Page 25 of Moments of Truth
Mr. Darcy grabbed the sheet of paper containing all the accusations laid against him by Miss Bennet. He read through it meticulously before grabbing the quill pen. For a moment, Mr. Darcy thought he had his cousin Fitzwilliam to thank.
There were several things to address in his letter to Miss Bennet; however, the two pertinent ones had to be the issue of Mr. Wickham, which had so easily painted him as a villain without adequate proof, save for the account of the man masquerading as the victim, and his reasoning for suggesting Mr. Bingley stop his arrangement towards the eldest of the Bennet sisters.
On the topic of Mr. Wickham, Mr. Darcy found himself unable to quell his anger.
It was anger directed at both Mr. Wickham for being so vile as to paint him, an innocent man, as despicable and evil and the other being Miss Bennet herself for being gullible enough to believe his accusations without investigating their authenticity.
He could see how treacherous Mr. Wickham was despite the help he and his father had given him.
Mr. Darcy was furious to discover that such a man was slandering him.
If Miss Bennet could feel so strongly about him due to a few lies he had told her within minutes of meeting her, he wondered what others who might have been so unfortunate to come across Mr. Wickham would think about him.
Initially, Mr. Darcy found it hard to tame his thoughts, but as soon as he began to explain himself, the words and expressions came quickly.
Miss Bennet,
I hope this letter meets you well. I write to you not to pester you on the issue that was last night’s confession of love to you.
Your reaction, which, for lack of better words, could be said to be nothing less than disgust, still haunts me.
However, I do not want to dwell on such a matter.
Forgive me, but such an episode cannot be easily forgotten. Would you not agree?
My writing to you, however, is not with the intention of sowing, no matter how small, a seed of love, however, I must confess that if such should happen as a byproduct of what I write in this letter to you, then it would most certainly gladden me.
I would not write such a letter after the embarrassment I felt last night; however, on recounting the ordeal, I discovered that two significant accusations were laid against me as you so brutally rejected my confession of love.
As Mr. Darcy’s quill moved nonstop, emotions he had long since buried began to unearth themselves. He was furious. He had tried his best not to dwell on such memories and the emotions they elicited, despite the lies Mr. Wickham had spread about him.
This time, however, was different. He could not overlook Mr. Wickham’s lies especially when it had everything to do with Miss Bennet. A lie so baseless and far from the truth had caused the one woman he had ever loved to view him with so much venom. He could not overlook that.
With such righteous indignation, I write to you to defend myself and inform you of a truth, hoping that the lies and deception that so easily clouded your judgment may be removed.
Without adequate information, I cannot have you believe the stain on my character is the truth of who I am and what I have done.
Two accusations were made against me yesterday by you, and I feel it is unfair not to explain myself and clear the injustice that has been laid against me.
Mr. Darcy paused, pondering how to write in a way that conveyed just enough about himself without appearing arrogant or lecturing.
He avoided any unclear wording that would make him seem defensive at all costs.
His thoughts flowed naturally onto the paper, his handwriting neat and graceful yet unpretentious.
In the silence of his room, punctuated only by the gentle scratching of quill on paper, Darcy penned thoughtfully and efficiently a few pages more and added a neutral closure that he wished could have been different:
I shall endure the consequences of your decision. God bless you.
Fitzwilliam Darcy
After finishing his letter, Mr. Darcy sat back in his chair and looked over it once more.
He needed to be certain that he had expressed himself with clarity and justice.
After meticulously reviewing his words three times, he folded the letter at last, satisfied—if not entirely at peace—with its contents.
At that very moment, a wave of weariness overcame him. Mr. Darcy was not only tired—he felt spent in mind and body, as though the act of writing had drained what strength remained. Just as he was about to surrender to sleep, a sharp knock sounded at his door.
“Hmm?” Darcy started upright, both startled and slightly vexed at the intrusion.
Before he could respond, the door opened, and to his dismay it was his cousin.
“Have you been able to vent all your feelings, Cousin?” Colonel Fitzwilliam asked with a knowing smile. His eyes fell at once upon the folded sheets upon the table, and he immediately surmised what Darcy had done.
Darcy said nothing. He merely fixed his cousin with a look of cold impatience.
Choosing to ignore it, Fitzwilliam strolled over to the table and stretched out his hand, only for Darcy to snatch the letter away with swift decisiveness.
“What?” the colonel teased.
“Why are you here?” Darcy demanded curtly.
“I came to check on you, Cousin. It is already morning,” Fitzwilliam replied with a shrug.
“Huh?” Only then did Darcy glance toward the window. The pale light of dawn had crept into the room, banishing the shadows. A strange sense of relief stole over him—as if with the rising sun, his own spirit were unburdened at last.
“Forgive me—I must go,” Darcy muttered, rising in haste. Without another word, he strode past his cousin and left the room.
Watching him disappear down the corridor, Colonel Fitzwilliam allowed himself a faint smile.
“Good luck, Cousin,” he murmured.
***
An hour and a half later, Elizabeth Bennet strolled along the edge of the park, lost in her own thoughts, the crisp morning air soft against her cheek.
She scarcely noticed the glistening dew upon the hedgerows, nor the faint perfume of early blossoms; her mind was too full.
She did not know that, from the nearby shaded grove, Mr. Darcy was already watching, every sense alert, his heart suspended between hope and dread.
How many times had he paced that shaded grove, shaping in silence the words he longed to speak?
Now, seeing her approach, he felt his pulse quicken, the hours of waiting turning into a single desperate moment.
When Elizabeth at last caught sight of him, her step faltered.
She instinctively turned as though to retreat, but the sight of her withdrawal struck Darcy like a wound.
With eagerness in his stride, he called her name, his voice carrying across the stillness of the park.
His familiar voice stopped her in her tracks. Despite feeling uneasy, she slowly returned to the gate, her breath catching as she realized it was indeed Mr. Darcy.
They reached the gate simultaneously. He removed his hat at once, his expression carefully composed, though his eyes betrayed the storm beneath. His lips parted as though to speak, then closed again, as if words were too frail to bear the weight of what pressed on his heart.
Without the usual exchange of pleasantries, he extended a folded letter toward her.
His hand trembled slightly, though he held it with solemn purpose.
Elizabeth hesitated, but courtesy—and something unacknowledged within her—compelled her to take it.
Her fingers brushed his as she did, and both felt the faint shock of the touch.
Darcy drew a breath and spoke at last. His tone was calm, studiously calm, though beneath it rang an intensity that belied the surface.
“I have been waiting in the grove for some time, hoping for the chance to meet you again. This letter contains what I could not say yesterday. Would you do me the honour of reading it, Miss Bennet?”
Elizabeth inclined her head, her eyes lowered to the letter, though her hand tightened upon it as if the paper were far heavier than its weight.
“Thank you, Miss Bennet.”
For an instant Darcy considered remaining, watching her unfold the seal, witnessing the first flicker of comprehension upon her features. Yet the thought was too fearful—too intimate. His courage, already strained to breaking, could not endure her eyes upon him while she read.
So he bowed—slowly, gravely—and replaced his hat. “I ask nothing more than that you read it with fairness,” he added, his voice low but steady.
Elizabeth looked up, surprise mingling with curiosity. Her lips parted as if to speak, but Darcy forestalled it with another bow, and turned.
“You vanish like a spectre, sir,” she murmured half to herself, though whether he heard or not she could not tell.
Darcy did not wait for her reply. Each step back into the grove felt both a relief and a torment—relief, for having at last placed the truth in her hands; torment, for leaving her without defence of his heart in person.
The shadows received him once more, until he disappeared entirely from her sight.
Elizabeth remained by the gate, clutching the letter as if it might vanish with him, her mind reeling with a mixture of curiosity, dread, and reluctant concern.
Anyway, Mr. Darcy returned to Rosings with a countenance outwardly stern, yet within all was unrest. He walked with long strides, his thoughts consumed with one fragile hope: that her wit, her fairness, her very spirit of justice, might weigh his words rightly.
He loved her still—ardently, irrevocably—and prayed that, through this letter, she might come to see not only the truth of his actions, but the truth of his heart.