Page 157 of Bitterness of Spirit & The Painting

“Mr Darcy?” he heard the man repeat, and he startled, struggling to compose himself.

“Yes…Forgive me, I must leave now! Good day, sir,” he said abruptly, stumbling towards the door. He opened it hastily and slammed it shut behind him. The sunlight in contrast to the darkness inside hurt his eyes, but the sharp claw in his chest was much more painful.

Dumbfounded, bewildered, he looked around like an intoxicated man, trying to discern where he was and where he should go.

Who was that man? He must be related to Julia, of course. Was he her uncle? She must have kept him hidden on purpose! The man was not even surprised to hear Darcy’s name—he had admitted to knowing of his presence. Julia had told the man about Darcy, but she had not told Darcy about the man. She had pretended affection, friendship and loyalty, while she had purposely deceived him.

His first thought was to find her and confront her, but he quickly dismissed such an idea, as he could not trust his temper enough to carry on a reasonable conversation. Especially since Julia was likely to be with Elizabeth and her party.

He had been on his way to join them all, impatient to see Elizabeth again, and probably her closeness would comfort his suffering. But he must deny himself that pleasure; he had no right to present himself in front of her in that state and even less to burden her with his torment. Apart from Elizabeth, he loathed the mere idea of company. Even worse, the thought of meeting Julia was appalling and made him nauseous. He needed to be alone, far from everyone and everything. He had to think, to reflect, to soothe the tumult of his mind and heart. Yet he could not. He felt furious, betrayed, deceived, even mocked.

He tried to return to his cottage, but when he reached the gate, he heard Mrs Clarke’s voice and his headache only increased. How much of the story from the past was known by Mrs Clarke and her old maid Jenny? How much by Mrs Crawford?

He was certain the late Beatrice Fitzroy was part of the scheme since that man was her relative. Possibly her brother. And Julia—she must have taken over the deceptive role from her mother and continued it.

“Mr Darcy, are you well, sir? You took truly ill!” Mrs Clarke called, approaching him.

“Sir?” Stevens addressed him.

“I am going for a ride,” he replied coldly and the valet helped him prepare his horse.

“Sir, I beg your pardon but where are you going? You seem unwell—”

“I am going for a ride, Stevens. Are you content with this information, or should I inform you about more of my plans?” he responded harshly.

“Forgive me, sir, but what if Mr Bingley asks after you?”

“Tell him I have gone for a ride, do you not understand?” he raised his voice and the servant stepped back, lowering his head.

In the ten years that Stevens had been in his service, Darcy had had no reason to complain about him, he had never raised his voice to him, he trusted him completely. He knew he was being unfair, but his torment was stronger than his remorse.

Without glancing back, he pushed his horse into a gallop, with no direction in mind, only wishing to get as far away as possible. From the main road, he took the path to the shore, to the bay he had discovered days ago. But even there, in the complete silence and serenity, he found no peace. He dismounted, letting his horse go free. He paced along the shore, with his feet deep in the water, tempted to swim far, far away.

His troubled mind could not settle enough for him to allow reason to speak to him.

He did not seek answers, only allowed speculation to overwhelm him and assumed the worst, while his fury and disappointment grew.

He wondered if Lady Catherine and Lord Matlock had discovered something that induced them to forbid any connection to Mrs Crawford and Mrs Fitzroy but, more than anything, he wondered what there was to be discovered. What had truly happened? That his mother had been involved in a love affair with another man before marriage, he already knew. But did it continue after her wedding? He struggled to recollect the last letter but failed, as the words and meanings were all blurred in his head.

He had loved his mother with all his heart. He would have readily given his life for her, but the thought that she had deceived and betrayed his father was unbearable.

Then, a revelation struck him so hard that he froze at the edge of the sea. Waves were crashing at his feet, giving him chills that made his blood rush around his body.

The letters revealed a love so powerful, so intense, so complete that it had lasted through the years. That man had asked Lady Anne to be happy in her new life, with her new husband. This was what he had requested from her. And she had kept the secret hidden deep inside her and wished for it to be burned and buried with her. Had she met that man again after she had married? Had she been happy with her husband? Had she discovered the meaning of a blissful marriage? Nobody could know with certainty except for her.

But how could he dare to judge her? Question her? Doubt her?

Only two weeks ago, he had surrendered to the despair of having lost Elizabeth forever, then he rejoiced in the bliss of finding her and improving their relationship beyond his hopes. What if someone were to force him to marry another woman? What if he was sentenced to a life where he knew he could have been happy with her but had no choice but to try to find happiness with another. Even if that other lady was a worthy woman, who would love him and be loyal to him, could he ever abandon and forget his love for Elizabeth? Certainly not, he would probably bury it deep in his heart—just as his mother had done. But he was a man. He was the master of his estate and of his life. He was allowed to decide for himself, to choose the turns and the path he wanted to walk on. Lady Anne—although she belonged to an old, honourable, titled family—was a young woman forced to comply with her family’s wishes and with society’s demands. She had no means and no strength to fight for her own desires and her own dreams.

From his beloved mother, Darcy’s reflections turned to Elizabeth again.

While she was far from being in such a favourable position as the Fitzwilliams, with little dowry, no connections and even with the threat of losing the family home after her father’s death, Elizabeth had found the power to refuse a marriage proposal that would have offered her stability, comfort, and a position that most women would fight for. She had stood up for her beliefs, even if some of them were ill-grounded. She had rejected him when she did not consider him worthy of her admiration and respect. His love was not worth enough for her to ignore his flaws, so she dismissed it.

He thought his suffering over her rejection had been unbearable but now, he realised how much more painful suffering caused by a shared loved that could not be fulfilled would be.

He collapsed on the ground, staring at the sky. It was already late in the afternoon when he left the cottage, now it must be dinner time and probably everyone was wondering about him, but he could not gather himself to return to his companions. If he returned, he would be impelled to decide his next steps. Should he speak to that man again? Or to Julia? Should he take his quest further or stop it there? Could he trust himself to make the correct choices, under the present circumstances?

It was all too much, too disturbing, too overwhelming. He wished—he needed—to be alone for a long while. Bingley would understand; he might not even notice, as he was surely too preoccupied with Miss Bennet.