A temporary distancing. The notion offered little comfort.
After Bingley departed a half hour later, Darcy was left alone with his thoughts and the accusations of the scandal sheet, still lying on his desk. He sat down, picked up his pen, and began to write, keenly aware that the hour of his appointment was upon him.
Darcy drafted three original notes, each more unsatisfactory than the last. It was impossible to communicatethe truth: that he wished to see Elizabeth and reassure himself that she regarded him with something warmer than civility. Such radical honesty would be disastrous.
Instead, he focused on drafting an apology.
When he finished, he regarded his work with a critical eye. It was cold, formal, and entirely insufficient. But it was better than leaving her with no explanation at all. Resigning himself to accept less than perfection, he sealed his letter. Ringing the bell on his desk to summon a footman, Darcy instructed the man to deliver it immediately.
The footman bowed and left, bearing the letter away on a silver salver.
It was the right thing to do, the honourable course of action to take. So why, then, did he feel so entirely miserable? Darcy did not move from his desk for some time, feeling an agony that was all the more painful for being mixed with guilt.
∞∞∞
Elizabeth read the note twice, trying to make sense of it. She read it a third time, then folded it with unnecessary sharpness, endeavouring to ignore the torrent of despair that welled up inside her.
She had expected Darcy with an eagerness that she now realised was foolish. Their conversation the day before, as fraught as it was with frustration, resolve, and something dangerously close to confession, had left her restless and hopeful in equal measure. Now her lightness of spirit curdled into stinging hurt.
Despite herself, Elizabeth opened the letter once more.
To Mrs Gardiner,
Circumstances compel me to postpone the pleasure of calling on you today. Please accept my apologies — and if you would be so good, convey my regrets to your niece, withthe assurance that my intentions remain guided by the utmost respect for her comfort and peace of mind.
Yours faithfully,
F. Darcy
She crumpled the letter in her fist. “Circumstances compel him indeed. What convenient tyrants circumstances always are.” At first, she accepted it as nothing more than a postponement of their planned meeting, but as she paced in her room, more worrisome thoughts took hold.
The scandal sheet that morning had issued a fresh attack on her reputation by targeting Mr Darcy himself. It had a sly, insinuating tone, suggesting that he sincerely regretted their attachment, and that honour would see him bound to her despite her relentless pursuit of him. There were hints that Elizabeth wished she had not understood — hints of a most compromising nature, and which, if believed, would prove dangerous either to her reputation or to Mr Darcy’s freedom.
Elizabeth bit her lip. She could not deny the connection between the latest scandal sheet and Mr Darcy’s absence.
Had he lost heart? Had he, like everyone else in London, begun to believe the rumours about her intentions? Or, worse still, had he decided that associating with her was too great a liability?
She thought of Jane, whose gentle patience had been tried beyond endurance in the wake of Bingley’s absence, and of the cruel insinuations that had ensnared her family and friends.
And now Darcy, retreating just as the battle grew fiercer. It stung more than she cared to admit.
“Why should I be surprised?” she muttered. “His constancy has never been tested, and his pride has never been modest.”
The thought was sharp, and not entirely just, but it soothed her wounded pride to believe it.
Elizabeth felt the familiar burn of indignation at being cast aside, but beneath it lay a more troubling unease. She recalled Mr Darcy’s recent reserve and the careful distance he had maintained. He was keenly aware of how they appeared in public and of their reputations. She remembered how earnestly he had insisted upon protecting her, how swiftly he had assumed the burden of decision upon himself.
At the time, she had admired his concern. Now she wondered whether it had been something colder than care.
Perhaps he has discovered that I am not the conquest he imagined, nor an ornament he might display without reproach,Elizabeth thought bitterly.
She prided herself on her independence of spirit and her ability to laugh at vanity and withstand foolish opinions. Yet the possibility that Darcy’s regard had cooled, that his attentions had been extended only to be withdrawn, struck at a vulnerability she rarely acknowledged. It was not his pride she feared, but his regret.
If he truly regretted his attachment, their sham courtship, then what did that say of her and her judgement, or of the regard for Darcy she had so carefully tried not to name?
Elizabeth halted before the window, staring out at the indifferent street. “I will not be pitied,” she said aloud. “Nor will I be cast aside under the pretence of delicacy.”
If Darcy could withdraw from her so easily and without explanation, she could not sustain her confidence in his constancy to their cause. They had agreed to pursue the truth together, to share discoveries openly, to trust one another in a matter that demanded courage and discretion in equal measure. His apologetic note had thrown more than his resolve into question.
