Page 12 of Moments of Truth

As spring arrived, Mr. Darcy longed for a change of scenery.

Despite the joy he felt at hearing his sister Georgiana’s merry laughs filling the halls of their family home, the cold season had weighed upon him.

The snow had gone, the buds were showing on the hedgerows, yet within him lingered the heaviness of winter, as though no sun could quite thaw the frost from his spirit.

With its familiar comforts, including his favourite readings in the well-appointed library, Pemberley was a refuge and a place of emotional turmoil.

The library, carefully curated over the years to enhance the collection his father had started, was a sanctuary for Mr. Darcy.

Every leather-bound volume, every annotated margin, bore testimony not only to a lineage of learning but to a father’s silent command: be equal to this inheritance.

Yet, it also served as a constant reminder of his responsibilities and the weight of his late father’s expectations.

During this period of introspection, Mr. Darcy received a letter from his cousin, Colonel Fitzwilliam, inviting him to join him in London in late March.

The Colonel expected to return then from the Spanish front for a brief refit.

The colonel’s regiment had been engaged in the Peninsular War, and Darcy was eager to hear firsthand about his cousin’s experiences and to offer him some much-needed respite.

The tales of battle, hardship, and endurance fascinated Darcy less for their romance than for their testament to courage—qualities he both admired and, in another sphere, demanded of himself.

The two cousins shared a close bond, and their time together in London would undoubtedly be filled with camaraderie and mutual support.

Colonel Fitzwilliam was the only one who truly understood Darcy and with whom he could speak as if he were speaking with an older brother.

In Fitzwilliam’s presence, Darcy could shed the armour of reserve, trading it for candour without fear of being misjudged.

Thus, Darcy’s decision to leave Pemberley for a while was a means to escape the memories that haunted him and an opportunity to renew society with friends and family in a setting that promised familiarity and a touch of newness.

Derbyshire, for all its grandeur, echoed too loudly with the voices of his own thoughts; London, by contrast, offered motion, society, and the blessed relief of distraction.

The trip to London, with its mix of social engagements and personal encounters, would serve as a much-needed diversion from the contemplative solitude of his Derbyshire estate.

And though he did not yet confess it aloud, Darcy also nurtured a faint, restless hope—that among the crowds and conversations of town, some unforeseen chance might alter the course of his solitude forever.

***

After the long winter in Pemberley, Mr. Darcy found himself once more in the comfortable and familiar setting of his London house.

The bustle of the city, so different from the quiet seclusion of Derbyshire, offered him a sense of movement he had half-forgotten during the snowbound months.

It was here, during one such spring afternoon, that his cousin Colonel Fitzwilliam visited him.

With his warm demeanour and easy conversation, the Colonel was one of the few relatives Darcy genuinely enjoyed spending time with, for despite their different temperaments, Darcy’s cousin possessed a rare ability to put people at ease—a quality Darcy sometimes envied.

Darcy, for all his discipline and reserve, could not help but admire the manner in which Fitzwilliam turned even a stiff drawing-room into a place of ease.

As they sat in the study, exchanging the usual pleasantries about family, estate matters, and the affairs of the ton, Fitzwilliam broached a subject that Darcy had been expecting yet dreading: their impending visit to their Aunt Catherine de Bourgh at Rosings Park.

“Darcy, we haven’t seen our dear Aunt in some time,” Fitzwilliam said with a faint, knowing smile. “And she has written in her customary fashion again, insisting we make our way to Rosings before Easter. What say you? We might as well go together and save ourselves the lecture on familial duty.”

Darcy sighed, knowing there was little escape from the inevitability of the visit.

Lady Catherine was nothing if not persistent, and while he respected his aunt’s position, the thought of enduring her sharp tongue and unrelenting insistence on his marriage to her daughter Anne was hardly appealing.

Her letters were always filled with underlined words and emphatic pronouncements, as though a bold hand could strengthen a weak argument.

Visiting Rosings often came with a set of Aunt Catherine’s expectations and demands.

Gradually, Darcy had grown accustomed to her overbearing nature.

Experience had taught him that reason availed little in her presence; patience, silence, and Fitzwilliam’s good humour were far safer weapons.

He knew that with Colonel Fitzwilliam by his side, they would manage to endure her pointed remarks and inquiries with the tact and patience they had developed over the years.

Therefore, Fitzwilliam’s suggestion made the prospect somewhat more bearable.

With his easy-going nature, the Colonel had a way of diffusing Lady Catherine’s severity, and the idea of companionship during the trip made Darcy nod in agreement.

“Very well,” Darcy replied, “we shall visit before Easter, as her ladyship desires. Your presence will render the visit less formidable, though I suspect you know it. But I must confess, Fitzwilliam, my mind has been otherwise occupied.”

He hesitated, unwilling to delve deeper into the thoughts of Elizabeth Bennet that had plagued him since their last encounter at Netherfield.

Her image, unbidden, had returned to him too often: a voice that could quicken his mind as swiftly as it unsettled his composure; eyes that seemed to read him more truly than he wished.

Darcy pushed the memory aside, focusing instead on the duty at hand.

Little did he know, however, that their journey to Rosings—undertaken in duty and resignation—would bring about a reunion with Elizabeth that would unsettle him in ways he had yet to comprehend.

***

One week before Easter, Mr. Collins, in his usual state of bustling self-importance, had taken it upon himself to ensure that no moment of Mr. Darcy and Colonel Fitzwilliam’s arrival would escape his notice.

From the crack of dawn, as the first light filtered through the meagre curtains of his Hunsford parsonage, he had stationed himself strategically within view of the lodges opening onto Hunsford Lane.

His logic was irrefutable—how else could he, a man of duty and discernment, guarantee the earliest possible assurance of such exalted visitors, if not by pacing back and forth like a sentinel?

For many hours, Mr. Collins paced his self-appointed path, his steps growing more purposeful with each passing moment.

Every distant sound that could be mistaken for a carriage wheel made him snap his head up, eyes wide with anticipation.

No Mr. Darcy appeared, only the occasional villager passing by on foot or cart, casting curious glances at the clergyman engaged in his solitary patrol.

Collins inclined his head gravely to them, as though bestowing a blessing, but his thoughts were elsewhere —already composing the words of reception befitting Lady Catherine’s distinguished relatives.

“Most honoured gentlemen,” he rehearsed softly, “permit me, as her ladyship’s humble clergyman, to express the universal delight felt throughout this parish at the high distinction of your presence.

Rosings itself seems to breathe more nobly when graced by your arrival.

” He paused, nodded, and added with satisfaction, “And though my poor words must fall short, the sincerity of our devotion to Lady Catherine and her family will, I trust, be evident.”

At last, after what seemed to him a vigil of heroic length (though in truth only a few hours), the moment came. The distant clatter of hooves and the creak of a carriage grew nearer. Mr. Collins’s heart quickened, his hand instinctively smoothing his coat.

He stationed himself at the precise bend of the lane where the carriage must pass, straightened to his full height, and, with what he believed to be the perfect mixture of humility and dignity, bowed low as the equipage approached.

His bow was so deliberate that his hat nearly brushed the dust of the road, yet he held it with solemn control.

“Welcome, gentlemen of such distinguished station,” he murmured, low enough that no one within the carriage could possibly hear—but quite convinced that the sentiment, somehow, would reach them nonetheless.

The carriage rolled on without slackening, offering him only the briefest glimpse of Mr. Darcy’s profile. But in Mr. Collins’s mind, the impression was made: the duty performed, the honour secured.

Having fulfilled his sacred duty, the clergyman hurried back towards the parsonage with a sense of triumph, ready to regale Charlotte with tales of his impeccable timing and the undeniable favour he must now hold with Mr. Darcy.

“My dear,” he resolved to begin, “I was privileged to be the very first humble resident of Hunsford to pay his respects to Mr. Darcy and Colonel Fitzwilliam. I flatter myself that my bow conveyed, with suitable plainness, the gratitude of the entire parish.”

Indeed, no other clergyman in England had made such an impression within mere seconds of the arrival of their patron’s relatives! The day had scarcely begun, and already, in Mr. Collins’s mind, it was a triumph.

***