“Do not attempt subtlety with me, I beg you.” Darcy laughed. “My opinion of her has not changed. Only my feelings have.”
“Are you certain they have changed?” the colonel asked without thinking. Yet Darcy’s expression remained still. Looking at the faintest trace of a smile on his cousin’s face, the colonel began to understand some of Miss Elizabeth’s frustrations; Darcy could be haughty even with his own family—a little too proud.
“Richard, I came to the club for pleasant company. The past is buried, as much as it can be, a few weeks on. But yes, I am on a better path, if that is what you wish to know. I look at what happened now without the anger I felt before. Miss Elizabeth’s visit to Georgiana does not trouble me. Georgiana invited her, and I am glad she is no longer so timid—that she is beginning to understand her place and her role, among other things. It is a great step forwards, and if she takes it with Miss Elizabeth, I am pleased.”
The colonel let out a breath of relief. His subtle cousin was not as sharp as he believed himself to be for though a quiet plan to bring him and Miss Elizabeth together was unfolding around him, he suspected nothing. And that was for the best. Even the slightest hint might have made him turn away from feelings he so clearly still held despite his vehement denial.
“Yes, Richard,” Darcy said at last, “Miss Elizabeth is present in my thoughts—but not quite in the way you imagine.”
“How do you know what I imagine?” the colonel replied in the same light tone, though masking, for both of them, the truth beneath a joke.
“I suspect you liked her enough not to wish me to forget her. You still have hopes I could look back and decide to try again.”
“You are not a man easily swayed by the opinions of others.”
“I used to believe that too…but now…”
“Now?” asked the colonel, hoping that Darcy might unburden himself further and that he might find an opportunity to show him that a woman like Miss Elizabeth could indeed bring him happiness.
“Now I am ready to hear what you think—”
“To hear?” The colonel smiled. “You mean not to interrupt me and change the subject entirely?”
“Richard,” said Darcy with amused reproach, though he turned serious at once, “you want me to tell you what I feel. Well then, at this very moment, I do not know what I feel. That is to say, not even whether I still love her. She wounded me too deeply.”
“And you wounded her in return.”
“And you believe the two wounds cancel each other out, so both should be obliterated?”
“Something of that sort,” laughed the colonel, who had no wish for Darcy to relive the scene at the Parsonage, only to accept that they had both made mistakes.
“But do you ask yourself whether she might love me?” Darcy enquired, and for the first time that evening, the colonel saw in his eyes something beyond frustration and stubborn pride, a glimmer that could only come from love and suffering.
“She loves you!” the colonel declared with conviction, though he could not be certain. Yet, he hoped that if the two were to meet, they might find clarity in their feelings and temper the combative spirit that so often ruled them both.
To the colonel’s surprise, Darcy said nothing, but his features softened somehow.
Chapter 26
Elizabeth reflected deeply, but as had often been the case of late, decisions concerning Mr Darcy were not easily made. The letter had seemed a good idea only a few hours earlier, yet now, alone before the sheet of paper, she hesitated again. It was not the unconventional Elizabeth, the one who had never been troubled by the rules of their society, who faltered, but the Elizabeth in love, who now questioned how the man she loved might receive a letter from her. Did he still need her explanation, or had he already moved on to another chapter of his life where all that had occurred in Kent was no more than an unpleasant memory?
Engulfed in deep emotions she remembered the first few times they had met, wondering how their relationship might have been different or would have progressed had she not heard those terrible first words about herself that had coloured her view of him for so long.
She recalled moments when he had looked at her with admiration, amused or curious about her ideas, interested in their conversations. Yet, that first impression had never fadedfrom her mind. No matter what he did, she still saw him as the proud man she had first met at the Meryton assembly, who had criticised her neighbours and found her not handsome enough to tempt him.
On the other hand, Lady Oakham believed that Fitzwilliam had admired her from the beginning. Was it possible that he had been attracted to her, yet he had done everything possible to exhibit his superiority, despising the Meryton assembly for not being equal to the gatherings he was accustomed to, only to find a reason not to recognise a feeling that was troubling to him?
She tried to imagine a different story, where she had been given the chance to see him in a better light, to appreciate his intelligence, his refinement, and that mocking smile that resembled her father’s. In this story, she could introduce him to her family as they were—a loving but sometimes frustrating group of ordinary people with flaws and qualities, but most importantly, bound by love.
At that moment, Elizabeth had a clear idea of the letter she wanted to write to him and the reason. No matter what the future would bring, this man she deeply loved needed to see her and her family as they truly were, for even if she were to remain nothing more than a memory to him, she wished that memory to carry with it a touch of longing or regret.
Mr Darcy,
Thank you for your letter, which I feel cannot go unanswered. Whilst I may, on this occasion, transgress the conventions of decorum, it is more important to let you know what I think than adhering rigidly to customs I find obsolete.
Your letter, sir, has conferred upon me most essential enlightenment concerning the despicable character of Mr Wickham, and I express my sincerest gratitude for entrustingme with such a painful disclosure, thus sparing me from potential dangers. With the aid of my father and aunt, I began to see the true nature of Mr Wickham not long after you departed Hertfordshire, yet none of us imagined the depths of his villainy.
In your letter, you referenced two distinct offences of a quite different nature that I laid upon you. I shall continue my letter by only mentioning one, and it is of such magnitude as to eclipse any other concerns I may have. It pertains to my sister Jane.
