Page 17 of Moments of Truth

Mrs. Collins, whose countenance betrayed a trace of embarrassment, hesitated before replying.

“Oh, Mr. Darcy, it is most unfortunate. Elizabeth is indisposed and has taken to her bed. She would not wish to concern anyone, but I fear she is quite unwell. She should be fine with some much-needed rest.”

The words pierced him. Darcy’s usually impassive features softened with an expression of genuine concern, a testament to the depth of his feelings for the absent Miss Bennet.

Society might expect him to mask every sentiment, yet in that moment, the veil of indifference slipped, revealing the man beneath.

“Pray convey my sincerest wishes for her swift recovery,” he said quietly, his tone carrying an earnestness that surprised even himself.

“Of course, Mr. Darcy.” Mrs. Collins inclined her head, her eyes reflecting a mixture of gratitude and curiosity at the gentleman’s unusual warmth.

Darcy bowed and withdrew, but his mind was already set.

He rejoined Colonel Fitzwilliam and Cousin Anne, who were engaged in lively conversation, yet his thoughts were far from their cheerful banter.

Elizabeth’s absence weighed upon him like a storm cloud.

If she could not come to Rosings, then he must go to her. The time for hesitation had passed.

A horse was brought at his request, and in another moment he mounted, the cool air sharp against his brow as he urged the animal into a steady gallop.

Along the ride he rehearsed the words he had longed to speak: a declaration meant to bind his life to hers.

Each sentence, ordered and re-ordered in his mind, was to form a proposal at once ardent and dignified, a testament to the sincerity of his affection.

But how fragile those rehearsed lines became once he imagined her answering gaze. Every sentence he had crafted dissolved into one overwhelming truth: he loved her, and there was no armour strong enough to hide it.

Yet when he reached the threshold of the parsonage, that well-prepared speech dissolved like mist in the morning sun.

Hastily dismounting, Darcy ascended the steps and raised his hand to knock.

His fingers trembled, betraying the vulnerability he had sought to master.

For once, Fitzwilliam Darcy—the man of consequence, of wealth, of command—was nothing more than a suitor, hopeful and uncertain, standing before the door of the woman he loved.

The cook received him with surprise, informing him that the parson and his wife were absent at Rosings.

Darcy offered a polite smile, but even as he did, he noticed the woman’s hesitant glance toward the parlour, as if waiting for direction.

In an instant he understood—Elizabeth was within.

His heart leapt painfully, as if this knowledge were both wound and balm together.

Chance—or Providence—had conspired with his restless heart.

If he failed now, it would not be for lack of opportunity.

With quiet determination, he passed her by and made his way to the parlour door.

There she stood, framed by the threshold, her countenance pale not with illness but with something sharper—vexation, perhaps, or restraint. Darcy’s breath caught; a bead of perspiration slipped down his temple. He drew out his handkerchief and dabbed it quickly, attempting composure.

“Good afternoon, Miss Bennet,” he said, forcing a tone of calm, though his eyes searched hers with undisguised anxiety.

Elizabeth had not expected him. Her surprise soon hardened into displeasure, as though his arrival had been the very intrusion she most wished to avoid. But Darcy was too intent upon his own anxious purpose to observe it.

“Why have you come here, Mr. Darcy?” she asked, her voice steady, yet edged with irritation. Did you forget something this morning?

“I was told you had taken ill,” Darcy replied, the words tumbling forth more like excuse than explanation. “I could not remain easy without seeing you.”

Elizabeth gave a brisk nod. “I thank you, sir. But as you may see, I am well enough. Is that all you wished to learn?”

The curt dismissal stung. Darcy’s eyes widened, and for a moment his habitual armour of composure faltered. How could she speak so coolly, when his very soul was unravelling at her feet?

“Miss Bennet…” he began, faltering.

She tilted her head, her gaze almost daring him to proceed. “If you have something upon your mind, Mr. Darcy, I suggest you speak it plainly.”

His voice deepened, the words drawn from him with difficulty, yet with fervour.

“For a while, I have fought against this feeling, but the more I resist, the stronger it becomes. I cannot act indifferent to you any longer. Against my will, against my reason—I am overcome. Tell me, what enchantment holds me thus, that it is impossible not to think of you, to long for your company?”

Elizabeth blinked, her brows rising. “An enchantment, Mr. Darcy? Surely you do not mean to suggest I practise sorcery?” Her lips curved with mocking sweetness. “I had not thought you so superstitious.”

Darcy gave a short, uneven laugh—half relief, half torment. “If it be witchcraft, Miss Bennet, it is one that enslaves me willingly.”

Elizabeth’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean, sir?”

“I do not know when it began, nor how, but I am drawn to you irresistibly. Your words echo in my mind long after you depart, your presence unsettles and yet completes me. If such longing be love—then yes, Miss Bennet, I am in love with you. I ardently love you, and I can no longer conceal it.”

The confession fell from his lips with such unvarnished intensity that he scarcely knew himself. He, Fitzwilliam Darcy, whose words were always measured and deliberate, now stood trembling before her like a schoolboy undone by his first passion.

Elizabeth stood perfectly still, scarcely able to believe her ears. For a moment she was struck more with astonishment than anger; her eyes widened, and colour rose to her cheeks. She had prepared herself for many possibilities during her stay at Hunsford, but never this.

Darcy, misreading her silence, pressed on, though his voice was unsteady. “Say something—it would be… an opportunity for you, Miss Bennet.”

The instant the phrase escaped him, he wished it unsaid. He had meant only that his fortune and devotion would secure her against every worldly fear, yet how clumsy and cold the word “opportunity” sounded, when what he offered was his very heart.

The words jarred her, breaking the fragile spell of surprise. An opportunity? The very notion carried with it the tone of condescension. Her astonishment hardened into incredulity.

“Mr. Darcy,” she said slowly, her voice trembling not with softness but with restraint, “do you truly expect me to be flattered by such a declaration? You speak as if affection for me were a calamity you must endure, and yet you would have me grateful for the honour.”

Darcy’s composure faltered; he took a step forward. “You mistake me. I would not insult you—”

“Insult me?” Her incredulity flared into indignation, her eyes flashing.

“Indeed, sir, you could not have contrived a surer way to insult me, had you studied for it. To tell me that you love me, while at the same breath dwelling on how unsuitable I am—do you call that gallantry? Do you call that tenderness?”

He paled, struggling for words, but she pressed on, her voice sharpening with every syllable.

“And even had you spoken differently, do you think I could forget what you have done? You—yes, you—were the cause of my sister’s misery. You severed her happiness with Mr. Bingley because our family did not meet your standards. What arrogance gives you the right to trifle with her heart?”

Darcy recoiled as though struck, but she did not relent. Her voice, now rising with passion, carried the force of long-contained resentment.

“And what of Mr. Wickham? Do not think I am ignorant of his story! You denied him justice, cast him aside, and left him to languish while you prospered. And yet you dare to speak of love, as though wealth and power could excuse every act of selfishness?”

Each accusation cut deeper than any blade.

Darcy’s chest tightened, his breath came hard.

To plead his case would be to expose Georgiana; to remain silent was to suffer her censure.

He looked upon her—her cheeks glowing with indignation, her eyes bright with unshed tears—and felt the bitterest pang: that she believed the worst of him, and that he had given her every reason to do so.

By now her astonishment had burned away entirely, replaced with blazing anger. Her eyes shone with unshed tears, her breath came quick, and every word struck him like a blade.

“You have shown no true regard for others—only vanity, only selfish disdain. You believe yourself superior to all around you, but in truth, Mr. Darcy, you are the cause of pain wherever you tread!”

Darcy’s face had gone white. He spoke at last, his voice strained: “So this is the answer I must accept. I would at least have known why I am rejected with such violence.”

Elizabeth drew herself up, trembling but resolute. “Because I cannot accept the hand of a man who believes he lowers himself by offering it. You wished for honesty, sir—you shall have it. I could never thank you for a proposal that offends while it professes to flatter. That is your answer.”

For a heartbeat, he stood motionless. All the eloquence he had gathered, all the tenderness he had meant to unfold, now lay in ruins.

And yet, even wounded to the quick, his gaze lingered upon her with aching devotion, as though memorising her face would be his only comfort in the desolation that must follow.

Darcy bowed with grave stiffness. “Then I have been mistaken. I beg your pardon. Goodbye, Miss Bennet.”

He turned and strode out. The door closed behind him—not with violence, but with measured force, as though he held even his anguish under the discipline of restraint.

Outside, the cool air struck his face like a rebuke.

He descended the steps heavily, his tread echoing against the gravel, and went straight to the post where his horse waited.

The animal nickered softly at his approach, but Darcy only took up the reins and stood beside it, his hand gripping the leather so tightly his knuckles whitened.

He had no strength to mount, no wish to flee so swiftly.

To ride off in haste would have been a relief; instead, he bore his torment step by step, leading the creature aimlessly along the path.

What cut deepest he could scarcely tell.

The sting of her rejection seared his heart, the injustice of her accusations wounded his honour, and the shattering of his fragile hope left him desolate.

Yet the cruellest truth of all was that none of these could extinguish his feeling.

Though despised, though misunderstood, though dismissed as proud and unworthy—he loved her still, and knew he could not cease to love her.