Page 50 of Bitterness of Spirit

“A secret room! How exciting,” she replied with amusement.

Mr. Wilson closed the narrow door, which suddenly became one with the wall. From the main desk, couch, or armchairs, the spot was impossible to observe.

“Miss Elizabeth, you must be surprised that I asked you to meet me here.”

“I am,” she admitted. “But would you be so kind as to call me simply Elizabeth? We are family now, and although we have not spent much time together, such a formal address feels a little bit awkward.”

“Very well, my dear. Even better, as I intend to speak with you about something of a certain delicacy. I have ordered fresh coffee and tea. There are also some biscuits on the plate.”

Elizabeth poured herself tea, and sat, waiting. With each moment, her puzzlement increased.

Mr. Wilson stood by his armchair, holding a large cup of coffee.

“Yesterday evening, in rather peculiar circumstances, I met Mr. Darcy,” the host said.

Elizabeth struggled to swallow her sip. “Oh…”

“Yes. I am not certain whether I mentioned it, but I knew both his father and his grandfather quite well. I was very fond of them, and I cherish their memory.”

“I was aware you knew them but not that you were closely acquainted.”

“We were. I felt reluctant to meet the new master of Pemberley since you and your family expressed such a dreadful opinion of him. I feared I would be disappointed with his behaviour and his character—even more so after I heard of his ill-treatment of that Wickham fellow.”

Elizabeth put her cup on the table. “I spoke too hastily of Mr. Darcy. I did not know him well enough to sketch his character fairly, so please judge him based on what you see for yourself. Regarding Mr. Wickham’s story, perhaps he was biased in relating it to us, and we were a little too eager to listen and to believe it without further proof. It is true that Mr. Darcy’s manners are not always amiable, but none of us is perfect.”

Mr. Wilson concealed his surprise behind his coffee cup. Elizabeth thought she noticed a trace of a peculiar smile on his face.

“I see. I confess I am relieved to hear that, as my opinion is quite opposite to what I expected. To me, Darcy appeared to be a worthy heir to his parents, though his manners might benefit from more amiability. But in his character, I see few faults, at least on a first encounter.”

“You must be correct, sir. I admit my opinion of Mr. Darcy has changed for the better lately. I was provided with some information that helped me see things in a different light and understand them better.”

“Interesting. And I was surprised to find that, despite what I was led to believe, Mr. Darcy has an excellent opinion of you too.”

Elizabeth felt her cheeks burning. “Mr. Darcy is a man whose opinion is difficult to read or to guess.”

“Perhaps; but in this respect, he stated his opinion quite clearly. I did not need to presume.”

She blushed again and sipped some more tea.

“The reason for our conversation is related to Mr. Darcy. I might meet him again in the near future, and he might come here on occasion. I want to know how you feel in regard to such a circumstance. If this in unpleasant to you, I shall find a way to avoid your meeting again.”

“No,” she answered hastily. “I mean—it is your house, sir, and you are so generous to host us all. You are entitled to invite whomever you please. Besides, I am sure Mr. Darcy and I shall struggle to be civil in each other’s company.” She tried to sound as if she were in jest.

“Excellent,” Mr. Wilson uttered. “Now, would you like to eat something? I am starved.”

“I shall wait for breakfast.” She smiled. “But another cup of tea would be lovely.”

***

Darcy spent the morning in the library, restless and undecided about what to do. He read through his papers while drinking strong coffee, still dumbfounded by the astonishing visit the previous evening.

His father’s best friend, the man about whom he had heard his entire life, had returned from the dead and barged into his house and his life. Even more, his new role as Elizabeth’s relative made the entire situation deeply disturbing. He needed to gather more proof, but the little he was told so far, and especially the wound on the man’s chest, left few doubts.

But not even his curiosity about Wilson—although powerful enough—could calm his distress regarding Elizabeth and her present opinion of him. He felt troubled by the thought that he had disclosed the secret of his failed proposal to a complete stranger and wondered whether Elizabeth would be upset if she knew.

To keep his mind occupied, he wrote a long letter to Georgiana and a note to his aunt Fitzwilliam, politely rejecting her invitation to dinner. He found no pleasure in seeing other people, not even his relatives. Staying in London was a daunting task, but he could not consider leaving as long as there were opportunities to meet Elizabeth again.

He pretended to himself that he only wished to speak to her to clarify previous misunderstandings, to prove to her that he had taken her reproaches to heart and made amends to his past errors. But there was much more that he was willing to admit. His desires were enhanced by new hopes aroused by a twist of fate. In only one day, the image of a future without Elizabeth had faded and a glimmer of light brightened the dark aspect that had trapped him since that day at the Parsonage.