“Did it never occur to you to ask yourself whether I loved you? Did that not matter?”
“I understand it now, it matters now more than anything else in the world; then…will you believe me if I say that I can scarcely remember the man I was?”
“I shall believe whatever you tell me,” she smiled, with such trust that he was overcome, and, forgetting that they were to speak, he drew her into his arms, grateful that she made repentance so easy.
“I do not seek to excuse myself,” he went on, letting her go again, “but from the moment I began to love you—or to understand that I loved you—I longed to be married, to bring you, my woman, to Pemberley. I desired a home once more alive with affection. I imagined, for the first time, myself as husband and father. I wished the house to be filled with children, with life again; suddenly, the happiness I had known with my mother seemed a thing that must be restored. When I left the Parsonage, only one thought remained—the wish to rebuild that family. Your refusal was an earthquake to me, and the manner of it, so resolute, made me believe it final. I wished to forget you at once…on the spot. And, unfortunately, the only thought that persisted obsessively in my mind was that I wanted a family. I was mad; I made so many mistakes—”
“I was at fault too,” she murmured. “I, too, am changed. I needed to reinvent myself to become who I am now—to be the person I am at the Academy. Elizabeth Bennet once desired, in principle, the life I now possess, without realising that the girl I was then could never have been an instructress.
“Besides—why should I not speak plainly?—when you proposed I was deeply wounded that you thought us your inferiors. I was prejudiced, I was angry. That was me then. It seemed as though you insulted my family, but in truth, my wounded pride spoke then—”
“That is not true,” he said, and it was not only his words but his whole being that spoke to her. “Not for a single moment did I ever consider you inferior in any way. Yet you are right—I see it now. You are your family; you cannot be separated orconceived apart from them, and in my boundless arrogance I failed to perceive that evidence…I am mortified by it still.”
Elizabeth touched his chest with a tender gesture, and he caught her hand, enclosing it in his own.
“You were wrong…I was wrong too,” she said gently. “It was our pride that spoke. Had we both been calm and honest, I might have admitted that there was truth in what you said—that my mother loves to gossip; that Jane, too timid, could not express her feelings; that Lydia was wild and heedless—these were all true. I ought to have acknowledged them. But uttered as an arrogant reproach, they wounded me. I felt bound to defend my family, whatever their faults, for they were mine, even if I knew each one of them too well…they were not perfect.”
“Nobody is.”
“Exactly. But we were both too proud to admit it. Too certain of our own worth.”
“You are much too witty, woman! I am a little afraid of you.” He smiled as he spoke; it was not a dramatic confession, yet not far from the truth. He was not afraid but happy to marry her, though he knew their life would not always be easy…and perhaps that was the beauty of it.
“I know you are—but it is too late for you. I would never break our engagement; you shall take me to the altar, Fitzwilliam Darcy!”
“All is settled,” she said with conviction. “In our memories, the Parsonage exists now only as a place in Kent…nothing more.”
“You have forgiven me!” he exclaimed.
“We have forgiven each other.”
“My fault is the greater.”
“Let us not measure our faults…but…I forgave you before you left the Parsonage.”
She paused, and he waited, scarcely breathing, for her to continue. Elizabeth met his eyes and said, “Yet afterwards, somehow, you found your way to Ashcombe.”
Though he had believed the worst was over, he was mistaken; for he felt in the air around them something that had not been there before—a wave of indignation. When he sought her eyes, she turned them away.
“What is it, Elizabeth?” To him, what had happened at the Parsonage was the gravest part of his offence; there lay the essence of his fault towards her. Yet it seemed that she considered his visit to Ashcombe still more serious. The man within him smiled, for now that they sat together, only a few inches apart, speaking freely, Ashcombe no longer held any significance for him—though his future wife thought otherwise.
“How can a man offer marriage to another woman…on the same day?”
“The truest answer is that I cannot tell. I told you before that a vast wall divides me from the man I was then. Even if I wished it, I could not now recall what I thought, for my heart is full only of happiness. Yet it must have been a moment of wandering—on the brink of madness.”
“Why her?” whispered Elizabeth; though, remembering that other Elizabeth—beautiful, timid, witty, distinguished—the answer seemed plain.
“Did you like her?”
Darcy, unable to restrain himself, began to laugh; for he realised that the young woman whom he now so desperately wished to make his wife was…jealous. She wanted him wholly for herself. He was not alone in such feelings.
“Of course, I liked her,” he replied, and only then did Elizabeth look at him as she might one day look at one of their children after some mischief had been done. She wanted explanations—and quickly.
“Elizabeth, I love you, but I am not blind. Or do you imagine that, once we are married, I shall never look about a room and notice a beautiful or an intelligent woman?”
“You will look?” she asked, her surprise genuine, though tinged with displeasure.
“I shall be married, not blind,” he answered lightly, but upon her face he saw no trace of mirth. To her, it was a serious matter, which amused him the more.
