“I would not say Lady Catherine excels in politeness or goodwill.”
“Richard, what do you want from me?”
The colonel reflected for a few moments, but not long, then answered resolutely, “I wish you would consider yesterday’s scene at the Parsonage not as a failed proposal but as a quarrel between two proud, quick-tempered individuals, burdened with deep prejudices, who resemble one another more than either of them realises and who suit each other exceedingly well. What you delivered was not a proposal of marriage, it was a declaration of war, and Miss Elizabeth responded in kind, wielding weapons as sharp as your own. Yesterday you fought.”
“And?”
“And I would suggest we reach London, find some peace, and allow you to reconsider your feelings with a clear mind.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, reconsider your feelings towards Miss Elizabeth’s family—because your feelings towardsher, I believe, require no reconsideration. In my opinion, they are stronger today than ever.”
“I do not believe I shall do any such thing. I believe everything between us is finished, regardless of what I feel.”
“Perfect,” said the colonel, feigning indifference. “Then it is clear you can move on without ever looking back.”
Yet, as he looked at his cousin’s face when the carriage finally began its course towards London, it became evident that the chapter was far from closed. What remained uncertain was how, in the end, Darcy would choose to close it.
Chapter 17
Elizabeth read Darcy’s letter for the second time. She suspected that Charlotte would soon knock at her door, eager to discover what had transpired, but she still did not know how to proceed.
The day before, when Mr Darcy had asked for her hand in marriage, she had managed to conceal the event from Charlotte, for she had been only angry, her fury visible, and it had not been difficult to place the blame on his mere visit without offering any details of what had occurred.
But while reading his letter, her anger faded, giving way, unexpectedly, to a deep sorrow that unsettled her heart. Each line seemed to burn through her, stirring up a turmoil she could hardly hide from her close friend. What troubled her most was the very source of this sudden unrest.
Mr Darcy possessed flaws she could not overlook: pride and arrogance were rooted in his nature; together with Mrs Hurst and Miss Bingley, he had persuaded Mr Bingley to abandon Jane; he clearly expressed disdain for her family, had spoken atrociously of her mother and sisters, and yet, a dayafter that dreadful proposal, she was forced to acknowledge that the man loved her. Mr Bingley had fled at the first words spoken against Jane; in contrast, Mr Darcy had asked for her hand in marriage, proving himself to have greater strength of character than his friend, whom all the residents of Meryton had cherished, convinced of his benevolent nature and love for her sister.
The revelation about Mr Wickham’s character made her heart tremble. She felt betrayed by her ability to know people and sorrow to have judged Mr Darcy so poorly.
One moment, she loathed Mr Darcy, and the next, a wave of sadness and frustration crashed over her, only to recede and leave in its wake desolation and a thousand questions.
She had always fiercely defended her principles. Her father and aunt had often urged her to view matters with greater tolerance, to see the nuances that defined the character and nature of those around her. Yet, she had always thought that they regarded the world with too much indulgence, thus forfeiting a measure of honesty. Her refusal of Mr Darcy’s proposal was an impulse to protect her family, a decision that she had always believed to be correct.
Then why this unrest where only anger had been? Whence came these ripples of pain and regret creeping insidiously into her soul?
With Mr Darcy’s letter in her hand, once her fury had passed, she had begun to see things in their true light—shades and graduations rather than stark black and white. He was a person of principle, just as she was, and that could not be denied. His honesty had played this cruel trick, forcing him to speak the truth at any cost. Without any attempt at concealment, Mr Darcy had told her that her family was beneath his own—not only in rank but in decorum as well.
Would she have preferred to discover after the wedding that her husband despised her family?
She rose abruptly from the bench, walked to the window, then back again, for suddenly, the thought of being his wife suddenly did not seem abhorrent to her. And when she sat down once more, she felt as though she were no longer herself—the woman she had been for so long—while the one reading the letter for the third time was a near stranger. Somewhere deep within her, like a thread of molten lava forcing its way to the surface, regret was making its slow ascent towards her heart, though her mind still refused to yield.
Why should she regret refusing a dreadful marriage proposal offered by a man she had despised? Perhaps she could lament the manner of her rejection—so wholly impolite and far removed from the conduct befitting a lady.
But the truth overwhelmed her, stealing her breath away. She regretted him—she regretted Fitzwilliam Darcy, the man she thought she hated.
She shook off these thoughts, but they persisted, returning with renewed determination. Her mind and heart were engaged in a fierce battle, each refusing to yield to the other.
Love had always been the sole condition under which she would accept a man as her husband. She held no love for Mr Darcy. In her heart, she did not feel that long-anticipated sentiment. And yet…if he had asked her differently, if he had said only that he loved her, perhaps she might have considered asking him for time to sort out her feelings or to understand them.
Mr Darcy wanted her to be his wife, but he disdained her family. He had offered her his life and wealth, but in return, it was evident from his discourse that he wished her to abandon all those that had thus far comprised her society. She had beenhorrified, but in the end, anger alone kept her from considering what he was offering.
What would she have done if her affection for him had been evident? Jane would have forsaken everything for Mr Bingley—that much was certain. She would have embraced, perhaps, the way of life of the Bingleys sisters if only to be with the man she loved. Of that, there was no doubt. In those bleak December days, Jane had confessed as much—not in so many words but enough for Elizabeth to understand. For her sister, love might indeed have meant that minor betrayal of the world she had always known.
While she, Elizabeth Bennet, had said no, an unequivocal, furious no, blinded by the resentment his words had roused in her—his words about her family, about Jane. Never, not even for a moment, had she thought of herself.
When Charlotte knocked at the door, she nearly collapsed under the weight of revelation—she did not loath that man. On the contrary… Only she was unsure how far that ‘contrary’ went.
