CATACLYSM
Thursday 9 April 1812, Kent
To avoidweaknesses which exposed a strong understanding to ridicule had ever been Darcy’s resolve, but Elizabeth Bennet was his greatest weakness. It followed that he should have made himself ridiculous on account of her. ’Til a few moments ago, he had believed it was their marriage that would make him so, but he knew better now.
It was her refusal of any such alliance that had rendered him an inglorious fool. She would not have him, did not even like him, blamed him for her sister’s misery and her favourite’s straitened circumstances—and now here he stood before her, exposed, rejected and ridiculous.
Never in his life had he felt such bitter mortification, such roiling indignation. There could be no greater shame than the furious disapprobation of one to whom he had surrendered so much. All possible arguments and pleas, all rational thought eluded him. Everything shrank to insignificance beside the urgent need to be gone from her presence, for he could tolerate the humiliation not an instant longer.
“You have said quite enough, madam. I perfectly comprehend your feelings and have now only to be ashamed of what my own have been.Forgive me for having taken up so much of your time and accept my best wishes for your health and happiness.”
The parlour door, then the front door, then the parsonage gate all closed behind him, adding layer upon layer to the distance between them. It was not enough. On he walked, retreating as far from the scene of his utter debasement as daylight permitted. Dusk brought him to a halt, and he railed at it, for he had no wish to stop and allow his thoughts to catch up with him. He considered continuing all the way to the sea, but the demands of his empty stomach, mundane in the midst of such ruin, cautioned against it. He turned back the way he had come, so far that neither the house nor even the park was visible on the horizon.
He was stationary too long; a swell of appalling emotion overtook him. With fists clenched, he roared his anguish at the darkening sky.
Was it all for nothing, then? The torment of withstanding her charms week after week in Hertfordshire. The wretchedness of separation as the succeeding months proved her impossible to forget. The agony of coming to understand he loved her yet still could not have her. The painful hours deliberating the dereliction of duty to his family any union with her would entail. The terrifying decision to allow his heart to run this far with its absurd fancies. The unbearable discomposure of making the damned offer—a more truthful declaration of his private feelings than any he had condescended to give another soul. Had all his violent struggles these past six months been for naught?
He set off in the direction of the house, resentment fuelling his pace such that every footfall jarred his bones. Night fell and settled a queer stillness upon him, a stagnant fury that required no further outpouring of passion, only cool, calculated action. In his bedchamber, he wrote a letter that would settle the matter unequivocally. She could read it or not, believe it or not, he scarcely cared.
Unbidden, another surge of emotion gripped him, forcing a lump into his throat and tightness into his chest. Elizabeth would not have him. Oh, God! He shoved his chair away from the desk and after several circuits of the small chamber threw himself onto the bed in disgust. She did not deserve him! He no longer wanted any of her—not her vulgar family, not her city-dwelling relations, not her pert opinions or bewitching eyes.
Would to heaven he did not love her.
He squeezed his eyes closed, determined to sleep. He would deliver the letter tomorrow, after which he would never see Elizabeth again, and all such weakness would soon be overcome.
AFTER THE STORM
Saturday 11 April 1812, Kent
“Well, Darcy,”said his cousin to him as their carriage rolled through the gate, “notwithstanding your unaccountable dejection these past two days, this year’s visit has been a good deal more pleasurable than most.”
Darcy made no reply. Fitzwilliam was perfectly capable of carrying on a conversation alone and would do so better without any objection from him.
“Astonishing what a difference a few young ladies can make to a place. Even one as depressing as Rosings.”
Darcy considered neither his aunt’s house nor the presence of any of said ladies agreeable. He kept the thought to himself and fixed his eyes on the window that would not show him the parsonage as they passed it.
“You do not agree? I hope you are not going to hold it against Miss Bennet that she did not ask me to verify your account. You know how persuasive Wickham can be. It may take time for her to learn to appreciate your disclosure.”
The glass reflected Darcy’s sneer back at him. He adjusted his focus beyond it. Given the appreciation Elizabeth Bennet had shown for hisoffer of marriage, he had not expected any gratitude for exposing her favourite’s true character. Indeed, were it not for the satis.faction of having defended his own, he might regret writing the letter at all.
“I have faith that she will though, old boy. If you trust her with such a delicate matter, then I trust her to come to the proper conclusion about the perpetrator.”
Darcy did trust her—implicitly. Her integrity was but one of count.less qualities he admired. Perverse was the twist of fate that had given rise to the woman he held in such high regard refusing him in defence of the man who so cruelly used his sister. He gave his cousin a glancing nod so as not to invite another debate on the wisdom of revealing Georgiana’s near ruin.
Fitzwilliam presently gave up his chatter and fell asleep. Darcy’s own private monologue soon took over, recounting conversations he would much rather forget, but which he had thus far been powerless to cease turning over and over in his mind. A rejection of marriage was not something he had ever thought to encounter. The violence of Elizabeth’s refusal left him winded, gasping for comprehension. She had been merciless in her use of him, teasing and taunting ’til he was driven beyond his endurance, only to spurn the offer she wrung from him. Incensed anew, he followed his cousin’s lead and sought the anaesthesia of sleep. By the time he awoke, Kent’s rolling hills had flattened into London’s suburbs.
“I thought you would never wake up. I was forced to read this God-awful book of yours to pass the time.” Fitzwilliam picked it up and peered at the spine. “What the devil are you doing reading this hogwash?”
“It was the first one I came to in Lady Catherine’s library,” Darcy replied, tilting his head to release the muscles in his neck. “I thank you for your trouble. I shan’t bother starting it now.” He caught the book before it hit him and felt the pull of his first smile in days at the corners of his mouth. “Can I tempt you to join me for dinner?”
“I should infinitely prefer it,” Fitzwilliam answered, “but alas, my father has summoned me to dine with him and Ashby—and my future sister, Lord save me.”
Darcy raised an eyebrow in query.
“Lady Philippa,” his cousin revealed. “My delightful brother decided he could not bear Miss Blake’s teeth after all and has stakedhis entire future happiness on the dental merits of an ill-tempered shrew.”
Darcy almost smiled again ’til Fitzwilliam’s enquiry as to his plans chased it away. His only obligation that evening was to resume his former life as though naught had changed. Indeed, other than the longing for Elizabeth, which none of his resentment had dislodged from its perch in his heart, nothing had.
