Page 16 of Moments of Truth

An hour later, Elizabeth finished writing her letter to Jane and decided to walk through the park on her favourite path. The spring air was mild, and the budding trees promised warmth to come. She carried her bonnet ribbons loosely in one hand, her mind still busy with the odd visit from Mr. Darcy.

There, she encountered Colonel Fitzwilliam, who appeared almost as though he had been waiting for her, though he feigned a pleasant surprise at their meeting. His bow was easy, his smile disarming, and he at once offered to join her walk.

As they strolled along the garden paths, the colonel’s conversation was, as ever, lively and companionable.

Soon, however, their talk shifted to more personal matters.

With a twinkle in his eye that did not quite conceal his seriousness, Fitzwilliam spoke of his family obligations, hinting that the comforts of his station were tempered by financial restraint.

Surprised by his candour, Elizabeth expressed her sympathy, though inwardly she reflected on the truth his words revealed: even Colonel Fitzwilliam, with all his charm and good humour, was as much a prisoner of society’s expectations as his graver cousin.

She could not help but feel her initial warmth toward him diminished by this recognition.

The colonel, for his part, made no mention of Darcy’s proposal, and Elizabeth, finding it a subject too sensitive to broach, avoided it as well.

Their conversation turned instead to his imminent departure for active duty and the demands of regimental life.

Yet as often happened, Mr. Darcy’s name arose between them.

Fitzwilliam, with affectionate loyalty, praised his cousin’s sense of responsibility.

“Darcy does not act without purpose,” he observed, “especially when it concerns the welfare of his friends.”

Elizabeth, still uncertain what to make of Darcy, listened with outward politeness. But when Fitzwilliam alluded to a recent example, her composure sharpened into uneasy curiosity.

“He saved a dear friend,” the colonel explained, “from what he judged to be a most imprudent match. I confess, I was surprised by his determination to intervene.”

Elizabeth felt a chill settle over her. “And what sort of imprudence could warrant such interference?” she asked, her tone carefully neutral.

Unaware of her connection to the tale, Fitzwilliam answered easily: “The lady’s family connections were not thought suitable.

Darcy believed it his duty to spare his friend—Mr. Bingley, I think—from inevitable unhappiness.

The attachment was strong on his friend’s side, and Darcy persuaded him to leave before matters went too far. ”

Elizabeth stopped short upon the path, her breath catching. In that instant, her worst suspicion was confirmed: Darcy had been the architect of Jane’s unhappiness. The colonel spoke on kindly, never imagining the wound he had inflicted, but Elizabeth scarcely heard him.

Every word struck deeper, turning Darcy’s supposed loyalty into arrogance, his “concern” into cold calculation.

The revelation stung all the more because it came so innocently delivered, with no malice, no secrecy—only the careless betrayal of a cousin who admired him too much to see the cruelty in his actions.

When at last they parted, Fitzwilliam reminded her with cheerful courtesy of their dinner engagement at Rosings that evening. He departed with the satisfaction of one who had acquitted himself well.

Elizabeth, however, could think only that with such friends to speak on his behalf, Mr. Darcy scarcely required enemies.

Her return to Hunsford was made with swift, purposeful steps, the soft crunch of gravel underfoot keeping time with her indignation.

No charm of the park could soothe her spirit.

Darcy’s proud, unyielding face rose again and again before her mind’s eye, each recollection sharpening her anger until it burned away the tranquillity of the spring day.

***

Mr. Darcy stood alone in the large library of Rosings, waiting for his cousin Fitzwilliam to return from his walk in the park.

The late afternoon light fell in long, burnished shafts across the carpet, glancing off the gilded frames of portraits and the leather bindings on the shelves.

Yet for all the splendour around him, his eyes scarcely registered it.

His mind was elsewhere—held fast by the image of a young lady whose wit and vivacity outshone even the most exquisite works of art.

“Miss Elizabeth Bennet,” he murmured, the name lingering on his lips with a reverence he had seldom afforded anyone.

She had become an enigma, stirring within him an admixture of admiration and perturbation he could neither quell nor wholly comprehend.

He recalled the gentle curve of her smile, how it invited him into a world of playful discourse, and the quick spark in her eyes when she challenged him—a challenge that beckoned him toward a future he had not anticipated.

He was a man of high standing, accustomed to deference, wealth, and consequence.

Yet he found himself disarmed in her presence, drawn as if by some irresistible force.

Her elegance, the simplicity of her taste, the grace with which she moved—all suggested not only refinement but a kinship of spirit.

Their affections overlapped in the most telling ways: the tranquil beauty of the countryside, the stirring notes of the pianoforte, the literature that spoke more to the soul than to fashion.

So entwined did these threads of compatibility appear that he could not fathom how their union would be anything but felicitous.

Surely the Bennet family would esteem the match , he reasoned, buoyed by the prospect of securing so agreeable a connection.

A man of my means… The thought soothed and yet disturbed him, for the opinions of others—his sister, Lady Catherine, his Fitzwilliam relations—rose before him like sombre spectres at the edge of his joy.

Duty, tradition, and rank pressed hard against the dictates of his heart.

Yet love, he began to conclude, was a force to be reckoned with, capable of defying even the strictest boundaries of society.

The Bennets will likely be gratified to accept a wealthy son-in-law , he told himself, though the words sounded hollow when set against the tumult of his feelings.

At that moment, Colonel Fitzwilliam strolled in from the terrace doors, the cool air of the park still clinging to his coat.

He paused, taking in Darcy’s rigid stance by the hearth, his cousin’s profile outlined against the glow of firelight.

Darcy’s posture revealed the storm within, though his face betrayed little.

“Darcy,” Fitzwilliam called lightly, his tone tinged with humour. “Still brooding, I see. It is becoming quite the habit with you.”

Darcy started, his reverie broken, and managed a faint smile though no reply.

Fitzwilliam came closer, his soldier’s tread deliberate, and clapped a hand warmly on Darcy’s shoulder. “I shall not beat about the bush. You have been acting strangely ever since we came to Rosings. It does not take a genius to see—you are in love with Miss Bennet.”

Darcy’s expression hardened at the bluntness, but he did not deny it. The tightening of his jaw, the flicker in his eyes, told his cousin all he needed.

Seeing the unspoken conflict, Fitzwilliam softened his tone.

“I know what holds you back—her connections, her family. But think of it, Darcy. She has stirred feelings in you that no other woman has ever touched. Miss Bennet is intelligent, spirited, kind. Would you truly let something as trifling as society’s prejudice stand between you and your own happiness? ”

Darcy turned away, his gaze fixed upon the window where the lawns of Rosings stretched into twilight. “You make it sound so simple,” he said quietly. “But I am torn. She is so unequal in fortune and rank. You know as well as I what is expected.”

“Expected?” Fitzwilliam countered with a half-laugh.

“Expected by whom? The world brims with expectations, but none matter more than your own. Ask yourself, cousin—do you wish to spend your days wondering what might have been? You are not one to shrink from desire when once it seizes you. Why falter now?” His voice lowered to an urgent whisper.

“You will have the chance tonight at dinner. Speak to her. It would have been best if you had spoken this morning. If you let this slip, Darcy, you will repent it all your days.”

Darcy remained silent for a long while, his heart at war with his pride.

The weight of family, the fear of refusal, the dread of humiliation—all crowded in.

Yet beneath it burned an affection he could no longer deny.

His cousin’s words struck true, cutting away his excuses.

With a curt nod, Darcy squared his shoulders, drawing his coat into order as though preparing for battle.

“Tonight,” he whispered, almost to himself, his eyes dark with resolution. “Tonight, I will speak to her.”

***

As the day waned, Mr. Darcy felt the weight of his decision pressing upon him, urging him to act before hesitation conquered him once more.

He anxiously awaited the arrival of Lady Catherine’s carriage from Hunsford, bringing with it the Collinses, Mrs. Collins’ sister, and Miss Elizabeth Bennet.

Yet when he saw that Elizabeth had not accompanied them to Rosings, his carefully formed plan seemed suddenly imperilled.

A chill struck him—what if this chance had slipped away forever?

Determined not to yield to disappointment, he approached Mrs. Collins with grave politeness, befitting his station.

“Mrs. Collins,” he began, his voice more earnest than formal, “may I inquire about Miss Bennet? Her absence this evening has been most keenly felt.”