Page 22 of Moments of Truth
“I have never been thus about any woman before. There have been temptations—passing fancies and designs of others disguised as love—but never has anything taken hold of me as this has.” Mr. Darcy’s shoulders sank with defeat.
It was, to the colonel, almost a comical sight.
He could not recall a moment when his cousin had looked so utterly disarmed.
“How exactly do you feel?” Colonel Fitzwilliam pressed.
“She fills every corner of my thoughts. She haunts both my mind and my vision—”
“Vision?” the colonel interjected, his tone half-curious, half-teasing. “Pray, do tell me how she haunts you so.”
Darcy sighed, as though dragging the words from the depths of himself.
“I see her everywhere. Even worse, Cousin, at times I fancy I can smell her scent in the air. I have become so enraptured that she is everywhere and in everything. For lack of better words, tell me—how else am I to describe this force that has seized me, making me a prisoner of my own thoughts? Tell me, what exactly is wrong with me?” Mr. Darcy rose suddenly and began pacing the room.
Watching him, Colonel Fitzwilliam smiled—a mixture of pity and fond ridicule. His cousin was complicating what was plain. He was too proud, too cautious, even now, to name love as love.
“Why do you tangle the simplest of matters? You have already laid bare your heart to Miss Bennet. Her refusal springs not from ignorance of your feelings, but from prejudice against your character. Is it not clear what the next step must be?”
Darcy halted, incredulous. “And what would that be? Put me out of my misery and tell me what I must do. I swear the rejection itself does not weigh so heavily as it might appear. What torments me is that Miss Bennet thinks me to be a man I am not. If she refuses me because her heart cannot return my affection, then so be it. But if she refuses me on a false opinion of my character—that I cannot bear.”
“Then the course is plain,” the colonel replied steadily. “You must correct her mistaken impressions. If her judgment rests on falsehoods or half-truths, then you must answer them point by point.”
To Fitzwilliam, it was only common sense. To Darcy, it was revelation. He started at once, moving to the table. Pulling out a sheet of paper, he dipped his pen and began writing rapidly—each reproach of Elizabeth’s recalled, each charge set down with precision.
His hand did not falter; his memory was relentless.
Soon the page bore line after line of accusations—her words against him, burning anew as though she spoke them once more before his eyes.
Darcy bent over them, his face shadowed by pain.
He saw again her anger, heard her cutting tone; no woman had ever addressed him so, least of all one to whom he had offered his heart.
Curiosity drew the colonel to his side. Leaning over, he scanned the paper. At first, he was puzzled—then he understood. “These are her words to you?”
Darcy nodded grimly.
Colonel Fitzwilliam read on. Some of the charges seemed possible, even probable—Darcy could be proud, even severe—but the bitterness of her phrasing revealed more of her wounded spirit than of his true character.
A wry smile touched the colonel’s lips as he finished.
Miss Bennet’s eloquence, so charming in other circumstances, had here been sharpened into a blade.
He could not wholly blame her; she had only fragments of truth.
Yet it grieved him that one so intelligent had judged so rashly, assembling broken pieces into an image that was not the man he knew.
Darcy remained silent, staring at the page.
“I understand…” the colonel said at last with a sigh. He drew a chair close beside him. “Tell me all that happened.”
Darcy hesitated, then began. He spoke of Bingley’s growing attachment to Jane Bennet, of his concern, of the counsel he had given as a friend.
“Bingley came to me repeatedly, speaking of his admiration for the eldest Miss Bennet. At first, I thought it another passing infatuation. But as the weeks passed, I saw his attachment deepen. His trust in me is such that he would not act without my judgment. I examined the matter with care and concluded—rightly or wrongly—that her regard was not equal to his. I warned him. I sought to protect him.” Darcy’s voice faltered with pain.
“It was well meant, yet it has cost me dearly.”
“So Bingley was the man you hinted at before?” the colonel asked. “And the family—what of them?”
Darcy’s expression hardened. “They lack the composure, the decorum, that society demands. Her mother in particular—she is imprudent, even vulgar, in speech and manner.” His voice trailed off.
“Did you explain this to Miss Bennet?”
“No,” Darcy admitted quietly.
“Then there lies the bane. She has no knowledge of your reasons, only the consequences. Without your explanation, your actions appear arrogant, even cruel. Cousin, I have seen it before: many mistake your reserve for disdain, your caution for hauteur. They do not see the heart beneath.”
Darcy looked troubled. “Should I have told her?”
“Of course not in that moment,” Fitzwilliam said. “But she deserves to know the truth now. She deserves to know why you advised Bingley as you did.”
“I did not forbid him. I only advised—”
The colonel chuckled. “Advice, instruction, decree—it matters little. To her, it looked like interference. If you wish her to think better of you, she must know your motives.”
“And how am I to tell her? She will not listen to me.”
“Then write,” said Fitzwilliam firmly. “Write a letter. Set out her charges one by one and answer them honestly. Let her judge you anew, not on prejudice but on truth.” He rose, laying a hand on his cousin’s shoulder. “Whatever she decides thereafter, you will at least have been heard.”
Darcy sat unmoving, his gaze fixed on the departing figure of his cousin. Then, with renewed determination, he seized another sheet of paper. Dipping his quill pen, he began to write—not only to defend his honour, but to lay bare his heart as he had never dared before.