Page 21 of Moments of Truth

It was then Darcy realised that what he felt for Elizabeth went beyond liking—it was deep affection, undeniable and dangerous. Yet he also knew he could not openly go to her without arousing suspicion. Still, he went. For all his resolutions of prudence, his heart would not be governed.

Despite his wishes, he could not delay his departure to London any longer, for he was to travel with Colonel Fitzwilliam.

Now, however, he found himself in agony.

Her memory consumed him, lingering for days.

He could see her face in every corner and feel her presence in the very air.

His love and longing for her had become a part of him, so much so that he would sometimes imagine the scent of her near him.

Each morning he awoke with the hope of encountering her in the park, wandering in hopes of an accidental meeting.

And when at last he did see her walking towards him up the lane, his heart had leapt with joy.

“What are you doing here?” Colonel Fitzwilliam’s voice startled Mr. Darcy, who put his cup of tea down and turned wearily to his cousin.

“I just want to be alone,” Darcy said.

“Why? What has happened?” Fitzwilliam asked, placing his arm on Darcy’s shoulder.

“I beg you—let me be.” Darcy wanted nothing else but solitude. So much had happened in so short a time that he could not yet bring order to it.

“I have always heeded your wishes, Darcy,” his cousin said, “yet in this I cannot. It is better to endure hardship with a friend than to taste pleasure alone.”

Darcy’s lips curved despite himself. It was a clumsy jest, but kindly meant, and he appreciated the effort.

“Where did you hear that?” he asked.

“It matters little. Tell me—did something happen to Miss Bennet?”

Is it written on my face? Darcy wondered. His cousin seemed to take his silence for assent.

“You left the parlour almost the instant the Collinses mentioned her indisposition. You grew restless, then lost your appetite, and before long you had quitted the house. It is no mystery where you went. I presume it was to Hunsford to see Miss Bennet. Am I right?”

Darcy allowed a half smile. “You would not be wrong to assume so.”

“Then pray, what has put you into this foul humour?”

Darcy considered evasion, but he could not bring himself to deceive his cousin. There was a long hesitation; plainly he would rather bury the memory than speak it aloud.

“I know something is amiss,” Fitzwilliam pressed. “Why deny it, Darcy?”

“Must I speak?” Darcy said at last. “Listen—I have never lied to you, nor would I begin now. But I confess I am not in the mood to recount my ordeal, unless you have suddenly acquired the ability to understand the mind of a woman. Good night.”

He turned to go.

“How am I to know, unless you tell me??” Fitzwilliam followed.

“I beg of you, Cousin, I desire to be left alone. If you do not pester me on this issue, I promise you—no, I swear to you—that I shall not take offence. I will remember only that I begged you to let me be. I will not take it for a want of love.”

Darcy’s voice carried such exasperation that Fitzwilliam halted. He saw it was no mere petulance; Darcy truly needed solitude.

“I must apologise then,” Colonel Fitzwilliam said slowly. Never had he seen his cousin in such a state. “Yet I cannot let you wallow. Unburden yourself. I promise it will do you good.”

He caught up to Darcy, laying his hand again on his shoulder. The gesture, though simple, left Darcy at once irritated and strangely comforted.

“Tell me, what troubles you so that it keeps you wakeful at this hour?” Fitzwilliam said, guiding him back into his chamber.

Darcy sank onto the bench. At length he began to recount the day’s events, though haltingly at first. All the while he studied his cousin’s countenance, fearful of mockery. But none came. Instead of ridicule, he saw only grave attention.

“I fear you will mock me eventually,” Darcy said, “but this matter clings to me and will not release me. The shame of Miss Bennet’s words still haunts me.

Had it been mere refusal, I could rally my courage and bear it.

Any man can bear to be denied. But what I long to know is why she should think so ill of me.

Where has she received such notions? Tell me, Cousin—am I truly so repulsive in behaviour and character? ”

His eyes, fixed upon the distance, turned at last toward Fitzwilliam with a wry, searching look.

Colonel Fitzwilliam, however, sat in stunned silence, scarcely able to reconcile what he had just heard.

His initial surprise arose from the simple fact that never—in his wildest imagination—would he have supposed that the matter tormenting his cousin could be love.

Had love always been such a cruel and torturous ordeal?

the Colonel mused half-bitterly to himself.

“What are your thoughts, Cousin? Pray, do tell me, and put me out of this torture.” Mr. Darcy’s eyes turned to him, earnest, searching—as if the answer might be wrested from another man’s breast.

In truth, Colonel Fitzwilliam was beginning to regret his persistence.

How was he—a man who had never truly fallen in love—to presume to instruct his stoic cousin in its mysteries?

Darcy’s own words returned to haunt him: “I beg of you, Cousin, I desire to be left alone. If you do not pester me on this issue, I promise you—no, I swear to you—that I shall not take offence…”

“Truly, there is no remedy for regret,” the colonel murmured—half jest, half lament.

“What did you say?” Darcy asked, his brow furrowing; he had not caught the words.

Colonel Fitzwilliam looked guilty. Listening to Darcy, he realized he was the sole cause of what had happened. If he had kept quiet and not said anything to Miss Bennet, the matter might have taken a different route. Unfortunately, it was too late to regret anything.

“It pains me,” Fitzwilliam said at last, “to know that I am responsible for what so beseeches you this late at night. For hours you have brooded over a matter that I, with my careless tongue, have worsened.” He could not bring himself to meet his cousin’s eyes.

“Pray, do tell me what you mean?” Mr. Darcy was confused by his cousin’s words.

With visible unease, Colonel Fitzwilliam began to recount his park conversation with Miss Bennet.

“The young lady already possessed a decidedly negative disposition toward you. I could tell her opinion was fixed—and unjust. My intentions were pure, even noble. But alas, words once spoken cannot be taken back.” His face betrayed guilt and deep regret.

Mr. Darcy remained silent as he stared at his cousin. It was not clear what his thoughts were.

The silence grew intolerable for the colonel. He turned, hoping to read something—anger, reproach, even forgiveness—in Darcy’s features, but found nothing. He had no choice but to wait.

At last Darcy spoke. “In your bid to defend me, you revealed—unwittingly—the matter concerning Miss Bennet’s sister.

That confession explains much of her bitterness, though not all.

Her words tonight went far beyond what you mentioned.

Though spoken in my defence, your unguarded candour has done nothing but confirm her worst prejudices.

Still, I cannot blame you wholly; her dislike was already firmly rooted.

She thought me arrogant long before you attempted to shield me. ”

Though Darcy’s tone strove for understanding, a trace of annoyance escaped despite him.

When he uttered the word “defence,” his voice tightened, his countenance altering in a way Fitzwilliam could not mistake.

There was nothing the colonel could do but pretend not to notice.

Yet inwardly he was almost relieved to discover that he was not the sole cause of Elizabeth Bennet’s disdain.

Darcy himself had furnished abundant fuel for her dislike.

That thought, though hardly comforting, was easier to bear than the full weight of guilt.

Darcy, however, had marked the fleeting sigh of relief on his cousin’s face. Brief though it was, it stung. For it told him plainly that his cousin knew he had worsened matters, though not created them.

“Tell me, Cousin,” Darcy pressed, “what are your thoughts on the matter? You demanded to know, and now I demand it of you. What do I do?”

The question startled Colonel Fitzwilliam. Was Darcy sincere, or was he only mocking the futility of advice in so hopeless a case? He could not tell.

Sitting across from him, Fitzwilliam studied his cousin. Never before had he known Darcy to request counsel so plainly, nor to reveal himself so nakedly. The longer he looked, the more evident it became that Darcy was in earnest.

“Tell me, Darcy—how sure are you of your feelings for Miss Bennet?” he asked slowly. He had no notion where else to begin.

Fitzwilliam knew his cousin’s nature: unyielding, difficult to move by persuasion alone.

The surest way to guide him was not to command but to ask, to let Darcy reach the conclusion himself.

Fitzwilliam was a man of action; Darcy, a man of thought—and in matters of the heart, that meant thought could easily become torment.

The question, simple though it sounded, hung heavily in the air. Darcy remained silent for some moments, his lips pressed tight as though he feared to speak lest he reveal more than he intended.

Another wry smile appeared at the corner of Colonel Fitzwilliam’s lips. His cousin was clearly at war with his own mind, turning circles of thought until the simplest truths seemed impenetrable.

“Tell me how you feel when you think of Miss Elizabeth.” The colonel’s voice was low, almost coaxing.