Page 161 of Bitterness of Spirit & The Painting

“… you can imagine how I felt yesterday, when I realised I was standing in front of the man I was searching for. I cannot understand why Julia lied to me…”

“Are you certain that man is the one?” she asked gently.

“Yes. The paintings are very similar. Only my mother was missing from those hanging on the walls.”

“But how do you know he was the painter?”

The question dumfounded him. “It was just a feeling. And I remembered that phrase ‘the sun of my darkness’. It must be him!”

“I see. And why would you assume that Julia deceived you? If it was a secret so well kept, I doubt they shared it with anyone. I do not believe Julia would purposely deceive you—what would she gain by doing so?”

“True. I believe you might be right again, Miss Bennet, which would make me wrong one more time. But how can I be certain? I have so many doubts, so many questions, so many fears.”

“I must ask you, sir—what certainties do you need?”

“What sort of question is that?”

“Please think carefully—if you had not found the letters, would you have ever doubted your mother, or your parents’ loyalty in their marriage?”

She looked at him with a comforting tenderness that melted his heart but also induced him to stare into the mirror of truth.

“No…”

“Have you ever felt that your mother was not offered love and care and understanding from your father? Or that she was unhappy with him?”

“I am certain my father loved her very much. And she…I believed she loved him too. She asked me to take care of him after she was gone.”

“And is that not enough?” Elizabeth whispered the tormenting question once again.

“She kept that painting in her chamber, with the letters hidden behind it, all that time. She looked at it every day—when she was with me or with Georgiana, or with my father—until she passed away. Why did she not put it away, in another room? How could she have been happy, with the constant recollection of her lost love?”

“I do not know and I would not dare to assume. But you said she was not unhappy.”

“I hope so.”

“Is it useful to keep the turmoil that might have been in her heart alive and carry it with you?”

He shook his head.

“I should have done as she asked me and burned that painting when she died. I should not have read those letters.”

“Perhaps not. But is it useful for you to blame yourself now? What you have done is in the past now and cannot be changed.”

“I know…but I cannot simply put everything away.”

“Of course not, Mr Darcy. And I cannot pretend to understand your torment. I just feel you should find comfort in the love you shared with your mother and in all the wonderful memories she left you.”

“I might speak to that man again tomorrow. I mean today. And to Julia. I will be careful not to betray anything that is still secret, but I must speak to them before I leave. What do you think?”

She smiled at him. “I think you have already decided and nothing will comfort you until you complete your quest to heal your wounds.”

“You have healed most of my wounds, Miss Bennet, by sharing the burden with me. Your presence, your care, your nearness, your smile, your touch are all my comforts. But still—even if I might sound selfish—I do need to complete my quest.”

“You do not sound selfish at all, at least not to me. I feel privileged that you have shared the past and the present with me, Mr Darcy.”

“Would you allow me speak of the future with you too, Miss Bennet? Soon?”

“Soon,” she agreed.