arrogant, but his proposal was most civil. I wholly misunderstood his actions on Bingley’s behalf, and his supposed abuse of Wickham was a complete deception, in which I played a part. I am now convinced that the truth of the matter is the exact opposite, with Mr. Darcy being the innocent party and Mr. Wickham being the villain of the piece. In fact, not only was Wickham actually the source of severe affronts to Mr. Darcy rather than the reverse, but he also engaged in a campaign to destroy Mr. Darcy’s character in Hertfordshire, with me and my so-called unerring judgment as his most willing accomplice!”
She laughed in bitter self-condemnation. “I have accused Mr. Darcy of being proud, arrogant, conceited, and disdainful of the feeling of others. How much of that may be accurate is unclear to me at the moment, but am I any better? I quail inside as I remember how I prided myself on my discernment and valued my own abilities! Even worse, I remember that I often disparaged Jane’s generous candour and gratified my vanity in useless or blamable distrust!”
A tear ran down Elizabeth’s cheek, and she brushed it away. “How I am humiliated by this discovery, Charlotte. Had I been in love, I could not have been more wretchedly blind. I have been so misled by my vanity that I could not detect Mr. Wickham’s deceit or Mr. Darcy’s innocence. I allowed his effrontery and neglect, occasioned at the beginning of our acquaintance, to drive reason away. Until this moment,” she said dully, “I never knew myself.”
Charlotte was distressed greatly by Elizabeth’s account — distressed by everything, from her unbelievable refusal of a man of Mr. Darcy’s value to her cruel words about herself.
“You are convinced of his innocence of what Mr. Wickham said?” she asked.
“Yes,” Elizabeth nodded. “I cannot speak of the particulars, for it concerns affairs private to the Darcy family, but he offered a trustworthy witness of his account. Yes, I am now convinced of Mr. Darcy’s innocence in this, at least.”
“And what of Jane?” asked Charlotte. “Do you believe him innocent in that affair also?”
“No, not innocent,” said Elizabeth slowly, “but not as
guilty as I previously affirmed. Since I believe his assertions in regard to Wickham, I must give credence to those in regard to Jane. And there, I am forced to concede, while he was wrong in some aspects, he was not maliciously wrong. And in some others,” she whispered, “especially concerning my family, I do fear that he is more correct than not. He is arrogant, to be sure, and I do resent the opinions he expressed, but I fear that Jane’s disappointment has been as much the work of her own relations as otherwise.”
She broke down in sobs again “I have grown so used to the impropriety of my mother and my young sisters that I did not see it until his cruel words showed me how they appeared in another’s eyes.”
At length, Charlotte said softly, “And what of his pride and arrogance, Lizzy?”
Elizabeth wiped her tears away. “On that we did not speak. And although the tone of his proposal softened the harsh words that might otherwise have come to mind, I have no reason to change my opinion of him. . . except that my opinion has been so dreadfully wrong about everything else!”
“I see,” said Charlotte. “So he may not be as arrogant as you thought?”
“Well . . . perhaps,” Elizabeth granted unwillingly.
“So after his explanation, were you tempted to amend your refusal?”
“Oh, no, Charlotte. He did not renew his proposal, so I had no cause to reconsider my refusal. But, in truth, even after everything I have learned, at heart I still believe he is the last man in the world I could be prevailed on to marry.”
Charlotte was saddened but contented herself with a brief embrace before departing.
Chapter 4
Thursday, April 9, 1812
Darcy’s thoughts were still whirling in confusion and shock when he arrived back at Rosings, to the extent that he had no clear memory of passing through the park. He was, however, fortunate enough to reach his room without seeing his aunt. His good fortune came to an end at that point, for he did not even have time to ring for Jennings before a visitor knocked at his door. Darcy rolled his eyes in frustration, but there was no other recourse than to answer, and he was not surprised to find his cousin Fitzwilliam with his eyebrows arched in a look of sardonic mischief with which Darcy was so familiar.
“I heard you come back just now,” his cousin said easily, “and I thought you might wish to get thrashed at billiards before retiring.” Darcy was tempted to decline, but he saw Fitzwilliam’s expression sharpen as he recognized Darcy’s discomfiture. He sighed in surrender, for he also perceived the dedicated look that Fitzwilliam assumed when he was determined to accomplish some task. Just now, he suspected that Richard’s task was to quiz his dear cousin Darcy about his odd behaviour this day, and there being no way to avoid the inquisition, he accepted the invitation. He would have to talk to Richard at some time or other, for his cousin was relentless when he was in that mood. In any event, he had a favour to request. He knew that Richard might discuss some generalities regarding Wickham if Miss Bennet did indeed apply to him for confirmation, but he was too loyal and dutiful to make the slightest comment about the affair at Ramsgate.
When they entered the billiard room and Darcy uncharacteristically closed the door behind them, Fitzwilliam’s eyebrows rose again. Wordlessly he watched as Darcy removed his coat and began to examine the cues. Neither spoke as Fitzwilliam prepared the table. Darcy silently selected a cue and applied chalk to the tip. Fitzwilliam finished racking the balls and chalked his own cue. Eventually, as Darcy settled into position, Fitzwilliam’s patience reached an end.
“Darcy, do you want to tell me what in blazes is going on with you?” he burst out, but Darcy only stroked his cue, breaking the balls smartly. One ball made a corner pocket with a satisfying sound, and he again chalked his cue while his cousin fumed.
“What do you mean?” Darcy said finally as he lined up his first shot. “Are you referring to tea? I left the house because I did not feel well and decided to take a walk.” He stroked the cue smoothly and landed a ball in the side pocket, leaving the cue ball perfectly positioned for a shot on the corner.
“So you say!” Fitzwilliam responded. “But this is only the latest incident. You have been acting quite the strange one for the past week. First, you put off our departure, when in past years you would have been as eager as I to escape from Rosings. Then you hardly had a word to say to me all week, you cannot refrain from quarrelling with Miss Bennet whenever she visits, and you just stare out the window or hold a book in your lap without turning the page. Then tonight you disappear when my aunt has guests, leaving me to try to explain your unprecedented breach of manners. Did you know Lady Catherine wanted to send the servants out to search for you and drag you back? If I was a wagering man, I would place a month’s pay that you had finally been smitten by one of the stylish ladies in town who have been scheming to become Georgiana’s sister for these several years now.”
Darcy could not help smiling. Close, but yet not close.
“Little chance of that,” he murmured as he lined up and took his next shot.
“Then what? I will not let up, you understand. I will have a proper answer, or we shall be here all night.”
Darcy looked at his cousin intently. “Richard, I need a favour,” he said after a few moments.
“You will not get so much as a kind word until you tell your dear cousin why he has to allow himself to be battered about the ears by his aunt while you disappear at will.”
Darcy frowned. “I am serious. I need your help, but I also need for you to put a muzzle on your curiosity — at least for now.”
Fitzwilliam looked at him in exasperation. “Let me see if I have this straight. You want me to refrain from asking why you have been wandering around with a dazed look for more than a week, but at the same time you want me to do you a favour?”
“That about sums it up.”
“And you will not tell me what is troubling you?”
“I cannot. At least not right now. Maybe sometime, but not now.”
Fitzwilliam threw up his hands in disgust. “Oh, all right! Why should I expect anything else?”
“Thank you.”
“Now, what favour do you need?” Fitzwilliam said disgustedly. He had thought to at least disconcert Darcy and affect his game, but it appeared that whatever afflicted him did not affect his skill at billiards. He was in for another merciless drubbing.
“Your comment about Miss Bennet,” Darcy, suddenly tongue-tied, ventured eventually. “We did have a . . . quarrel.”
Fitzwilliam just raised his eyebrows. Darcy took a breath as he lined up another shot. “In the course of a rather . . . heated . . . discussion, I was forced to reveal to her the whole of my history with Wickham.”
That truly shocked Fitzwilliam. He well knew Darcy’s nearly obsessive urge for privacy.
“You did not include the part about Georgiana, did you?”
“Yes.”
Fitzwilliam was silent as he watched Darcy put yet another ball in the pocket. Darcy stood up and looked at him. “What I need, Richard, is . . . well, Miss Bennet may seek to confirm the . . . truth . . . of what I told her. What I would like is for you simply to answer her questions if she asks them. Just tell her what happened.”
Fitzwilliam stared, suspicion growing as his mind quickly put together the pieces of this most intriguing puzzle.
“You trust her that much?”
Darcy bent over his next shot. “I do.”
That was the last piece needed to resolve the question.
“Then, of course.” His smile gleamed suddenly in his tanned face. “If she asks, I will answer her fully. That is no problem, Darcy. No problem at all.”
He watched Darcy prepare for his next shot; then, as his cousin pulled the cue back, he said softly, “Impulsive as always, I see.”
Darcy missed the shot — badly.
“What did you say?” Darcy’s expression was dark as he rose from the table.
“Oh, nothing.” Fitzwilliam cheerfully moved to take his
first shot. Quickly he lined it up. “Previously, there were just the three of us who knew what transpired at Ramsgate — except for Wickham, long may he rot . . .” His first shot sank a ball in the side pocket.
“And now, suddenly, Miss Bennet will make a fourth . . . ” He sank this shot in a corner pocket.
“Plus there is the famous impulsiveness of the Darcys . . . ” Darcy’s face was stony, but his cheeks were flushed as another ball rattled home.
“And of course, there is little chance of a stylish lady from town bewitching my famously taciturn cousin . . .” The last ball slammed home in a corner pocket, clearing the table.
“So, of course I will be pleased to alleviate any concerns of the lovely Miss Bennet, who, after all, hails from the country, not from town. It will be my pleasure, Darcy.” Fitzwilliam laughed out loud at his cousin’s glowering expression.
“Ah, the Darcy Stare of Displeasure. It is not nearly as good as the Major General’s, mind you, but it is almost as good as Father’s. Will you rack the balls, Cousin?”
After several seconds, Darcy could see that he was not going to dim the spirits of his irrepressible cousin, and his glare faded into a rueful smile while he prepared the table.
“Shall I mention the legend of the impulsive Darcys when I see Miss Bennet?” Fitzwilliam drawled.
“Richard,” Darcy said seriously, “just do what I asked. The situation is not yet one that inclines me to humour.”
“Of course, Cousin.” Fitzwilliam patted him on the shoulder. “But I laughed in Spain when we were down to our last ten rounds and then the bayonet, so I daresay I can find a chuckle in your situation.”
“Someday, Richard, someday!” Darcy growled.
“You have said that before, you know,” Fitzwilliam said in delight as he broke the rack. Two balls rattled home, and Darcy groaned.
* * * * *
When Jennings made his exit at long last, Darcy gave a sigh of relief. He settled before the fire, feet outstretched to catch the warmth. His relatively good humour from earlier had dissipated, and now depression closed in. He had held it at bay while playing with Fitzwilliam, but it returned now in full force.
