Page 130 of Bitterness of Spirit & The Painting

At that time she had been certain that he was a hateful man and that he disliked her as much as she disliked him. How could she have even imagined that what was in his heart and his mind was so different from his appearance? That his stares did not signify disapproval, but ardent love? That he had been struggling with his feelings for her for months and that he would propose to her only days later? Had she been such a complete, oblivious fool, or was he a master of disguise, despite claiming the opposite?

All her distrust regarding his dealings with Mr Wickham had long vanished. But his character, his nature, his judgment that had led him to separate Bingley from Jane but still allowed him to propose to her, remained questionable, doubtful, inconceivable to her.

Elizabeth shook her head in silent self-reproach. Why on Earth she was allowing such memories to trouble her, she could not understand. She was about to spend a pleasant and unexpected summer month in one of the most beautiful places she had ever dreamed of, utterly and completely unrelated to Darcy.

Yet not even there could she avoid thinking of him, of that dreadful day at the parsonage and of everything that had happened between them since they met.

Luckily, Kitty called for her help and Elizabeth returned to the present, shaking off the memories of the past.

Chapter 3

Darcy arrived in Brighton around noon. It had been a long and tiresome trip from Pemberley in the hot, summer weather. He had stopped quite often—for the sake of the horses and his coachman—but he had barely eaten and slept even less. His thoughts were torn between his fear of the discoveries he might make regarding his mother’s past and his reflections about Elizabeth. He had hoped that his torment would diminish as time passed but reality had proved him wrong, just as he had been wrong in everything else regarding Elizabeth.

The journey had allowed him time to think, to recollect every day, every interaction since they had met at that assembly and he rejected the mere notion of dancing with her. How many times had he longed to dance with her afterwards and how happily and confidently had he anticipated a lifetime of opportunities to hold her in his arms after they were married. But it had been her turn to reject the mere notion of marrying him! ‘The last man in the world’, she had called him.

Darcy felt relieved when the carriage stopped and the driver announced that they had reached their destination. He stepped down hesitantly and stood in front of the house, with a grip in his chest, disappointed once more as reality revealed itself to be completely different from his expectations.

Mrs Clarke’s cottage was barely recognisable; the sight of the place he had come with his mother so many times saddened him. The house had fallen into a very poor condition, as though it had been abandoned. He looked around at the other handsome and well-kept cottages and by comparison, Mrs Clarke’s looked even more pitiful.

Darcy knocked but received no answer. He called for Mrs Clarke and after few minutes an old maid appeared at a window, then finally the door opened.

Mrs Clarke—now in her late fifties, by Darcy’s estimation—looked at him, bewildered at first.

“Yes?” she asked, watching him suspiciously.

“Mrs Clarke, you may not remember me, I am Fitzwilliam Darcy; I used to come here with my mother, Lady Anne Darcy, many years ago….”

The woman stared at him dumbfounded, her hand covering her mouth, her eyes narrowed as though she was trying to see better.

When she eventually recognised him, she hurried to greet him tearfully while Darcy bowed to her.

“My dear sir, what a surprise! What a joy! I can hardly believe it! I have not seen you since you were a young boy. It must be fifteen years or more. What a fine, handsome gentleman you have become! Mrs Reynolds has written to me about you many times, but I barely recognised you! Welcome, welcome!”

“Mrs Clarke, what a pleasure to see you again,” he answered warmly.

After a brief hesitation, he embraced her with some haste and uneasiness. The woman was shorter than he remembered, so he had to lean towards her. She looked older than her age and she seemed very thin, moving with apparent difficulty.

“Come in, please. Take a seat, I beg you. As you see, we are not in proper state to receive a gentleman like yourself, but I am so happy to see you!”

He sat, glancing around at the furniture covered in dust. His observation did not go unnoticed by the lady.

“I hope you are well, Mrs Clarke. I am very happy to see you,” he repeated with genuine warmth.

“Thank you, sir. As I am happy to see you! I was devastated when I heard of your parents’ passing. I wondered if I would ever see you again, or meet Miss Darcy. I hope she is well too?”

“Very much so. Mrs Clarke, do you happen to have a couple of spare rooms I could rent? I intend to stay in Brighton.”

The lady frowned and turned pale.

“Oh, I have not rented rooms in the last three years. I have been quite ill and have been unable to take proper care of the house lately. I keep only two maids—Jenny and Abby—and Tom, do you remember them? They have all been with me for over twenty years, Jenny for more than thirty, and now we support each other, as hard as it is.”

“Yes, I do remember them, of course. So…the rooms are empty? Mrs Reynolds told me you were renting them out.”

“Oh, I did not tell her the full truth of my circumstances, I didn’t want to worry her. You know, my daughter married and she moved to Ramsgate. She has four children. She asked me to move in with her but I could not abandon this house. It is my home and was my parents’ home, so I will remain here, at least as long as I can support myself. When I am gone, she might sell the place if she wishes to.”

Darcy felt disconcerted for a moment. “So you do have free rooms?”

She looked at him, puzzled. “I do, sir. But they have not been cleaned in a long while. They are not appropriate to host you. And we do not have a cook and…”