Page 15 of Moments of Truth

Colonel Fitzwilliam leaned back in his chair, his expression both amused and earnest as he regarded his cousin, Mr. Darcy.

They had been at Rosings for nearly three weeks now.

Though Darcy had been his usual reserved self in Lady Catherine’s grand company, Fitzwilliam had not missed the subtle change in his demeanour whenever Miss Elizabeth Bennet was present.

Darcy, for all his carefully schooled composure, was a man deeply stirred beneath the surface, and Fitzwilliam—accustomed to reading the moods of soldiers as well as kinsmen—saw plainly that his cousin was fighting a private battle.

“You know, Darcy,” Fitzwilliam began casually, his eyes twinkling with the spark of one who has solved a puzzle, “it would do you no harm to speak plainly with her. You have always prided yourself on your honesty and integrity. And yet, here you are, holding back from the one person whose opinion should matter most.”

Darcy’s jaw tightened as he stood by the window, hands clasped behind his back.

He did not respond immediately, but Fitzwilliam could sense the tension in his cousin’s posture.

The firelight threw long shadows across the library floor; Darcy stood among them like a man caught between concealment and confession.

“I do not think you realize, Fitzwilliam, how complicated the situation is,” Darcy finally replied, his voice low. “There are many things at play—her family, her connections. My standing… it is not so simple as just expressing one’s feelings.”

Fitzwilliam shook his head, leaning forward.

“It is exactly that simple. You are overcomplicating it, as you always do. Miss Bennet is not a woman to be easily swayed by wealth or title. I clearly understood that while talking to her. You also know this. But she values sincerity and respect above all else. Do you think her opinion of you will improve if you say nothing and leave for London without so much as a word?”

Darcy turned sharply to face him, his expression hard. “And if she rejects me?”

Fitzwilliam smiled softly. “Great heavens, Darcy, you speak as though rejection were a mortal wound. Be it so! At least then you will know. Allow me to assure you—I have seen the way she looks at you. She is not indifferent, and the longer you wait, the more you risk her believing you think her nothing more than an idle amusement.”

Darcy’s shoulders sagged slightly, the weight of Fitzwilliam’s words settling in.

The colonel was right, of course. He always had been able to cut through the fog of Darcy’s self-imposed reservations.

Darcy glanced out the window. He knew he could not remain silent much longer—not when their time at Rosings was coming to an end.

The thought of departing without a word struck him with a sudden, cold clarity: he might lose her forever.

“You leave me no choice, do you, Fitzwilliam?” Darcy said quietly, a wry smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

“None at all,” Fitzwilliam replied, rising from his chair with a satisfied nod. “You may be a Darcy, but you are still only human.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam stood up from his chair in the Rosings library, walked over to his cousin, and gave him a reassuring manly pat on the shoulder before leaving the room.

Mr. Darcy’s typically composed and orderly mind was now in complete disarray as he thought about Miss Elizabeth Bennet’s face: her lively eyes shining with intelligence, her smile breaking through the stuffy atmosphere of his aunt’s estate.

Surely , he whispered to himself, the words no more than a puff of air amidst the silence, a gentleman of my standing, offering a hand, should not meet resistance .

An unfamiliar warmth spread in his heart at the mere thought of her – that delightful presence who had unwittingly ensnared him with her wit and candour.

He had observed her closely, how her laughter seemed to fill the room, how she moved with an effortless grace that belied her provincial upbringing, her modest and becoming taste in attire.

They shared a love for the same sonnets, a penchant for long walks in solitude, and an undeniable connection that sparked whenever their eyes met across the room.

Miss Bennet is sensible and accomplished , he reasoned, his voice gaining conviction.

Her teasing manner, which I once found irksome, now strikes me as charming evidence of her intellect and spirit .

He considered her family then, acknowledging the disparity in their social stations.

Yet Mr. Darcy could not concede that such differences should impede a union that promised mutual happiness.

The Bennets could not but regard my proposal as advantageous , he concluded, his confidence bolstered by visions of their gratitude and approval.

I shall go to Hunsford to propose to her first thing in the morning.

***

It was a day unlike the others when Mr. Darcy unexpectedly called at Hunsford Parsonage, finding Elizabeth alone, writing a letter to Jane.

Mrs. Collins and Maria had gone to the village on some errands, leaving the house unusually quiet.

The silence was so complete that even the scratch of her pen seemed loud, and Elizabeth had been enjoying the rare calm as though it were a luxury.

As she reflected on the peacefulness of her morning, the sudden sound of the doorbell startled her.

She had not heard a carriage approach and immediately assumed it might be Lady Catherine, arriving unannounced, as was her habit.

With this in mind, Elizabeth hastily put away her half-finished letter, hoping to avoid intrusive questions.

Her pulse quickened as she prepared herself for a tiresome interview.

But as the door opened, it was not Lady Catherine who entered the room—it was Mr. Darcy, and he was alone.

Darcy halted upon seeing her, as if caught unprepared, equally astonished to find her alone. His usual composure faltered for the briefest instant, his eyes widening before he mastered his features once more. For a moment, they both stood in silence, the air charged with something unspoken.

“Miss Bennet,” he said at last, bowing more stiffly than was his habit. “I… I beg your pardon. I understood the ladies were at home.”

Elizabeth inclined her head, surprised at the awkwardness in his manner. “Mrs. Collins and her sister are but in the village. I am sorry you find only me at leisure.”

“On the contrary,” he returned quickly, and then, hearing how much warmth had slipped into his tone, looked mortified. “That is to say—your company is—most agreeable.” A faint colour rose to his cheek.

She motioned him to a seat, and as they sat down, Elizabeth felt a surge of curiosity and unease. Her lips curved into a mischievous smile. “You look almost disappointed, Mr. Darcy. Did you come to consult Mrs. Collins on the management of her poultry?”

Darcy blinked, startled, before a reluctant smile flickered across his features. “No, madam. Though I dare say she would give me sounder advice than I am capable of offering myself.”

After a pause, he inquired after her health and whether she found Rosings agreeable.

“It offers much grandeur,” Elizabeth replied, a spark of amusement in her eye, “though I confess my enjoyment lies more in the walks than in the splendour of the saloon.”

Darcy gave a slight nod. “Yes… the grounds are extensive.” His gaze lingered on her, then fell to the carpet.

Silence threatened again. Elizabeth, unwilling to be daunted, reached for a safer subject. “I believe the last time we spoke was in Hertfordshire—at Netherfield. The departure of your party took us all rather by surprise.”

He shifted in his chair. “Yes. Circumstances… required it.”

“Do you expect your friend Mr. Bingley will return?” she asked, watching him closely.

Darcy’s hands clasped too tightly upon his knee. “It is uncertain.”

Elizabeth raised her brows, sensing his reluctance. “Then I cannot but be sorry for my sister, who found great pleasure in the society of Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst.”

He met her eyes then, briefly—too briefly. “Your sister… deserves every happiness.” The words escaped as though torn from him, and his sudden earnestness startled them both. He looked away, as if fearing she might see too much in his expression.

Elizabeth studied him with growing curiosity, and with it, a sense of unease. To lighten the mood, she added playfully, “You speak as though happiness were a portion to be doled out by your hand, sir. Should I apply to you on my sister’s behalf?”

Darcy’s eyes snapped back to hers, dark with something she could not name. “I should give her all that I could—” He stopped short, his jaw tightening.

The silence that followed was so charged that Elizabeth felt obliged to laugh. “I see I have quite frightened you, Mr. Darcy. Forgive me; it was but a jest.”

In truth, Darcy had come to the parsonage that morning to ask Elizabeth to marry him.

He had wrestled with his feelings for weeks, torn between the strength of his affection and the numerous reasons he believed their union would be unwise.

His pride, his family’s expectations, and Elizabeth’s social standing were all factors Mr. Darcy could not ignore.

Yet, despite his long struggle, he found himself irresistibly drawn to her.

She challenged him, saw through his aloof exterior, and refused to flatter him like many others did.

But now, confronted with her candid gaze in this still and ordinary room, the words failed him. The silence stretched until it mocked him. Instead of confession, he retreated into polite inquiries, remarks about the house and garden—phrases that closed doors rather than opened them wide.

At last, he rose, bowing gravely. “Pray convey my respects to Mrs. Collins. I regret I have intruded at an inconvenient hour.”

Elizabeth smiled with perfect civility, though her curiosity was unappeased. “Not at all, sir. Your visit has been… unexpected. And most diverting—for I had braced myself for Lady Catherine, and you may imagine the relief.”

Darcy inclined his head once more. He left as suddenly as he had come, his tread measured, as though discipline alone kept him from faltering—while within him raged a storm he could no longer master.