Page 30 of Moments of Truth

PART II

Grey Day with Lizzy

Elizabeth stood under the twilight sun as Nancy, the Hunsford maid, gathered the washed clothes from the rope behind the cottage.

She guessed it had been half an hour since Mr. and Mrs. Collins had left for Rosings to see Lady Catherine.

The evening light was gentle, filtering through the budding branches, casting a golden grace even upon the plainest hedgerow.

Elizabeth breathed it in as though it were liberty itself, a reprieve from both Lady Catherine’s grandeur and her cousin’s incessant praises.

“I wonder how things are going over there,” Elizabeth mused inwardly, picturing Charlotte’s patient smile enduring Lady Catherine’s dictates about the proper placement of knives at table or the arrangement of the flower-beds.

Just a few hours earlier, Mrs. Collins had come to her with news of an invitation from Lady Catherine to dinner at the manor.

Mrs. Collins mentioned that her ladyship wished Elizabeth to accompany them, as she found her a pleasant conversationalist with outstanding opinions.

Elizabeth, who had barely ventured far from the house since arriving in Hunsford, was reluctant to be the focus of Lady Catherine’s insatiable curiosity.

She did not trouble to explain this to her cousin and instead invented a false excuse, pretending a violent headache to avoid going.

The headache was imaginary, but the prospect of Lady Catherine’s company was pain enough.

In any case, Cousin Collins was an endless source of praise for his benefactor, so a long and awkward silence was out of the question.

During her usual walk in the park that day, Elizabeth had conversed with Colonel Fitzwilliam, who—unwittingly—revealed an intriguing secret to her.

How could she face Mr. Darcy, the man responsible for ruining her sister’s happiness?

The memory of it all was still fresh in her mind.

In his attempts to praise his cousin, Colonel Fitzwilliam had only worsened Elizabeth’s already poor impression of him.

In the good intention of his heart, Colonel Fitzwilliam had sought to commend his cousin, yet his words bore a consequence he little suspected: “He saved a dear friend, from what he judged to be a most imprudent match. I confess, I was surprised by his determination to intervene.”

Puzzled by the colonel’s assertion, yet already beginning to suspect the truth, she had asked him what sort of imprudence could warrant such interference.

She could almost hear his voice again, calm and untroubled, as he continued: “The lady’s family connections were not thought suitable.

Darcy believed it his duty to spare his friend—Mr. Bingley, I think—from inevitable unhappiness.

The attachment was strong on his friend’s side, and Darcy persuaded him to leave before matters went too far. ”

Each syllable struck her afresh, echoing like thunder in her breast. Those words of Colonel Fitzwilliam had been casual and void of any profound emotion on his part, save for the slight worship he bore for Mr. Darcy.

To Elizabeth, however, they unveiled an unbearable truth.

It was as though a hidden lightning bolt had struck the ground beneath her—Jane’s sorrow suddenly explained, Jane’s disappointment sharpened into betrayal.

Her heartbeat had quickened in that very moment.

It was clear that Darcy was responsible for Jane’s pain and misery.

Despite her anger, she maintained a calm facade and did not reveal her emotions to the unsuspecting colonel.

The sudden departure of Mr. Bingley to London had come as a shock to her and her entire family.

Even though she knew Jane pretended to be fine, it was beyond obvious that her elder sister was hurt, and only a few could understand what Jane truly felt then.

To think that it had all been engineered by the man now haunting her steps at Hunsford! The thought was unbearable.

Elizabeth was filled with rage, tempted to confront Mr. Darcy and unleash her true feelings upon him.

However, she ultimately decided against it, keeping her emotions in check.

Her father often teased that she was quick with words; she knew too well how easily quickness could become rashness.

And this was not the time for rashness. Elizabeth knew how little self-control she had whenever she was furious.

She would say things she could never recall.

Letting it all out would only cause more harm in the long run.

Elizabeth did not want that. She would wait until she had a better rein over her emotions.

How then could she willingly allow herself to be taken to the manor when there was every chance she would run into Mr. Darcy? She could not. At least, not yet.

Elizabeth Bennet stood outside in the dormant sun, absent-mindedly watching the parsonage maid doing her habitual work.

Nancy hummed a country tune as she pegged the last cloth, quite unconscious that Elizabeth was far away in thought, her gaze fixed yet seeing little.

Every now and then, Elizabeth pressed her hand to her brow, half-amused that the excuse she had invented had become nearly real, for vexation could easily give her a headache in truth.

Then Elizabeth saw a man—a silhouette riding on a horse in the distance. Within a few seconds, the outline became clear. She could finally make out the familiar figure. To her dismay, it was none other than the last person on earth she wished to meet at that moment.

From afar, Elizabeth recognised the proud, upright manner of his riding and the unmistakable silhouette of Mr. Darcy.

As he drew closer, his features grew more distinct, and she could discern the faint smile on his lips.

Surely it was no more than the reflex courtesy of a gentleman acknowledging an acquaintance, yet her heart twisted with resentment.

To her, that smile was intolerable; it looked like triumph.

Did he imagine he had played the benefactor to Mr. Bingley?

Did he fancy himself noble in crushing her sister’s hopes?

The closer he rode, the wider the smile on his face.

Elizabeth, had she been in a merrier humour, might have laughed at the absurdity of it—that here she stood, playing truant from Lady Catherine’s dinner, only to be discovered in her garden by the very man she most wished to avoid.

But anger robbed her of amusement, and the sight of him felt like mockery.

Elizabeth rushed into the house and struggled to calm her rising indignation.

She called the cook and instructed her to inform whoever was visiting the Collins’ residence that the owners were away at Rosings.

“And if the gentleman insists,” she added with a mischievous arch of her brow, “tell him Miss Bennet has been carried off by a most grievous headache and will not recover before tomorrow. The parlour, therefore, is quite unfit for company.” The cook looked at her blankly, uncertain whether her young lady meant it as jest or command.

This strategy, Elizabeth thought, might persuade the gentleman to return to where he came from.

After a few minutes, Mr. Darcy knocked on the door and was greeted by the cook, who informed him that the parson and his wife had already left for Rosings.

He thanked her politely but explained that he had come to visit Miss Bennet, having heard she was indisposed.

The cook, caught between duty and awe, stammered something about the parlour, and Mr. Darcy, with the air of a man not easily dissuaded by a servant’s hesitation, stepped within.

Instead of going straight to hide in her room, Elizabeth had made the mistake of lingering in the parlour to eavesdrop.

It was bold curiosity—reckless, even—but she could not help herself.

To flee upstairs would be cowardice; to remain was danger.

She chose danger, her pulse racing, the letter to Jane still lying unfinished on the desk beside her.

Mr. Darcy approached her with beads of sweat glistening on his temples. He reached into his pocket for a handkerchief and wiped his brow. “Good afternoon, Miss Bennet,” he said, glancing at her from head to toe.

This subtle action of his was very displeasing to her, and she disliked it intensely.

How could she have known that his ambiguous gesture was void of any lust?

He merely wished to assure himself she was well, having been told she was not.

It perplexed him to find her standing in the parlour doorway instead.

“What have you come here for, M. Darcy?” Elizabeth looked indifferent on the outside, but within her, a raging tempest threatened to burst forth.

“I heard you had taken ill,” Mr. Darcy stood a few feet away from Elizabeth. He looked restless to her, but she did not care. “I could not remain easy without seeing you.”

“I thank you, sir.” Elizabeth was momentarily surprised.

She did not think Mr. Darcy had come quite the distance to check on her health.

“But as you may see, I am well enough.” Her tone was cold and distant but she wrestled with her emotions.

“Is that all you wished to learn?” Merely looking at Mr. Darcy infuriated her.

The blank look on Mr. Darcy’s face was like adding fuel to the fire.

How dare you pretend not to know what you have done?

You are a cruel, self-centred, arrogant man who thinks himself far above others.

These were Elizabeth’s thoughts as she looked at Mr. Darcy.

She wanted nothing more than to hurl hurtful, heartfelt words at him.

“Miss Bennet…”

Elizabeth noticed how uncomfortable Mr. Darcy was feeling and how clumsy he was acting. There was something different about the way he looked at her.