Page 18 of Beyond Pride, Past Prejudice

Elizabeth read Darcy’s letter for the second time. She suspected that Charlotte would soon knock at her door, eager to discover what had transpired, but she still did not know how to proceed.

The day before, when Mr Darcy had asked for her hand in marriage, she had managed to conceal the event from Charlotte, for she had been only angry, her fury visible, and it had not been difficult to place the blame on his mere visit without offering any details of what had occurred.

But while reading his letter, her anger faded, giving way, unexpectedly, to a deep sorrow that unsettled her heart. Each line seemed to burn through her, stirring up a turmoil she could hardly hide from her close friend. What troubled her most was the very source of this sudden unrest.

Mr Darcy possessed flaws she could not overlook: pride and arrogance were rooted in his nature; together with Mrs Hurst and Miss Bingley, he had persuaded Mr Bingley to abandon Jane; he clearly expressed disdain for her family, had spoken atrociously of her mother and sisters, and yet, a day after that dreadful proposal, she was forced to acknowledge that the man loved her.

Mr Bingley had fled at the first words spoken against Jane; in contrast, Mr Darcy had asked for her hand in marriage, proving himself to have greater strength of character than his friend, whom all the residents of Meryton had cherished, convinced of his benevolent nature and love for her sister.

The revelation about Mr Wickham’s character made her heart tremble. She felt betrayed by her ability to know people and sorrow to have judged Mr Darcy so poorly.

One moment, she loathed Mr Darcy, and the next, a wave of sadness and frustration crashed over her, only to recede and leave in its wake desolation and a thousand questions.

She had always fiercely defended her principles.

Her father and aunt had often urged her to view matters with greater tolerance, to see the nuances that defined the character and nature of those around her.

Yet, she had always thought that they regarded the world with too much indulgence, thus forfeiting a measure of honesty.

Her refusal of Mr Darcy’s proposal was an impulse to protect her family, a decision that she had always believed to be correct.

Then why this unrest where only anger had been? Whence came these ripples of pain and regret creeping insidiously into her soul?

With Mr Darcy’s letter in her hand, once her fury had passed, she had begun to see things in their true light—shades and graduations rather than stark black and white.

He was a person of principle, just as she was, and that could not be denied.

His honesty had played this cruel trick, forcing him to speak the truth at any cost. Without any attempt at concealment, Mr Darcy had told her that her family was beneath his own—not only in rank but in decorum as well.

Would she have preferred to discover after the wedding that her husband despised her family?

She rose abruptly from the bench, walked to the window, then back again, for suddenly, the thought of being his wife suddenly did not seem abhorrent to her.

And when she sat down once more, she felt as though she were no longer herself—the woman she had been for so long—while the one reading the letter for the third time was a near stranger.

Somewhere deep within her, like a thread of molten lava forcing its way to the surface, regret was making its slow ascent towards her heart, though her mind still refused to yield.

Why should she regret refusing a dreadful marriage proposal offered by a man she had despised? Perhaps she could lament the manner of her rejection—so wholly impolite and far removed from the conduct befitting a lady.

But the truth overwhelmed her, stealing her breath away. She regretted him—she regretted Fitzwilliam Darcy, the man she thought she hated.

She shook off these thoughts, but they persisted, returning with renewed determination. Her mind and heart were engaged in a fierce battle, each refusing to yield to the other.

Love had always been the sole condition under which she would accept a man as her husband.

She held no love for Mr Darcy. In her heart, she did not feel that long-anticipated sentiment.

And yet…if he had asked her differently, if he had said only that he loved her, perhaps she might have considered asking him for time to sort out her feelings or to understand them.

Mr Darcy wanted her to be his wife, but he disdained her family.

He had offered her his life and wealth, but in return, it was evident from his discourse that he wished her to abandon all those that had thus far comprised her society.

She had been horrified, but in the end, anger alone kept her from considering what he was offering.

What would she have done if her affection for him had been evident?

Jane would have forsaken everything for Mr Bingley—that much was certain.

She would have embraced, perhaps, the way of life of the Bingleys sisters if only to be with the man she loved.

Of that, there was no doubt. In those bleak December days, Jane had confessed as much—not in so many words but enough for Elizabeth to understand.

For her sister, love might indeed have meant that minor betrayal of the world she had always known.

While she, Elizabeth Bennet, had said no, an unequivocal, furious no, blinded by the resentment his words had roused in her—his words about her family, about Jane. Never, not even for a moment, had she thought of herself.

When Charlotte knocked at the door, she nearly collapsed under the weight of revelation—she did not loath that man. On the contrary… Only she was unsure how far that ‘contrary’ went.

They settled on the bench, and Elizabeth’s tears began to flow freely, her composure crumbling, leaving Charlotte bewildered and curious at the same time.

“What has happened?” Charlotte asked. Elizabeth remained silent, incapable of speech.

“Elizabeth, what has happened? What is the meaning of that letter?”

Through her tears, Elizabeth looked at her in astonishment.

“I was in the drawing-room, looking out of the window, when Mr Darcy handed it to you.”

For a while, they remained silent, for Elizabeth was still unable to speak. In truth, she was struggling against that harrowing feeling that had taken hold of her—a feeling she knew to be affection, a longing for a man she had lost.

“Heavens!” Charlotte went on, studying her closely, “Mr Darcy did not come for an ordinary visit, did he?”

Elizabeth shook her head instead of offering any reply.

“What did he do? Did he ask for your hand?” Charlotte cried, and Elizabeth froze, for in her friend’s face, she saw not merely astonishment but something akin to fear. It was such an odd combination that Elizabeth wiped her tears away and offered a sad smile and a nod.

“I refused him. Do not worry,” she said, keeping her eyes fixed on her friend, who, at that moment, seemed more tormented than she.

“You refused him?” Charlotte murmured. “How could such a thing be possible?”

Only then did Elizabeth realise that, to everyone around her, her action was incomprehensible, even foolish; Charlotte had married Mr Collins after knowing him only a few days.

“Are you surprised that a woman said no to the great Fitzwilliam Darcy?” Elizabeth replied, her sad voice tinged with a hint of sarcasm.

“I am, my dear. I am utterly surprised. It is an opportunity that will occur only once in one’s life. A woman cannot refuse such a proposal.”

Elizabeth had the odd feeling that Charlotte’s words were in utter contradiction to what she was thinking.

Charlotte was shocked by her refusal but not upset.

But that afternoon, Elizabeth was in need of someone, and beside her on the narrow bench sat her lifelong friend, and for a few hours, that was all that mattered.

Charlotte listened to her and comforted her like she used to do back home, and that dissolved any doubts she might have had regarding her old friend.

And finally it was gratifying to know that she was leaving Kent with at least one positive outcome: their long friendship had endured the trials, and she still had in Charlotte a dear companion.

∞∞∞

That evening, when Charlotte entered their bedchamber, she found her husband wearing an expression bordering on cheerfulness, and quite unintentionally, she too felt her spirits lift.

The marriage of Elizabeth to Mr Darcy would have been a calamity that would almost certainly have strained, if not severed, their relationship with Lady Catherine—at least for a time.

Charlotte felt relieved yet deeply astonished that Elizabeth had refused what was undoubtedly the most prestigious proposal of marriage a young woman from their neighbourhood could ever have received.

“You appear to be in good spirits, Mr Collins,” she said with a trace of affection in her voice, confident that the news of Elizabeth rejecting Mr Darcy would delight him even more.

Yet he merely continued to smile and said plainly, “Cousin Elizabeth refused Mr Darcy’s proposal.” The statement plunged Charlotte into a state of profound astonishment. It was the very news she had hoped to hear from him.

“How do you know such a thing?” she asked.

And Mr Collins replied with perfect composure, “I was in the adjoining room when he proposed to her.” Not a single muscle in his face twitched; on the contrary, his cheerfulness deepened, while Charlotte reflected that the only place from which he could have overheard the conversation was the small, unused, and unfurnished music room where, indeed, she had noticed a solitary chair only a few days before.

∞∞∞

On her final evening in Kent, to Elizabeth’s surprise, Lady Catherine once more invited them to dine. She was tempted to decline, stating she needed to prepare for her journey, but ultimately, she decided to go.

As she entered the drawing-room at Rosings, she wondered what it would have meant to appear that evening at Darcy’s side as his betrothed.

Lady Catherine would probably have poisoned her dinner, she thought, smiling wryly to herself as she curtsied before the elderly lady, who, unexpectedly cheerful, spoke at length about how Anne was to travel to London and then, in the summer, to Pemberley, likely accompanied by herself.

For a fleeting moment, Elizabeth wondered whether Mr Darcy had confided in her—whether Lady Catherine knew of her refusal. But she quickly banished the thought. Fitzwilliam Darcy was not a man given to confessions, and a humiliating refusal was certainly not something he would wish to be known.

The visit to Kent concluded without further unforeseen events. Yet, as Charlotte accompanied her to the carriage, Elizabeth experienced a strange moment when she turned to her friend and whispered, “The truth is, I love him, and I have not given up on him.”

All the way to London, she thought of those words, which—though she had proffered them—seemed as if they did not belong to her.

For half the journey, she told herself she had said them merely out of some mischievous desire to leave Charlotte a little less assured about their future relationship with Rosings.

But then, gazing at the beautiful sunlit sky, she admitted to herself that it could be what she truly wished—that she would not give up on him.

It was a foolish desire, considering his letter—so sorrowful, so final in its tone of parting. And yet, deep within her heart, there stirred a longing she did not want to fight—or could not.