Page 20 of Moments of Truth

Seated in his Rosings chambers, Mr. Darcy cast a lonesome figure amid the uneasy contest between the shadows of the room and the faint flame trembling atop a candle. He sat in his chair with a piece of paper lying on the table before him, the quill slipping restlessly between his fingers.

Whenever he grasped it firmly, words seemed to flow from his mind through the quill and onto the page.

There was sudden clarity in the act of writing, as though his tumultuous emotions could at last find order in ink.

Yet as Mr. Darcy began to express himself with a precision he had been denied earlier, he wished—bitterly—that he had been able to speak with such ease a few hours ago.

How different things might have been. Perhaps he would have heard other words from her lips than the harsh and unequivocal rejection she had delivered.

Even now, as he sat in that dim chamber, the memory plagued him.

When he had sought even the smallest sign of affection in her eyes, Miss Bennet had met him with coldness and detachment.

Worst of all, she had not softened her refusal with the smallest attempt at civility.

Had she always thought so ill of me? Mr. Darcy wondered as he set the quill aside.

Rising abruptly, he began to pace about the room, the details of the encounter replaying mercilessly in his mind.

He had gone to her simply out of care—solely to profess his love.

He admitted he had been confident enough that her response would favour him.

He had believed that once she heard his genuine emotions, she would return them with equal fervour.

But instead of tender acceptance, he had been met with a barrage of accusations, delivered with a force that left no room for appeal.

Had I been too impulsive in my actions? Mr. Darcy asked himself, studying his own hands.

He remembered when Miss Elizabeth Bennet had come over to the Netherfield manor to see her sister Jane, who had taken ill.

That was the first moment he had touched her hand—save for the brief formality of the Meryton assembly.

He could still recall how the impression lingered for days, how sometimes, in solitude, he imagined the ghost of her fingers resting lightly against his own, only to awaken to emptiness.

Such a thing had never happened to him before.

Mr. Darcy had always resisted the many coy advances of women eager to attach themselves to him, and he had prided himself on remaining unshaken.

But of his own free will, he had clasped Elizabeth’s hand—and in that moment, he had crossed a line from which his heart never truly returned.

In hindsight now, that was when he believed his emotions had been incited towards her.

Mr. Darcy felt his thoughts fall into disarray.

He returned to his chair and stared at the few scant lines he had written.

With sudden impatience, he snatched up the paper and tore it in two.

A long, shuddering sigh escaped him. He knew he was not in the right frame of mind to write coherently.

At that instant, a knock at the door jarred him from his reverie.

Rising once again, he strode to the door.

“Who is it?” he demanded, his tone edged with irritation. He was in no mood for interruption; the pain and humiliation of Elizabeth’s refusal still burned too fiercely.

“Beg pardon, sir,” the butler replied softly. “Her ladyship requests your presence at dinner. Shall I bring a tray to your chamber?”

“No. Thank you.”

The man hesitated, stepped back from the door, sensing from Mr. Darcy’s tone that he was slightly annoyed with the interference.

Darcy’s voice softened, though it carried firm dismissal. “Tell her ladyship I shall be down shortly. Thank you.”

He turned away from the door, his eyes falling upon the discarded paper on the floor beside the table. The sight of it filled him with disgust; even the words he had tried to compose seemed feeble, unequal to the strength of his feelings. His efforts all seemed to fall short.

“Very well, sir,” the butler said meekly, retreating.

Darcy’s only recourse, he told himself, was to regain composure, to wrestle his reason back into command.

He was both annoyed and embarrassed. He—the object of admiration, the supposed prize of so many—had been rejected by Miss Elizabeth Bennet, a young woman of inferior rank, yet one who seemed to him the only companion worthy of his life.

The thought stung like a brand. He would be the laughingstock of ladies and gentlemen alike.

As his imagination grew darker, it conjured unwelcome visions of Elizabeth in Meryton, laughing with her friends at his expense, recounting his awkward proposal and her triumph in refusing it.

Though part of him insisted she was not the sort to boast so cruelly, he could not banish the image.

What if she and her friends jest at my expense?

What will become of me in society? Could I still hold my head high among my peers?

If Aunt finds out? If Cousin Anne finds out?

What am I to say to extricate myself from such a predicament?

At this point, regret was the primary emotion that Mr. Darcy felt.

He was not in the mood to sit and have dinner with anyone else.

The very notion of dining under Lady Catherine’s eye, exchanging hollow pleasantries as if nothing had occurred, was intolerable.

He wanted only to be alone. Almost without thinking, his steps turned toward the kitchen—the very refuge of his boyhood, when he would slip away from his elder cousins’ taunts and find solace in the quiet clatter of pots, the warmth of the hearth, and the kindly indifference of servants too occupied to scold him.

The habit of retreating there in moments of wounded pride had never wholly left him.

“Good evening. You may retire. I wish to be alone,” Mr. Darcy said as he entered the kitchen.

It was not his habit to address the servants in this manner; in happier hours he might have left such messages to others. Yet tonight, stripped of ceremony and weary of pretence, he found himself speaking directly, as if titles and ranks had been swept aside with Elizabeth’s refusal.

Seeing the confused looks on the faces of the maid and cook, Mr. Darcy could understand their perplexity; however, he was not in the mood to give any explanation.

There was no hauteur in his voice, only exhaustion.

He no longer cared for the invisible lines that divided master from servant; grief had levelled him.

In pain, he was only a man among men, and it gave him a curious sense of quiet to think that others endured far worse each day and yet continued on without complaint.

“Certainly, sir.” The maid and cook hurried out of the kitchen, leaving Mr. Darcy alone with his plate of food and a steaming cup of tea.

Taking a sip, Darcy closed his eyes and thought of how the day had begun—and how ruinously it had ended.

The unfamiliar silence of the servants’ hall, so far removed from the grandeur of Rosings dinner room, offered him a comfort he had not expected.

Here was no scrutiny, no judgment, no expectation—only a plain meal and solitude.

And for a man who believed he had lost everything that mattered, even such simplicity felt like a mercy denied him in love but granted him in silence.

***

Was I wrong to have gone to see Elizabeth?

Mr. Darcy asked himself. He remembered seeing Mr. and Mrs. Collins arrive at the manor without Elizabeth.

Her absence had struck him as strange; everyone had expected her to accompany them and Maria.

He had been eager to see Miss Bennet again.

Darcy was usually repulsed by the mannerisms and conversations women wished to have with him, but with Elizabeth all had been different.

Their conversations were not forced, nor trite or affected; rather, they flowed with ease, unstudied and natural.

When Darcy asked about Miss Bennet’s absence, Mrs. Collins said Elizabeth had taken ill.

The explanation bewildered him, for he had seen Elizabeth earlier that very day, apparently in perfect health.

There had been no sign of indisposition.

At first, he wondered whether Mrs. Collins spoke falsely, disguising Elizabeth’s true reason for staying behind.

Perhaps she had not wished to come, and had chosen to plead illness.

Yet when he studied the faces of the Collins couple, he dismissed the suspicion at once.

Charlotte was not given to deceit, and her husband, though fatuous, was equally incapable of subtle invention.

If Mrs. Collins said Elizabeth was sick, then she must indeed be sick.

The thought discomposed him more than he would have believed possible.

The first thing he wanted to do was see her immediately.

Yet Mr. Darcy was painfully self-aware. Never before had he been so attached to one outside his family circle.

The last time he had felt such alarm was when a letter had come announcing his sister Georgiana’s illness.

What troubled him most was that he had grown so restless over Elizabeth’s condition.

He had spent the better part of an hour in silent agitation.

He remembered Mrs. Collins’s words: “Elizabeth is indisposed and has taken to her bed. She would not wish to concern anyone, but I fear she is quite ill. She should be fine with some much-needed rest.”

Although he trusted the Collinses would not mistreat Miss Bennet, Darcy could not feel at peace.

He knew they would do their best, but he also knew their household was small, and Elizabeth was far from home.

At last, he quietly excused himself and went to the stables.

Lady Catherine had enough auditors for her endless advice and predictions; his absence would scarcely be noticed.